Page 66 of A Storybook Wedding

“We probably will. It sounds like fun. I love board games,” I lie. Haven’t played a board game in years, unless you count Candy Land or Chutes and Ladders with my nieces.

I successfully manage to change the subject from families, holidays, weddings, and any other thing that she could ask me about that doesn’t pertain specifically to writing or reading, ideally, other people’s work. In the spirit of games, I bring up the hot new word puzzle game that’s been all the rage online lately (Bossword, a crossword-type game where the clues all relate to a specific celebrity), and then we reminisce over Wordle and Words with Friends and pontificate on the future of word games for a moment before another student sits down and begins talking to Alice Devereaux about room assignments for mentor interviews.

At which point I shove the rest of my grilled cheese down my throat, ask Dillon Norway if I need to officially interview him if I just want him to remain as my mentor (he says no), and hightail it out of there before I get caught with Devereaux or anyone else who cares about the details of my marriage and family life.

Later that afternoon, after poor Nate has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous interviewing, he’s lying in bed resting—eyes open—while I’m reading over the online application for the MUMFA Rising Star Program.

“So it says here that really all you need is the sample you would want to read, a bio, and a personal statement. They’ll pull up your grade report from however many semesters you’ve been attending, but it doesn’t even seem to count for much, according to the rubric.”

“Do they care if you’ve got prior publishing history?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” I reply. “It doesn’t say.”

“Then you should be all set. I’m surprised that you want to read at graduation though, to be honest. I thought you said you were afraid of reading—and that was just for an open mic. This is for a real-deal event, with the whole school plus relatives in attendance.”

“Well, I don’t want to read, but I would love to have an accolade to put on my writing résumé. Alice Devereaux says awards and prizes and things like that are important. I know you don’t agree with her about social media, but do you think she’s wrong about this too?”

“No. She’s right.”

“So I’d suck it up as far as my stage fright is concerned.”

“I see.” He smirks. “That’s very convenient.”

The word choice reminds me of my discomfort at lunch. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What are we thinking for New Year’s Eve tomorrow night?”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, apparently there’s a thing—some party downstairs.”

“Then I suppose we’ll go to that, unless you have other ideas. Also, I read online that it’s supposed to snow. That mid-Atlantic storm is headed this way. So at least whatever they’re doing here doesn’t require us to travel.”

“True.”

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

“Well, a sort of weird thing happened today.”

“What?” He sits up a little taller in the bed, then shifts his legs crisscross applesauce, pulling them toward him by the ankles.

“At lunch. Alice Devereaux sat with Dillon Norway and me, and she started asking me all these questions about us. Like what did we do for the holidays and how was our wedding. Stuff like that.”

“Sounds like small talk to me. Did you get a different vibe?”

I shrug. “I guess not. It just made me uncomfortable.”

“That’s because we’re over here pulling off the ruse of the century. We’ve got everyone believing our convoluted love story. It’s not surprising to me that you would at some point start to feel guilty about it.”

“Guilty? Why?”

“Well, because you’re lying. And you’re not a liar. At least I don’t think you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“So it makes sense. But try not to beat yourself up about it. It’s for a good cause.”

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