Page 28 of Honeyed

Terms and monetary amounts jump out at me, property deeds, company structures … all of it melting into one confusing jumble. The thing that keeps sticking in my head, though, is the stipulated five years.

Five years married to get the full amount of Arthur’s estate.

That number shocked me when I first went over it with Arthur’s attorney yesterday. The way Arthur had laid it out meant that his estate and money would be awarded for every year we successfully stayed husband and wife, with the biggest payout coming in year five. Of course, the million dollars we’ll be awarded at the very start, meaning today, will be more than enough to fund August’s scholarship and get Alana her storefront.

It’s not like I need the rest of the money, and I don’t care about it anyway. All I want is to get enough to do both of those things. Obviously, we won’t be staying five years in the marriage.

Would we?

A week into our supposedly blissful, as far as the outside world is concerned, union and Alana and I have settled into a routine. We drive to work together every morning, get our tasks done, put on a show for her family and customers alike, then go home, where we retreat to our separate corners. Sure, we eat dinner together most nights, maybe watch a show, but we don’t have to put on the act in private.

I don’t have to touch her like I can’t keep my hands off her. I don’t need to kiss her forehead when our friends from high school are looking just to make sure we’re convincing. I don’t need to chat with her about dinner plans, what we’re up to this weekend, and how gorgeous she looks, just so other people overhear it.

Of course, I wish I could do all those things in the privacy of her home. I wish I could carry her upstairs to her room, lay her on the guest bed, and show her how good I’d make my wife feel if this were a real marriage. I wish I could talk about our future like we planned it all out down to the baby names. I wish I didn’t have to pretend there is a giant chasm of awkwardness every night we split up to sleep in different rooms.

Thomas still isn’t talking to me or her from what I know, and it’s frustrating me to no end. I knew he’d be pissed, but I didn’t realize he’d excommunicate us. Leona says she’s trying to talk him down, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I know one day he’ll probably explode on me, and then Alana will know the real reason why I’ve put distance between us for years.

The rest of the Ashton clan is adjusting to the idea of our marriage well, though. Nonna ordered us a ceramic bowl with our wedding date on it from her favorite shop on the Amalfi coast. Alana’s brothers threw me the “bachelor party” they never got to, which was just taking me out to one of our favorite local bars, buying all my drinks, then driving me home. Leona is knitting us the same kind of quilt her mother-in-law did for her when she and Thomas first got married.

Hope Crest has also run us through their gossip mill for the last seven days, with random people I’ve known for years coming up to me on the street to ask all about our marriage and wedding. Last night when I went to the Chinese take-out place to pick up an order for Alana and me, a couple I know from high school, plus the two owners, accosted me to know every detail of our wedding and why we eloped. I love living in a small town, but everyone thinks everything is their business.

All the while, I’ve been trying my best to be completely normal with the woman who was my platonic best friend and is now my wife. Alana doesn’t seem too freaked out over our situation, but maybe she’s a better actor than I am.

Staring back down at the papers on my desk, I wonder what I’m supposed to do with all the businesses Arthur invested in. I’ll need Patrick to take a heavy look at these, what with his accounting eye, and then get a financial planner involved. I’m the manager of a pizzeria and an ex-almost-pro football player; business isn’t really my strong suit. I thrive on interacting with people, putting out fires, and filling in where needed. I’m the backbone, not the brains.

What I’m supposed to do with a small aviation company, an Irish brewhouse, two luxury car dealerships, a pharmaceutical startup, and many other companies in industries I didn’t even realize existed … well, I’m not quite sure. I want to do Arthur’s legacy justice, but this doesn’t seem to be anything I want to control.

Along with not wanting to analyze these documents and contracts, there is an email sitting in my inbox that I’d rather set on fire than respond to. That documentary director, Mason, who waited for me outside the pizzeria, found my email and sent another request to appear on camera. Telling him “over my dead body” might be too on the nose in this case, but I seriously feel like replying with exactly that.

Not for the first time, I wonder if my dad is putting him up to this. I haven’t seen or spoken to the man in over a decade. I rip up any letters he sends. I don’t watch the interviews he gives. I refuse to comment on anniversary articles commemorating my mother’s death. But this documentary is going to be something I can’t ignore. It’ll be everywhere, strangers will be asking me about it, and it seems that this Mason guy doesn’t give up easily.

The stress of it all is getting to me, a tightness pinching my chest as I lean back in my desk chair. I should be out front helping Leona with lunch orders, but I came back when Arthur’s lawyer messengered over the documents. The headache about telling Alana about the five-year stipulation rages back until my office door creaks open.

August breezes into my office, happier than I’ve seen her in months, and that’s probably because she just returned from a school trip to Washington, DC, that lasted about five days, which means five days out of that hellhole of a house. I imagine all the freedom I can give her by awarding her that scholarship.

“I leave and you go and get married!” She hops up and down. “I thought Evan was joking when he told me you married Alana.”

“Not a joke.” I hold up my ring finger.

“Holy shit.” She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, it’s just so crazy. A lot to wrap my head around. But honestly, not at all. It’s been clear since the jump that you two were MTB.”

“MTB?” I ask, confused.

“Meant to be, one true loves, soulmates.” The teen looks at me like I’m an idiot for not knowing that abbreviation. “You guys deserve to be happy. And together. You’re two of the best people I know. Adopt me?”

She might be asking that as a joke, but we both know that if she genuinely wanted Alana and me to, we’d do so in a heartbeat.

“Thanks, Auggy. It means a lot to have your blessing.”

She shrugs out of her coat and stashes her backpack behind my desk like she always does.

“Oh, I found a scholarship for you to apply to.” I drop this casually, trying not to inflect any emotion into my voice.

“Really? I’ve been applying to every single one I’ve found, so I may have already filled it out.” She sounds doubtful.

“Maybe, but come check to be sure.” I pull up the landing page Alana fabricated two days ago and turn my laptop to show her.

We worked hard together on making the scholarship sound legitimate so that August would have no misgivings about applying and then accepting when she inevitably was awarded the money.

---