Chapter 21: Ophelia

Chapter 21: Ophelia

He doesn’t want a wedding.

Of course, he doesn’t want a wedding. Why would he want a wedding? It’s not like he’s in love with me and really wants to declare in front of all our friends and family that he can’t spend another single moment without me.

Because that’s not true.

Obviously.

It’s not like he was going to take one look at me, hungover and pale, stupid Heidi braids in my hair, and fall head-over-heels in love. That only happens in books.

I mean, he’s totally the type of person you could fall in lust with, but only one of us here belongs on a magazine cover. And it’s not me.

"Did I say something to upset you?"

I shake my head, knowing if I try to speak the words will come tumbling out in a foolish, blubbering mess. You know, the real me.

It’s not like I don’t know I’m being irrational. I totally am. I just don’t know how to stop my brain from speeding off down this path like Julia Roberts’s horse in The Runaway Bride.

I keep staring at a tiny crack in my wall, just under the ceiling. I focus on that line and will the moisture to absorb back into my eyeballs. He wasn’t talking about a wedding. He wanted to talk about our marriage.

The business arrangement.

God, I’m such an idiot.

I inhale deeply, letting it out over a count of six. Okay, I think I can talk now.

"Right. This isn’t about a wedding. I … I don’t know why I said that. Um, I work until five, but maybe we could run to city hall on my lunch break. I mean, can it wait until Tuesday?"

Xavier’s face goes pale. Shit, I’ve totally scared him off with my freak romantic notions. He’s going to throw away his entire career rather than be attached to me.

I don’t think I’ll ever recover from this.

Maybe I’ll buy a wedding gown and languish here like Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. I’d probably be really good at that.

"Well, I mean time is of the essence, but not that much so. We need to go over the contract. You’ll want your lawyer to look at it, and we’ll have to agree on changes. I’m sure there’s paperwork and such, like a marriage license. I don’t know what the turnaround time is on something like that. I’ve never been married before."

I swallow, finally able to look at him. He’s easily the hottest guy who’s ever been in my presence. Bright blue eyes, wide grin. An ass you could bounce a quarter off of. He does not belong in my shabby apartment with its vintage—okay old—mismatched furniture. I’m going to have to move, probably to a brand new condo with glass tables and clean lines and no character. I won’t fit in any more than I do now.

But at least it’s a chance to do something other than collect dust and cobwebs here. "Me neither." I finally meet his gaze. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get upset."

Xavier leans forward. "Ophelia, you know this is business for me."

I stand up. "Of course. Me too. So, send over the contract and then let me know when you want me. Or how you want me. I’m very flexible. I mean," I fumble my words. "Where you want to do it. Me. Not do me, because, like you said it’s business, and I don’t do it for business. I mean, maybe I should. I’d make better money than I do now, right?"

Someone, please muzzle me.

Xavier stands as well, nervously glancing toward the door. He’s probably trying to figure out if he needs to stop for his coat before running out. He doesn’t need to worry. Soccer players are probably a lot better runners than couch potato accountant book nerds who hate to exercise. He wouldn’t even have to try that hard to escape.

"You don’t need to answer that."

"Good, because I’m not even sure what you said. Or rather, I know what you said, but I’m not sure what you meant. I know you said you had to work in the morning, but perhaps we could grab a bite to eat at some point tomorrow? Lunch or supper?"

"Why?" I’ll never win Miss Congeniality at this point. Speaking of which, I wonder if I should get a glow-up like Sandra Bullock did? Maybe Michael Caine is all I need to become less of, well, me.

Xavier pauses at the door and cocks his head slightly. "We’re going to have to live together. Possibly even appear in public with each other. I thought getting to know you better might help."

I let out a sigh. It’s so blatantly obvious how much help I need. I’m practically a charity case. "Fine. I mean, good. You’re right. How about dinner? I know this great restaurant in the North End."

Xavier nods at me and then walks out. It’s only after he leaves that his words sink in.

Live together.

I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know it, but I can barely string three words together in his presence. I’m going to have to figure out how to be functional and normal.

Because this is a totally functional and normal thing to do.

I pick up my phone to text Marley but stop short. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell her. I mean, I’m going to have to, eventually, but I don’t know if I can tell her the real story or what.

On the other hand, if I don’t say something to someone, I’m going to burst.

Me: I’m getting married.

It’s a stupid text to send, but if I don’t get it out, Xavier will return tomorrow to find bits of me all over the place because I did actually spontaneously combust.

Then I wait, those three dots waving. After what feels like eons, but is in fact only two minutes, a response dings through.

Xavier: Really? Who’s the lucky chap?

