Page 67 of Beyond the Stroke

I pretend to shift, letting my fingers move another centimeter until our pinkies are brushing against one another. The simple movement has a rush of electricity lighting my body up like a sparkler on the fourth of July. Everything tingles, everythingburnsinside me.

“I know it’s the practical things that get you all hot and bothered.”

Rory’s voice is low and deep, right next to my ear, causing a rush of warmth between my thighs.

I wish I could control my body, continue to deny what being around Rory makes me feel.

Until now, I’ve done a decent job ignoring Rory’s absurdly handsome face and unfairly chiseled body. But if we do this—if I move in with him—he’ll be everywhere.

And shirtless, no doubt.

“You know nothing of the sort,” I counter, hoping my attraction to him isn’t obvious.

Health insurance would be a game changer. Cheaper medication would help me get my head above water with other expenses.

I quietly squeeze my legs together beneath the covers because access to Rory’s insurance isn’t the only thing that’s getting me worked up.

This is transactional. Get your hormones under control.

I love living in my van, but a house would mean more space for Edgar. From below, his soft snoring filters up to the loft followed by a shaky snort.

I’d also have a place to store my paintings, and maybe slowly compile a collection for a gallery show. The idea has a ribbon of excitement twirling inside my belly. But a show would require putting myself out there. Putting my art on display for everyone to see and judge. I’m not ready for that. But I’ll never be if I don’t have the space for my art.

Why am I even considering this? Marriage is the miserable institution I watched my parents navigate. The blaming. The gaslighting. The insecurities and fighting. The tears and disappointment. Bickering that would build into an explosive fight, only to be swept under the rug and the cycle start over again.

There was no abuse, at least not physically, but I don’t know how either of them wasn’t emotionally scarred from the rollercoaster. I know I was. Still am. And yet, they’re still together. Posing happily onBusiness Todaymagazine covers, no one the wiser that their advice for how to run a successful business while being happily married for twenty-five years is a complete sham.

I glance back at Rory, and that ache in my chest is back. The one that had spurred me into action earlier tonight when I’d marched across the dining room at Coral Cove Beach & Golf Club and declared that Daphne remove her hand from myhusband. It’s the same troublesome feeling that got me into this position.

I should pluck that feeling by the root and yank it out for good, but the origin is unknown.

So instead, I try to imagine Rory treating me the way my parents do each other. Him nitpicking my clothing decisions, while I nag him about how often he golfs. I don’t even know if Rory golfs. There are so many unknowns between us.

Or the way Tripp had treated me. Acting like I was everything to him in public, but recoiling at my touch the moment we stepped out of view.

The only way to make sure I don’t end up miserable like my parents, or hurt like I was with Tripp, is to keep my heart out of this. A marriage of convenience.

“Maybe,” I turn my head toward him, “this could work.”

My eyes have adjusted to the dark, making the spread of Rory’s smile visible.

“Yeah?”

There’s so much optimism and gratitude in that one word.

“If we do this, it would be a marriage in name only.”

“Which means?—”

I rush to answer his inevitable question.

“We’re not involved romantically. No intimacy and no sex. I want to keep it simple between us. We’re doing this to help each other out, and I’d rather not complicate things with any emotions. No pesky romantic feelings. You know?”

“What kind of feelings should we have?” he asks.

“Fondness.”

Rory chuckles under his breath, but it sounds a little too warm. A little too hopeful.

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