Page 19 of The Fake Husband Play
The voice is female, with a hint of Louisiana drawl that makes my chest tighten with recognition.
We locals have to look after our own.
“Don’t rush on my account,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not going to go telling any tales. I learned not to tattle when Iwas still in preschool. Snitches got stitches in my part of town, even when you were three.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then, “Me, too. My foster mom pulled me out of daycare the first week. Said she would rather stay home with me than pay to have me get roughed up in the sandbox. Or get a call thatIroughed someone up in the sandbox. I was a problem toddler.”
I find myself grinning as I say, “Doesn’t sound like a problem. Sounds like a little girl who knows how to stand up for herself. In my book, that’s a good thing.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Her voice sounds steadier, like talking to someone—even through a door—is helping.
“Want to tell me who was roughing you up in the sandbox tonight?” I ask. “Sometimes it helps to vent and I’m not afraid to throw hands, if someone’s ass needs a whoopin’.”
“Thanks, but no,” she says, a hint of amusement in the words. “No whoopin’ needed. I’ll be fine. You should get back to the party. I’m sure you have better things to do than talk to a door.”
“You’re not a door, you’re a person. And I’m not big into parties.”
“Me, either,” she says. “I actually can’t remember the last time I went to one. I mean, except the Christmas party at my old job, but I got fired earlier this week, so…”
I wince. “Sorry to hear that. Sounds like you could use a friend. Want to open up the door? I could come sit, offer an ear.”
There’s a long moment of silence. I’m positive she’sabout to insist that I should head back to the courtyard again when the door squeaks open, revealing a beautiful woman with her brown hair swept up in a twist and smudged mascara.
The wave of recognition is so strong it snatches the breath out of my lungs. It’s her. There’s no doubt about that now. It’s my Mystery Girl from Magazine Street, looking even prettier up close.
And sadder.
And sweeter.
One look in her sad but startled eyes, and I’m pretty sure I’d give my signing bonus to make sure she never cries again.
At least not without me there to hold her.
I remind myself that love at first sight is for teenagers and stalkers, but there’s no denying the rush of warmth that fills my chest as I ease into the shadows beside her.
“It’s you,” she breathes, blinking fast as she adds, “from the party, I mean. I um… I saw you walk in.”
“I saw you, too,” I say, but stop myself before I add that I also saw her on the street a few days back and developed an instant, borderline-weird obsession. No need to share everything. “You’re tall. Taller than the rest of the cocktail waitresses, I mean, so…”
“I am,” she adds, still looking a little stunned.
Good, hopefully she’s too stunned to realize how badly I’m flubbing the flirt so far.Pull it together, Graves. You are fluent in two languages, so start communicating.
“So, tell me what’s got you down,” I say, sliding down the wall to sit beside her, doing my best not to notice how good she smells, like fresh herbs and laundry detergent and a hint of floral perfume. “Is it just the job stuff?”
She winces and gives a quick shake of her head. “No, we don’t have to talk about my problems. I mean, you’re here to enjoy the?—”
“Stop it. I want to. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t,” I cut in, nudging her knee with mine. “Come on, let it out. You’ll feel better after. I always do.”
She pulls in a shaky breath, and her story tumbles out. She lost her job as a fact checker at a news station due to downsizing, has spent the past few days parsing through insurance paperwork that reads like “sadistic Ikea furniture instructions written by people who literally hate other humans,” and has a six-year-old daughter who needs regular access to medical care.
A daughter.
It’s a surprise—she looks way too young to have a six-year-old—but not a bad one. I love kids, and I was once the child of a single mom myself.
“And so, I emailed the head of HR to get some clarity on everything, because it just didn’t make sense,” she continues, rubbing at the back of her neck. “And she just got back to me, saying I’ll have to pay a hundred and two percent of my premium to maintain coverage through COBRA. A hundred and two percent! On top of all the copays for my daughter’s medications, and I just… I don’t know how I’m going to make that happen. I mean, I can only get cocktail gigs every once and a while, and it seems like no one is hiring right now, and I…”
She trails off, her lips trembling as she fights to keep fresh tears at bay.
