Chapter 15

This means next to nothing, got it?

– Marcella

Mr. Marsh’s words haunt me. Every answer to every question. And perhaps, especially, his answer to the last one.

Question 200: Why do you want to marry me?

I want to marry you because I believe it would be an honor to love you.

An honor.

To love me.

He’s getting into my blood, and I don’t know how I feel about it. Not one lousy bit.

Feelings are vulnerable, which is why I’ve not opted to employ any since deciding two friends was a perfectly reasonable number to have for the rest of my life. But feelings aren’t just vulnerable . They’re also complicated, and messy, and confusing.

They aren’t safe.

They aren’t secure.

And I desperately need security.

Not just financial security, either. If I only needed that , I’d be set.

So set.

I might be higher maintenance than I thought.

Even though I’m not as bad as Mr. Marsh’s response to Question 93: Do you consider yourself to be high maintenance? which was: Incredibly. I can’t even eat peas and carrots in the same mouthful.

As it turns out, neglecting to use your emotions leaves them somewhat frail and wimpy. Even without any scientific proof, I am convinced that emotions are a muscle, and mine have skipped every leg day since the beginning of time.

Taking a deep breath, I touch the pumpkin charm on the necklace I decided to wear today, grip my LeoPad a little tighter, and knock on Mr. Marsh’s office door.

“Come in,” he calls, his smooth, warm voice too much for me to handle right now.

My head does terrible things with the tenor, morphing it into new words then playing those words on repeat in my skull: I believe it would be an honor to love you, an honor to love you, an honor to love you .

The thunder in my chest makes it marvelously hard to breathe as I enter and find him looking intently at his computer screen while twisting in his chair.

I think I’ve been too resentful to realize… He’s always at work before I am.

He puts in more hours than he asks me to.

“What do we have today, Marcella?” he murmurs, flicking his attention toward me and smiling. His smile fades when he catches sight of my necklace. Even though I dug around in the fish tank muck for the missing charm for over an hour, I have not worn this silly thing since that first day.

As a protest.

Obviously.

I say, “You have a Zoom meeting this afternoon, at two.”

“My asset management team?”

“Yes.”

He nods once, eyes never leaving my necklace. “You’ll take notes?”

“I will.”

Resting his chin in his hand, he lets a bit of his smile return. “What else?”

“Several designs and brand updates need your approval. Your PR manager wanted to talk to you about a few interview opportunities for next month. And—” Wow. This is actually physically painful. “—I’ve decided to handle all the planning myself, so I was wondering if you preferred an indoor or outdoor wedding, Finn.”

He stops twisting his chair as his gaze jumps up to my face and his lips part.

When he snaps his mouth closed, red slashes across his skin.

Catching his affliction, I turn on my heel and clap my hand to my mouth. Because I may very well puke.

“Did you just say my—”

“No!” I blurt, choking on pride, embarrassment, the piece of pumpkin pie I snitched on my way out the door this morning . Even knowing full well I’d have to order breakfast minutes after getting here. “That never happened. You’re hallucinating.” Battling the incessant beat of my heart, I say, “What do you want for breakfast?”

“You.”

My organs give out.

I chance a glance back at… Finn , find him looking hopelessly handsome, and forget how to breathe for longer than is wholly recommended. I wish with every atom in me that he’d start clicking his pen and make me hate him all over again.

He does not oblige.

At long last, I take in a breath I don’t know I’m withholding, wet my lips, and force down a swallow.

Finn threads his fingers together and props his chin in the canopy. “I take it something in my answers resonated with you?”

Every last word felt like coming home.

Every last answer was a love letter responding to my own.

His words were stable. Funny. Endearing. They reflected a thoroughness I’m addicted to. In them, I felt understood.

Seen.

Wanted .

I’m so scared I could cry and hit things.

Finn melts a little in on himself, murmuring, “Well, if you aren’t on the menu, I guess I’ll have an onion bagel with egg, bacon, and cheese. Deconstructed. Butter on the side.”

What a metaphor.

Despite absolutely, one thousand percent not being on the menu, I’m feeling somewhat deconstructed myself. “Anything to drink?”

“Pumpkin spice latte. Hot.”

Why does that sound like an innuendo?

Why do I feel in over my head?

I have regrets.

Immediate, soul-sucking regrets.

“Marcella.”

It hurts to breathe when I find him watching me with something very close to adoration on his face.

“You’re okay, dear. Remember. I like you . I’ll never ask you to force yourself to do anything you don’t want to. There are no hidden expectations to meet. You simply fascinate me, and I enjoy having you around in any capacity you’re comfortable with.”

That’s a real cute thing to say. Shame I don’t know how to handle it.

Pouting at my tablet, I pull up Finn’s favorite bagel shop to put his egregious order in. “I wish you’d be meaner to me. I don’t know what to do with nice people.”

His smile tilts into darker shades. “You wish I’d be meaner to you?”

“I know you’re incapable. It’s fine. I’ll get over it. Maybe with persistence, I’ll learn how to function in a healthy relationship.”

He exhales a laugh. “That is the goal.”

“My goal is actually to corrupt you first.”

“Just so I’m clear on your wishes, could you explain what being mean to you looks like? Open communication is very important to me, and I would hate to overstep in my efforts.”

He’s so family Christian pure I might gag. If only I weren’t looking at beautiful pictures of bagels and deciding which I want to put on his card, as girlfriend tax, not an employee meal. While I am still an employee and my meals are still tax write offs, I am busy reframing how I consider my boss. Girlfriend tax is simple: when the boyfriend eats, the girlfriend does, too.

Lest she take to devouring him under the light of a full moon with nothing but a steak knife and her bare hands…

Mm.

Weird.

I’m not certain Finn could handle what I mean when I say be mean to me . The periodic mandatory death threat just does not seem to align with his TV Y-rated MO.

Ignoring his query, I mutter, “I can’t believe you’re making me order from two separate locations for your meal and drink. This is abuse.”

“Oh good. Abuse sounds like I’m succeeding in the mean to you department. Should I add a dessert from a third location, or is that too far? Would it make you utilize the safe word? Or does the safe word exist as a safeguard against the potential of going too far, allowing me to live freely and only step back once I hear it?”

Internally, I scree. Swallowing against the mutiny of my heart, I order myself a custard doughnut from a third location, tack a pumpkin spice doughnut on for boyfriend tax—because, yes, it goes both ways—and press my tablet to my chest when I’m done. “You appear rather competent at teasing, which is not easier on my feeble nerves. Please treat me with utmost disregard if you are incapable of meanness.”

“So, to you, teasing and being mean aren’t synonymous?” He tilts his head to the side.

“ Teasing is flirty and clever. Being mean is…” I puff a breath and look away. This is really going to sound messed up. “You know. Like. Bullying. No pleases and thank yous or smiles and kindnesses. Only insults. Undermines. Disgusted expressions. Pretending I am a crumpled rag housing a crushed bug. Show me I’m the absolute opposite of a burden on you by how little you give a crap about me.”

“Marcella.”

Face red, I meet his gaze. “What?”

“Can you weave taking you to therapy into my schedule?”

I scoff and turn on my heel. “I’m going to go wait for our food!”

“Marcella.”

Stopping dead in my tracks, I refuse to turn around—especially given that he’s found a pen to click, which is about to make me rabid.

With all the gentle force of a train, he says, “You are the absolute opposite of a burden already. The fact lies in your job description. You know, in case you needed that reminder. My life is, quite literally and quantifiably, easier with you in it. Okay?”

My chest squeezes, and I can’t justify that with a response, so I just nod before I step out.

Awful lot of something in your next to nothing, pumpkin.

– Finnegan