Page 8 of I Almost Do

When I said as much, Dad’s response was that James will be lonely after he dies. Then he told me that James, who frankly has always seemed like the least needy or anxious person I have ever known, will need a friend as much as I will. That we’ll take care of each other in our own ways.

I’m not sure I believe that. James will be sad, but I doubt he’s in need of friendship with me.

Still, it pulled at my heartstrings, exactly as Dad intended. Not that he needed to do that. I will never allow my father to leave this world in fear if it’s in my power to prevent it.

But I can’t deny that the entire idea of marrying James is surreal. I’ve had some variation of a crush on him since I was fourteen years old, and this carries the potential for disaster. I could end up pining miserably for my own husband for years.

Oh, I know it’s infatuation and not real love—no matter how much I’ve spouted about it for the last six years. How can it be real, lasting love when I’m too nervous to even act like myself around him? How can it be real when he doesn’t act like himself around me? But there’s no question that the potential for it is there.

And I hate that some silly part of me—the goofy sixteen-year-old who’s still hiding inside—is secretly counting on the idea that one day this marriage will become real. Maybe we’ll fall madly in love with each other.

For me, this is like another girl being told the lead singer of her favorite band needs to fake-marry her for some absurd PR reason. Of course it all works.

But what if this marriage isn’t the beginning of my own personal romance novel? What if it’s some literary fiction novel where I’m supposed to learn some horrible lesson?

Dad rubs my back and speaks cajolingly, almost teasingly. “It’s the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Trust me on this.”

I take a deep breath and nod. “You can send him back in.”

He kisses the top of my head and leaves me standing there alone.

James returns less than a minute later. When he enters, he leaves the door partially cracked open—the better for Dad to hear if I have an attack of the vapors, I suppose. Just like a Victorian maiden with her suitor.

The thought nearly forces a bubble of inappropriate hysterical laughter out of me.

James lowers himself to one knee and opens a little blue box. The solitaire inside is perfect. Classy. Large but not obnoxiously so.

James is wearing a dark blue suit with a light blue button-down shirt that sets off his eyes.

I’m in a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, my nose red and eyelids swollen from crying.

For once, James is looking straight at me.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.

He frowns. “I’m sure. Are you? There’s no pressure.”

Of course there’s pressure. I don’t say that, though. “Yes. It’s just a lot to wrap my head around,” I say instead.

He stands up, and I think he’s realized the lunacy of this plan.

Instead, he leads me to the love seat and then sits beside me, his hard thigh brushing against my softer one.

The contrast between us couldn’t be more obvious. But he reaches for my left hand and plays with my fingers. “I’ll be kind to you. In fact, I expect it will turn out better than most marriages. I hope you know I care about you. I want to be here for you. As a friend.”

Faint praise, indeed. “I’m… awkward with you.”

“We’ll get over that, Clare.”

“Clarissa.”

At his raised eyebrows, I shrug. “I know Dad calls me Clare, but my mother named me Clarissa, and I like it.” I don’t tell him I feel as though it’s my adult name. It’s the name that separates me from the child I used to be in his eyes. I don’t want him to see me as that girl.

He acknowledges my request with a dip of his head. “Of course. Clarissa.”

“People will say horrible things about us,” I say. “There’ll be rumors that you married me for my money.”

He doesn't answer right away, just rubs his thumb over my palm almost absentmindedly. It causes a building heat to ignite low in my body. It's an unexpected sensation in the face of the situation. James has never, ever touched me like this.

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