Chapter 27: Ophelia

Chapter 27: Ophelia

It would not be romantic if I vomited on Xavier as he leans in to kiss me.

On the other hand, there is nothing about this that is romantic. Despite the pretty dress and the flowers, this is about as romantic as dental work.

Hell, at least at the dentist, there is physical contact.

I’m not saying I want Xavier to touch me—though I might not be opposed—but there should be touching at a wedding. Or at least after.

And now we’re supposed to kiss? Other than a few brief hand grabs to pull me along, we’ve never even hugged. I’m definitely more intimate with my dental hygienist.

This is not like any wedding I’ve ever imagined. No music. No family. No love. No march down the aisle or something old, something new. I mean, I guess I did borrow my dress, and his eyes are blue, a lighter shade than my own. My grandmother’s ring covers the old and—hey, wait a minute!

"Hey, where’s my ring?" I blurt as soon as the thought pops into my brain. If he lost it, I’m going to be livid.

"Oh, right. Right." Xavier frantically begins patting his chest. He reaches inside his breast pocket and pulls out a small burgundy box.

Where the hell did he get a ring box from?

But then he opens it. I see my grandmother’s ring, sparkling in a way I didn’t know possible, surrounded by a wrap of blue sapphires. They look like they were made to go together.

Immediately my eyes fill up. He takes them out of the box and looks around. The rings are in one hand, the box in his other, and there’s no one to help him out. He tosses the box on the floor so he can use both hands. My left hand is shaking as I hold it out to him. Xavier slides the rings on my fourth finger.

It feels foreign, as I’ve always reserved that digit for the one.

"How did you? When did you? I—"

"Are you two going to kiss or talk all day? Fine, do whatever. You’re married." Judge Mahoney turns away and begins to pack up his papers.

Quickly, Xavier leans forward, his hands still holding mine, and gives me the briefest, lightest of kisses on my lips. Just as fast, he straightens.

"Right, then. Are we all set?" he asks the officiant.

"Yep. Remember to put your masks back on. Stupid rules," he mutters before leaving the room.

I can’t stop staring at my hand.

"Is it okay? Do you like it? Should I not have done that?"

Thoughts swirl through my brain as emotions fill my chest. I can’t seem to come up with the words to fit how I’m feeling.

Maybe because I don’t know how I’m feeling.

"It’s all … a lot." I drop my hand, reaching for my coat. Once that’s on, I shove my fist in the pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. Problem solved.

Xavier’s on his phone, typing away. When he looks up, his brows are creased.

"Everything okay?" Somehow, it’s easier to worry about how he’s doing than think about the chaos in my own brain.

"Just texting Tony. You ready to go?"

As we head down in the elevator, I try to think about something to say. Something to fill this awkward void. We weren’t uncomfortable with each other before the ceremony. Some dumb piece of paper shouldn’t change that. But still, I just want to crawl into my bed and hide for a little while. "Are we still going to look at apartments tonight? I know we need to, but I’m not really feeling it."

By now, we’re standing outside in the dusky November evening. It’s closing in on five and there are flocks of people everywhere, leaving their day jobs like it’s any other Thursday.

Certainly not their wedding day.

We do get a few glances from passers-by, the bouquet a dead giveaway. I’m sure they’re thinking that this couple doesn’t look happy. Rather than attempt to fix my face into something it doesn’t feel, I put my mask back on in preparation for the T ride home.

Xavier is busy on his phone again. "Bollocks. I forgot about that," he says without looking up. "I can’t make it tonight."

"Good. I know we need to figure out the living situation and all, but this is draining, you know? I didn’t think I’d have any emotions about it, but unfortunately, I do."

That’s enough to make Xavier look up, the color leaving his face. "Ophelia …"

He doesn’t even need to say it—I know what he’s thinking. I pull my mask down. "Xavier, it’s not like that. I know this isn’t real and it’s a business thing. I’m fine about it, really. But I just got married for all the wrong reasons, no matter how right they are, and it’s nothing like I’d thought it would be my whole life. I’m okay with today, but it’s just …"

"Yeah, this is definitely not where I saw my life going either. Nonetheless, we’re here, and we should make the best of it. But that’s not what I was going to tell you. I can’t look at flats tonight because I was invited to a reception for the Buzzards."

