Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I take a deep breath to make sure this comes from the heart. “Asher is my best friend. He has been for a long time. That’s true. We got married in Vegas as part of a pact. It was for fun. When the photo went viral, it seemed easier to stay married for a little while. We were pretending at brunch.” Though in retrospect, it hardly felt that way.
She shakes her head, her jaw ticking like she’s hurt. “I knew something was off, but I wanted to believe in it anyway. I guess that makes me a fool.”
“I’m sorry. But the truth is—somewhere along the way, that lie became the best thing that ever happened to me.”
She sits up straighter, perhaps intrigued but still not fully trusting me. “Explain.”
“It was a marriage of convenience—partly for his charity, partly for this job. But while I was married to him, I fell in love with my husband. And I’m staying with him because I want to.”
Saying that out loud feels good—like, really good. And it hits me that Asher and I haven’t talked about what will happen next. Yes, we’re dating, yes, we’re living together, but we haven’t really addressed what that means for our marriage. Now I know what I want though.
Still, I focus on Eleanor and the matter at hand. “But it was a ruse to keep this job, so I understand you might not want to keep working with me. If you don’t want to pay me for the mural, I’d understand that too.”
Eleanor rolls her eyes. “I’m not in the business of not paying contractors, but I don’t relish being lied to. I’m also not the kind of woman who hires someone for their partner’s last name. I hired you for your talent. I believed in your love story. That’s why it hurt.” She sighs, sad and resigned. “I was going to tell my friends about you.”
I take that blow on the chin. The loss of referrals stings, but I expected it, so I nod and accept it.
“And honestly, why would I believe you now?”
I suppose I can’t truly prove it to her. But I know our love is real, and so I try to convey that as best I can. “I want to show you something,” I say, pulling out a photo of the famous DickNose board on my phone. “This might not prove everything to you, but this is how Asher felt about me before we were even married. It was all real.”
My heart squeezes as I read the things his teammates had written. The top five cute things he said about me, like how much I love night markets, how everyone should buy my artwork, how cute it was that I watched videos of people painting.
“This is real too,” I say, showing her more photos I took this morning at our home. The lavender farm. The ice hotel. The double-loop roller coaster. The shot of us at the concert before we said, “I do.”
“You believed in our love story because it’s been happening for a decade. Well before I bid on him at the auction, before we went to Vegas. Our love story started as a friendship ten years ago, and if you believed in it, like his teammates did before we got married, it’s because all of that is true. This is us. This is who we are. We go on big adventures together, and we’re going to keep going on them.”
Eleanor sighs, but I sense her relenting. “I appreciate you showing me this. And thank you for explaining things. But I don’t like being lied to, even if it turned out to be true. You should finish the mural.”
I hear the unsaid part of her message—this job won’t lead to anything more. She probably won’t recommend me to others, and I’m going to have to be okay with that.
You don’t get everything in life. But the things I do have? A friend, a lover, a dog, my girlfriends, my brother, and a career that’s starting to take off? Those are mine, and no one can take them away from me.
I leave, knowing I can move forward as I finish the job.
A week later, I’m making the final adjustments to the mural, brightening up the suspension lines on the Golden Gate Bridge when my favorite voice calls out to me.
“Hey, Mrs. Callahan.”
I climb down from the ladder, beaming at my husband, who’s growing a trim beard that makes him even hotter. “Hey, Number Twenty-Nine.”
“You’re wearing my jersey tonight.” It’s a statement, not a question. He knows I’ll be wearing my Mrs. Callahan jersey for his game. Puck drop is in a couple hours.
“Always,” I say, and I hope he knows I mean it—always. But we haven’t talked about that yet. Sure, we’re living together, yes, we’re staying together, but we haven’t really dealt with the marriage part of our relationship. There’s been no need to.