Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Her eyes soften briefly, but she doesn’t respond. Her mouth remains in a flat line the whole way through security, and my desire to rewind the afternoon turns more severe—and more futile. A few minutes later, we’ve made it through the metal detector, and we’ve been directed to the waiting area where we slow to a stop, brought up short by the sight of no fewer than three dozen couples. All here to prove they have a legitimate marriage. How many of them—us—will actually succeed?
Britta’s hand finds mine, and several bolts loosen in my chest, because I can tell she reaches for me unconsciously. For comfort. Not for show. We check in and find two seats next to each other, her side pressed up against mine, my arm draped across her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” I say against her temple.
“I know. Me too,” she whispers back.
I bite my tongue to keep from asking again if she wants me to stay. I will. In a heartbeat. Doesn’t she realize I’m dying for a chance to prove myself to her? Can’t she feel it?
Then again, maybe it’s for the best if I do go to Edmonton for the summer. Maybe I’m too close, such a constant that I’m crowding her. If I give her some breathing room, maybe she’ll take the time to think. To consider me for real.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield?”
We trade a steadying look, then stand, holding hands as we’re led down a corridor toward an office. We’re let inside.
Britta’s hand jolts in mine, both of us recognizing the man behind the desk at the same time. He’s the man from the parking lot who walked by with his briefcase while we came very close to making out. With her legs wrapped around my waist.
“You can relax,” he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of him. “I know the real deal when I see it.”
Britta’s chest dips with relief—and I’m glad about that, but I never had a moment of doubt. Mainly, the interviewer’s words continue to ring in my head as we go through the process of the interview, nailing every question.
I know the real deal when I see it.
And I wonder . . . what if Britta never does?
Chapter Five
BRITTA
September
I slide my key into my mailbox and open the slim metal door, narrowly catching the avalanche of envelopes before they end up on the floor. Nine months into this expirationship, and I still haven’t quite mastered a technique for catching Sumner’s and my combined mail. Nor have I devised a way to block the catch in my throat every time I see his name on a white business envelope. Once every two weeks, I send a bundle to Edmonton, and even writing his name on the package makes me feel . . . regretful.
Like I should have asked him to stay.
We text each other daily, but it’s not the same as seeing him face to face. Last night, he informed me he’d hurt his right wrist during the final day of training camp, and not being able to see that he was okay in person made me feel helpless. He’s returning to Bridgeport today, and I’m checking the impulse to show up at his house with ice cream and magazines, as if he’s suffered a traumatic injury that landed him in the ER. I might even sit through another showing of A Dog’s Purpose, if it made him feel better.
Freakishly wifely behavior.
You are his wife, Britta.
Yes. I am. He has a shiny new green card to show for it.
And I don’t think about our almost make-out session in the parking lot before the interview at all. I don’t think about the way he drew me up off the ground with his meaty forearm and offered to pretend we’re friends while he was nine deep and ringing my bell.
Like I don’t think about that on a nightly basis. At all.
I realize I’m staring down at the pile of mail in my arms and shake myself. Sumner might be coming home tonight, but I can’t dwell on it. I have concert tickets. My two best friends, Kelis and Trisha, who I’ve known since middle school, scored babysitters for their infants, and I’ve finally, finally convinced them to set aside the mom guilt and party like we used to. My shift is being covered at Sluggers. Just because I’m a part owner now doesn’t mean my bartending days are over—they’re still very much alive. And exhausting.
Which is why I’ve been looking forward to tonight for months.
A chance to blow off some steam. Reconnect with my friends.
On my way into my apartment, I happen to notice one piece of Sumner’s mail is a certain famous swimsuit edition of a sports magazine, a gorgeous woman on the cover tossing her hair provocatively. A stab of jealousy in the dead center of my throat catches me off guard. Is he going to . . . look at this? Does he wait for it to arrive every year?