"Oh, did your trade go through? That’s awesome. I know you said it was time-sensitive, but this is ridiculously fast. Well, you have fun. Should I expect you home tonight? I mean, not home, home. It’s not like I’m keeping tabs on you. You can do whatever you want. You can see whomever you choose."

I need to shut up before I start channeling my inner Sinead O’Connor.

Xavier laughs. "No, it’s not official, but this is a very good sign. I was wondering if you’d like to join me. It’s not a true wedding night, but we should at least let the Buzzards give us some cocktails and hors d’oeuvres." He looks at his phone. "Actually, it doesn’t start for a little while. Let’s go get a celebratory drink in the meantime."

"You don’t have to drag me along. I can just go home."

Xavier links his arm through mine. "Nonsense, Ophelia. I wouldn’t have this opportunity, if not for you, so I’m not sending you home. Now, tell me, where should we go get a drink?"

I glance around. "We should probably just head over toward Faneuil Hall. There’s plenty of places over there. Where is the reception?"

We start to walk past City Hall, up and over the steps to head toward our destination.

"The Tower. Arlington Street."

"Okay, that’s Back Bay. We can take the Green Line from here."

"We can get an Uber."

"You don’t like the T much, do you?" Xavier must spend a fortune on cars. I’m still living with the mentality of a broke college student, even though I’m not. An Uber or taxi is my last resort.

"Not particularly. Especially not when I have to navigate them by myself."

A pigeon lollygags around in front of me, not caring that he’s in my way. As I always do, I speed up without picking my feet up, to create a loud shuffle that scares the feathered fiend into the air.

"What was that about?"

"I was afraid he wasn’t going to move." It seems a better answer than telling him about my ornithophobia. He’ll find out all the crazy details about me soon enough.

"I’m fairly confident he would have."

"I’m not that confident."

"Birds hardly ever run into people. Moving vehicles, well that’s another story." Xavier shakes his head somberly. It’s almost like he has sympathy for these harbingers of doom.

"Maybe where you’re from. Here, Boston pigeons are like drivers. Full of moxie and sick of everyone’s shit. Where are you from, by the way? I feel like a good wife should know this."

"A good wife should. I’m from Gloucester."

I nod like I know where that is. The only one I know about is about forty minutes north of here, and it’s a good place to get lobster. I make a mental note to look up the Gloucester he’s referring to later, so I don’t seem like an idiot.

More of an idiot.

He continues. "I originally played football for the Bristol Bombers, which is practically my hometown team. They’re part of the BFL. The British Football League. It was tremendous, being able to play for the team I grew up watching and idolizing. A real dream come true." His voice is wistful, and he looks as if he’s a million miles away.

"Then how did you end up in Baltimore, and why are you so desperate to be traded to Boston?"

My words are enough to snap him out of his reverie.

"That’s a story that needs to be told over a pint."

We walk the next block in silence and head to the first bar we see, which happens to be the Sam Adams Taproom. I’m not much of a beer person, so I’m thrilled to see a fruity hard seltzer on tap. Xavier orders some beer. I have no idea what he picks. He seems content with it.

"Okay, you’ve got your pint. Now spill the tea."

"Right." He takes a long pull from his glass and then proceeds to fidget with his phone without saying anything. As I take a sip of my drink, Xavier snaps a picture.

"What was that for?"

"Instagram. Seemed like a good candid moment." He taps away and then my phone pings with the notification.

Truly lovely. @opheliaxoxo

My heart skips a beat. Then I realize what he did. A pun on my beverage, Truly seltzer, with the location tagged. It’s not a bad picture. I smile back at him. "Flattering me on social media won’t get you out of the story."

"Right. Okay then." Xavier looks out the window at the busy Quincy Market as he speaks. "A little over five years ago, everything was coming together. I was a starter on the Bristol Bombers, and I think I’ve already mentioned how chuffed I was to be playing for the hometown team. But also, I’d been named to the British National Team for the Global Games. This was it. Everything I’d ever dreamed of. Every sacrifice was worth it because I was living it finally."

