Page 8 of Country Contract

“No no, only one, but he seems the type that wouldn’t want you to wear heels when you make appearances.”

I blanch and repeat. “I won’t change the way I dress for anyone.”

“He’s also rather preppy. Lots of polos on his days off, tucked into slacks with a belt.”

I throw my head back and groan. Preppy is not my style. I don’t mind a styled man; button-ups over polos any day. I don’t even care if it’s hot out, a short-sleeved button-up over a polo.

“Color palette?” I dare ask.

“I would call it muted Easter.”

I fake a sob. “Why me? Hobbies?”

I’m not even making conversation anymore, just taking any information I can get.

“The only one listed was golf. Otherwise, nothing came up.”

It’s my parents’ dream come true. My father dreams ofgolf outings with a son, and my mother wishes for more color in my life.

“Shoe size?” I raise a brow to her in question.

“Not a bulge in sight on IG,” Meg replies. I swear to God, if this man is preppy, all business, and has a small dick, I’m moving out of the state. I’ll find another firm to work for. “He could be a grower and not a shower. Don’t be so shallow.”

“History of girlfriends?”

“One wife, married for four years, no children, seems amicable. They are still in the same circle since she married his cousin.” I drop my chin and look her dead in the eyes before taking a long drink of my wine.

“You’re awfully theatrical this evening. Keep it up, you might gather a crowd.”

“Let’s talk about what we think I should do. I’m not getting any younger, but the idea of a contractual marriage sounds so . . . so sad.”

“How do you think Heidi would feel hearing you say that?” She stands to leave and waits for me to join her.

“Heidi is different, and you know it. She’s a romantic; she’ll find romance in anything, probably even death.” We climb into our Lyft and head to dinner, which I am suddenly dying to have. I often don’t realize how hungry I am until food is on the horizon.

“Okay, so the options are you go through with it, or you don’t, and your family . . .” She lets me fill in the gap.

“Makes me feel horrible until I do.” I sigh. “My sisters want this for me, too.”

“Even Helen?”

“Yes and no. I know she wants me to have someone too, but she used the dinner as leverage to get Lydia into the house.”

“Damn, your dad really wants this to happen.”

My father, who has been too prideful to back down on the whole Helen/Lydia thing, quickly shifted gears and let it all slide for me to meet and consider the man of his choice.

I haven’t had terrible taste in men. Most of them were older and in the arts—writers, musicians, fine artists, professors. I’ve never dated a businessman before; I’ve always been worried they’d think I’m too eccentric or odd.

I struggled with self-worth for most of my early twenties due to growing up so fast, but that ship has sailed, and I am comfortable in my own skin now. The last thing I want is a husband who says things like, “Black again? A moth on the wall? This film is gross.” These are all things my family has said. I don’t need any additional input to aid them.

“So, I’m obviously going to this dinner, but the idea of future dates has me feeling sick. I can’t even work.” Which is hard to believe. I love being an editor, so much so that when I was offered the editor-in-chief position in the department, I declined because I wanted to keep editing, not manage others doing it.

“How about a trip? You could tell your dad you want to have a girls’ trip before you devote yourself to this huge family commitment. We could go to Bali or something.”

A trip?

The car stops in front of the restaurant, and we amble out and into the building. It smells like heaven. The chatter is constant, and the music is low. A hostess greets us with a smile and asks for our reservation name. We only wait for a moment before she brings us to our table. Meg and I don’t share any further pleasantries as we focus on our meal choices. It’s been our system since high school. Food first,chat later.

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