Page 32 of Six Month Wife
No shit, Sherlock, I want to say. But I don't want to antagonize. I'll let him think he's got all the answers, for the most part.
"The attorney called me. I was as surprised as anyone."
He sniffed it out like a bloodhound. He probably thought Roger had no will and thought he could stake a claim on that land in Vermont. And now that he knows it was all left to me, he’s regrouping.
“You’re aware of the main condition, I assume?” he asks, like he’s testing me. “Leave it to Roger to make it more complicated than it needs to be.”
I grab the back of my neck and pull it, trying to work out the stress that’s building. “Of course. The attorney went through everything with me.”
“And I trust you’ve taken the clause seriously.”
There it is. I should dodge and shut it down. But I don’t. I fall back into old patterns and revert to a twelve-year-old trying to pass inspection.
“I’m taking care of it, Dad.”
“Oh?”
“My girlfriend and I eloped, as it turns out. Quietly.” The words are out before I can stop them. “This whole thing helped us realize it was time.”
“You didn't tell me you had a girlfriend. Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Her name’s Adair Carpenter. She owns a wellness space here in Palm Beach. She runs it herself. She’s smart, grounded. She’s good for me.”
For a personal touch, I add, “You'll love her.” Sayingthese words to my father makes me shudder. I want to keep them as far away from each other as possible.
He makes a noise, maybe approval. Maybe filing the data point. “Interesting. Sounds like a wonderful partner for you.”
“Sure,” I say flatly. I'm sure his use of the word "partner" isn't by accident. I don't take the bait.
“I’ll come down next week,” he says, like it’s already decided. “It's been too long. Plus, I’d like to meet my son's wife.”
The punch lands low and slow.
“Dad, we’re still getting our feet under us. Maybe wait until we do something more formal. A reception. Or?—”
“I won’t stay long,” he cuts in. “But a visit is in order, with everything going on.”
And like that, I’m boxed in.
“Alright,” I say. “We’ll make it work.”
When the call ends, I sit there, my heart pounding and an ache deep in my stomach. My coffee's now cold as my internal temperature rises. The lie isn’t hypothetical anymore.
If it wasn't already, it’s a performance now.
9
Adair
The morning lightfilters through the store windows, catching the almost imperceptible dust. Everything here used to be so polished. Premium.
Now it's sad with a dull residue on everything.
I was supposed to be the boss, the dream-chaser. Now I’m the receptionist, back-office, and backup esthetician.
I straighten a few bottles out of habit, not purpose. They’re beautiful. They’re also unsold.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. It's Jenna.