I try to mentally commit his expression to memory. I can see the hero in my book with the same look—wistfulness, pride, hurt—as he confesses something, though I don’t know what yet, to the heroine.

He continues. "Edmund Jones is the president of the BFL and responsible for the National Team. You do not want to get on his bad side." Xavier raises an eyebrow.

"I’m guessing you got on his bad side? How?"

Xavier takes another sip of his beer and then offers me a weak smile. "Jones’s daughter, Phaedra, was a frequent participant in official BFL activities. A real socialite if you will."

I get a pit in my stomach even imagining where this is going. Xavier’s not mine, and this is all in the past anyway, but hearing about him and a woman makes me feel uncomfortable. It shouldn’t, but it does.

He continues, "You know how big football is at home, so she liked having her face seen at all the parties. Perhaps a little too much. And apparently, she’d developed quite the pill problem. This was the last big party before our National Team debut. As I was preparing to leave the party, Phaedra was also leaving. She was quite despondent, not at all acting like herself. When I stopped to ask her if she was okay, she said, ’I’m leaving because no one will miss me if I’m gone.’ The way she said it, I was afraid she wasn’t just talking about the party."

Now, instead of being jealous, the feeling in my stomach intensifies to full-on worry. This can’t be good.

"She wouldn’t stop though. She got in her car, and I slid into the passenger’s seat, still trying to talk some sense into her. Once she started driving, I finally realized how altered she was, but it was too late. I tried to get her to stop immediately. She finally stopped by crashing into a fence."

"Oh my God! Were you hurt? Was she? Was she killed?"

Xavier looks out the window for a moment. He finishes the rest of his beer. "Nah, we were both lucky. But after the crash, she started sobbing that she would be in big trouble if they found out she was driving, and she begged me to switch seats with her. I felt so badly for her. I had no idea that she’d had a long history of substance abuse and had several traffic infractions already. Her father’d threatened to cut her off if she did it again. So, like a dolt, I switched spots. When the authorities showed up, they called her father. Everyone in England knows who he is. He accused me of trying to kill his precious daughter and promised I’d never kick a ball in Britain again. Before dawn, I was let go from both the National Team and the Bombers. No one in the entire bloody country would even take my calls."

I reach out and put my hand on his. "I’m so sorry. And if you get cut from the Terrors …"

"That’s it. That’s all she wrote. So the fact that Coach Janssen has asked me to come to this reception tonight is a bloody good sign. There will be media there, so for all intents and purposes, he’s saying that the Buzzards are interested. I truly appreciate the vote of confidence. I would simply feel better if it was a firm deal in writing. Speaking of which," he pulls out his phone again, "I can’t believe Tony hasn’t texted me back yet. Where the bloody hell is he?"

Suddenly, Xavier notices my hand on his. He flips his over and gives mine a quick squeeze before withdrawing it. "But that’s the past and this chance with the Buzzards is my last. I’ve got to do everything right, including staying out of even the slightest hint of impropriety."

"I’m about the least controversial person you’ll meet. I mean, I’m an accountant. There’s nothing exciting about that. I mean, other than my momentary status on ClikClak, but I’m sure that will die off as quickly as it started."

Xavier smiles. "As long as you’re not running a pyramid scheme or anything like that."

I hold up three fingers. "I promise, Girl Scouts honor. No pyramids here. What you see is what you get. You know that. I’m not a schemer or social climber."

"I hope not. I just need to get through this without making a scene. No negative press. I can’t afford it."

"I’ll be on my best wallflower behavior tonight. I’m not one of those socialite girls, in case you couldn’t tell." That makes me think. "Whatever happened to Phaedra?" I’m thrilled to be able to say that name out loud. It’s so very British and posh, and I’ve never had the chance to work it into casual conversation before.

"Nothing. It was all over the news that I was driving and that I’d been drinking that night. The media had me pegged as a bad-boy party animal athlete, and if you listened to Edmund Jones spin it, an attempted murderer. As far as I know, Phaedra never went to rehab or dealt with anything. She walked away scot-free, and I lost everything."

Phaedra just became the ugly mean girl villain in my book. I will never think the name is delightful again, no matter how very British it sounds.

No one treats my husband like that and gets away with it.