Me: Sorry, I just had to tell someone, and since I’m not sure who I can tell, you win by default.

Xavier: I think I win regardless.

My breath hitches in the back of my throat as I read those words. He doesn’t mean anything by them, of course. He’s winning because he’s making the career move he wants and is going to play for a winning team.

Me: Isn’t that what this whole thing is about? Making sure you win? What team are you going to be playing for? I feel like a good wife should know this.

Xavier: A good wife should. The Boston Buzzards. And where is the hotel around here? I feel as if I’ve been walking for hours.

Oh God, now I feel guilty for making him go.

Me: Just turn around. You can stay here. It’s silly for you to get a hotel.

Naturally, I regret sending the text as soon as my thumb strikes the button. Story of my life. No, that’s not going to be awkward at all.

Xavier: You sure? I don’t want to put you out.

Me: <laughs nervously> It’s not like you’re a serial killer or anything. Right?

Me: RIGHT?????

Xavier: Not last time I checked. I’d tell you to vet me, but the only person we have in common is Trent the Tosser, and I’m not sure he’s a reliable source.

Me: He’d be a reliable source for you, just not for me. But alas, I’ve deleted his contact information. Please don’t kill me and make a suit out of my flesh.

You know, worrying about his serial killer-ness probably would have been better before I invited him to stay. Or better yet, before I went to the train station to meet him and bring him back here. Or still better, BEFORE I ASKED HIM TO MARRY ME.

Quickly, I run over to my desk and scrawl a quick letter to Marley, naming one Xavier Henry as my killer, in the event that I go missing. On the outside of the envelope, I write, "Open in case of emergency" and before I can check myself, I run outside and place it in the corner mailbox.

I’m not sure why that brings me a sense of safety and relief. I’ll still be dead, but at least justice will be served.

"You didn’t have to wait out here for me." Xavier’s voice startles me. It’s not hard to do, considering every serial killer movie and true crime documentary I binged on Netflix is now running through my head.

"Yes, of course, that’s what I was doing. Not mailing a letter to my friend in case you decide to have a perverted dark side that will end with me being dismembered and boiled." Dear God, maybe my death wouldn’t be a bad thing. It’d put me out of my misery, at the very least. It may be the only thing to silence my mouth. The awkward giggle that bubbles out only makes it that much worse.

Xavier smiles though. "I promise I’m not."

"No skeletons in the closet then?" We fall in step, heading back down the driveway to my door for the second time tonight.

His smile falters and Xavier clears his throat. "Not actual humans, at least. This is an odd conversation, I must admit. Maybe we could talk about something less weird, like marrying a stranger."

It’s my turn to laugh. "Right? This is weird."

Xavier reaches in front of me and pulls the door open, holding it to let me pass. A very gentlemanly thing to do.

I’m not sure anyone’s ever done it for me before.

Huh.

Before I can have yet another bout of verbal diarrhea, Xavier asks, "Where’s the loo? If you don’t mind, I’d like to freshen up a bit before I turn in. It’s been a long day, and I’m a bit knackered."

I glance at my phone which tells me it’s after ten already. Yikes! Where did the time go? It’s time for me to sit staring at a blank notebook and then berate myself for being a failure of a writer before I’ve even started.

I don’t know how to end my day without that. I’m nothing if not consistent in my chaos.

"Bathroom’s this way." I point down the small hall. The moment Xavier’s behind the closed door and I hear the shower running, I dash to my bedroom, throw on my unattractive pajama pants and oversized college T-shirt and curse myself for not having cute sleepwear.

Well, I do have that French maid outfit I bought for Trent, but I’m pretty sure Xavier never wants to see me in that.

And I don’t know why I care about what I’m wearing. He won’t. He won’t even look twice. I’m the means to an end for him, and he’s going to be the means to an end for me.

A perfectly symbiotic fake relationship.

I mean, he’s already treating me better than my last—several—real relationships did. Maybe I should always only have fake relationships.

I have a fuzzy blanket or two already out in the living room, so all I need is my favorite pillow and my Kindle, and I’m ready to sleep on the couch. It’s too small for Xavier to be comfortable on and in any case, he’s a guest.

Once my stuff is situated on the couch and I’ve procured my emotional support water bottle, I sit down at my desk. The purple Moleskine notebook is there.

But tonight, it’s not taunting me. It’s calling to me. Begging me to open it and fill it with words. Words that have been flowing through and knocking around my brain since the diner.

The first page has the list of the things I want in life.

The second page has the title. I cross that out and write a new one.

And before I know it, my hand is moving quickly as words fill the third page. Then the fourth. And fifth.

Who knew writing was this easy when you had a hot soccer player naked in the next room for inspiration?