Page 17 of Merlot Marriage

“How about I go with you?”

“What?” I cough as the coffee I was in the middle of swallowing almost goes down the wrong tube.

“I’ll drive you to the interview.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. But I want to.” Philip leans forward to set his mug down. “Come on, we’ll make a day of it. I’ll drive so you can get all Zen and shit. I promise to sing all the way there if it helps keep you distracted. And afterward, we can either come straight home or go on a little coast adventure.”

He’s determined to make this happen now, I can tell by the look on his face. There’s a particular set to his jaw and glint in his eye he gets when the wordadventurecomes out. If I try and deny him the chance to come, he’ll either pester me until I relent, or he’ll hide my keys on the morning of the interview so I’m forced to let him drive me.

Opting for the path that leads to less anxiety and annoyance on my end, I relent. “Fine. You can drive me. And we’ll get lunch orsomething before we come home. I can’t go to the coast, I have to work a closing shift that afternoon.”

Philip’s face relaxes when I agree, the stubborn squint gone from his eyes. “It’s a date.” He grins and is gone before I can argue over his choice of words.

By Tuesday afternoon, I’m regretting agreeing to let him come as he leans against my doorway, one arm lifted, his hand gripping the top, and one foot crossed over the other. “Your thirst-trap posing has no effect on me.” Ignoring him, I put the black blazer in my hand back on the rack as Hozier’s latest song starts blaring from behind me.

Turning, a navy-blue pantsuit in my hand, I’m presented with my best friend/husband lip-syncing the words as he rolls his hips against the doorframe. He grins when my cheeks flame up. “You sure?” he interrupts his lip-syncing to ask.

I nod and hold the pantsuit up in front of my body. “Better?”

“One of these days, Ophelia van der Merwe, God is going to smite you down for all your lies.” Philip grins and switches to twerking off-beat with the sultry music, making me laugh. “No pantsuits in a paper mill.”

“My lies? Excuse me, Mr. van der Merwe, but I am not the one who faked ‘stomach issues’ to get out of Professor White’s pop quiz.” I hang the pantsuit back up and pull out a black pencil skirt and wine-colored blazer combo. “And that’s Ms. Moore.”

“With your white button-down.” He nods to the outfit in my hand and pauses the music. After strutting across the room, he takes them from my hands and hangs them up on the hook on the back of my door. “You’re going to be great. Now stop fussing and come help me. Then you’re going to bed to get a good night’s sleep.”

Taking me by the hand, Philip drags me out of my room and to the couch, where his laptop is sitting open on the coffee table. “What do you think?”

I settle beside him and pull his laptop closer. Big bubble letters spelling out “Unca Pee-Pee” are splashed across the screen in different color combinations and gradients.

“You were serious? Nicola and Jono are going to kill you.”

The grin that splits his face overflows with mischief. “I know. I’m going to get them matching shirts too. This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”

I glance out the window at the setting sun, then at the clock in the corner of the screen. It’s past nine o’clock and still light outside, but the air is chilly. It may be the middle of June, but the nights are still cool. The AC unit in the living room is quiet—I turned it off when I came home from work and found Philip napping on the couch with goose bumps covering his arms. My apartment is one of the lucky ones with an air-conditioning unit strong enough to keep the whole place bearable even in the worst heat waves, but it works a little too well in these in-between weeks, as Portland decides whether it’s ready to dive headfirst into the summer temps.

It’s warm in his bedroom, and I make a mental note to turn it on low before we go to bed.

“It must be so weird to have Christmas in the middle of summer,” I blurt out, my mind still on the weather as we get into the car the next morning. As the cool air flows through the AC vents, I direct it on my face to stop the beads of nervous sweat gathered on my temples from rolling down my face and ruining my makeup.

“Nah, the weather isn’t the weird part. The weird part is when there’s still people dressed up as Santa Claus when it’s thirty degrees outside—”

I grin because I love listening to him say “thirty.” It sounds like “thutty,” and for some reason, I find that hilarious. Also, he knows I’m about to comment on his Celsius stubbornness.

Philip slaps his hand across my mouth before I can say anything. “—and sending Christmas cards with snow and evergreen trees.” We stop at a red light, and he leans in close, his blue eyes filling my field of vision. Even this close, I can tell he’s smiling too. “You Americans and your turkey dinner and snow. You have no idea what you’re missing. A Christmas braai with boerewors, roast potatoes, and salad isactuallythe perfect holiday feast.”

I pull back and eye him. “Roast potatoes with barbecued sausage? What a weird combo.”

“No judgment until you try it.”

“I have always wanted to try boerewors.” My mouth struggles over the unfamiliar word. “Boo-ra-vors? Bore-worst?”

Philip bursts out laughing and pulls away from the light. He keeps laughing as he merges onto the highway toward Longview. “Boo,” he starts, waiting until I echo him.

“Boo.”

“Re.” He rolls hisrin a way I can’t quite copy, but I do my best.

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