But he looks the same. There’s no sign of stoop in his broad shoulders. His hair is more salt than pepper now but still thick and perfectly combed into the same side part he’s worn my entire life.
“Dad.”
My dad’s not a particularly smiley guy, but he smiles when he sees me. “Charlotte.”
I hand my glass to Colin, who takes it without comment, and acting on instinct, I throw my arms around my dad, who stiffens a little in surprise.
We are not a hugging family.
But he chuckles and pats the back of my head a little awkwardly. “Good to have you back.”
Back.
There’s a comfort to the word I didn’t expect. I’m not back—not for good. It’s just a three-month reprieve from my real life until I can ditch my pesky husband, but in this moment, I let myself pretend that I’m home.
“Whiskey, Paul?” Colin asks, as I pull back from the awkward hug.
My dad nods, accepting the glass that Colin’s already poured. There’s an easy casualness to their exchange that makes me feel … weird.
The fact that they’re my parents, that this was my home, even the sense of familiarity when I stepped into the house—it’s an old familiarity. The kind that you inherit, not the kind you’ve earned.
Colin has earned the familiarity. He’s been here. For the life of me, I can’t figure out if I’m annoyed or grateful.
“Charlotte, come. Sit,” Mom says, as she gracefully lowers to the love seat, crossing her legs and gesturing to the opposite love seat.
My mom’s navy slacks, navy pumps, and yellow sweater set are perfectly suited to the conservatively decorated room. My leather pants, not so much. Still, I do as instructed, nodding in thanks as Colin retrieves my cocktail and places it back in my hand.
Then he surprises me by sitting next to me, my father taking his place beside my mother. It’s a weirdly domestic scene, one that suits the three of them, and leaves me feeling very much the newcomer who hasn’t read this part of the script.
“We were so glad to hear that you and Colin decided to try to make your marriage work.”
I choke into my cocktail and glance at Colin in bemusement.
But his expression betrays nothing, and I look back at my parents. Surely they don’t think—?
There is no sense of irony on their faces, no knowing smirks. Which I guess I should have figured. I don’t remember either parent having much of a sense of humor, but they’re also not stupid. There’s no way they think that Colin and I got married for real.
Right?
Ten years ago, Justin had very specific instructions about my arrangement with Colin:
Don’t tell a single goddamn person the truth.
We’d all known that those close to us would make their own assumptions, obviously, but on the off chance we were suspected of marriage fraud, we hadn’t wanted to put anyone in the position of having to lie for us.
That had included my parents, but I always thought they’d figured out the truth about why we got married. They were well aware of the stipulations of the trust fund from my grandmother, and it couldn’t have been much of a leap to put together the fact that Irish-born Colin would benefit as well.
Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if they believed what they wanted to believe for stubbornness’ sake.
Or wishful thinking.
I get another one of those pangs at the thought that my parents have been clinging to hope that their rebellious daughter would return home to patch things up with the dutiful husband.
But. It’s been a decade. Surely they don’t think that Colin and I have been actually married for that long.
Surely he hasn’t let them think that.
“Naturally, it’s something to celebrate, so I thought I’d throw a small get-together.”
“Wait, what?” My attention snaps away from the unreadable man beside me and back to my mom.
“People want to see you, Charlotte,” she says, as though this explains everything. “Just yesterday Irene Hicks asked how you were.”
“Irene Hicks. As in Mrs. Hicks? My seventh-grade teacher?”
“Since she was one of your favorites, I invited her over on Friday—”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand, feeling panicked now. “Friday—”
“For your party,” she says, sounding exasperated with me, as though I’m the one talking crazy. “Colin, I already called your office and talked to Stephanie about your schedule. She said you’re wide open.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Colin hesitate for just a second before nodding. “Sure. Friday night sounds good.”
“Oh, does it?” I ask sarcastically, giving him a quick dark look before turning back to my parents.
“Mom, I really appreciate the sentiment, but I think a party would be weird.”
My mother looks affronted. “My parties are never weird.”
“No, I know, I just mean …” I take a breath. “I mean it would be weird to have a welcome back party when I’m not back for good.”
I stumble over the announcement slightly, feeling fifteen again. I’m fully braced for disappointment and/or a guilt trip and am a little puzzled when I get neither.
Instead, my mom waves her hand in a dismissive gesture she’s picked up in the past ten years, because I definitely don’t remember it from my childhood.
“Oh, who knows what will happen?” she says.
I do! I know what will happen! In three months, I’ll have gotten out of this ridiculous marriage trap my brother got me into, and I will go back to my real life.
I wait for Colin to chime in, but instead he stands. “More wine?” he asks my mom.
“You’re a doll. You picked a good one, Charlotte.”
My head drops forward in defeat.
Chapter 10
Sunday, August 30
Somehow, I make it all the way through cocktail hour, dinner, and dessert.
And then? Then I give in to the urge to lose it. The second the cab door closes behind Colin, I whirl on him, punching his shoulder.
“Ouch,” he snaps. “What the hell?”
“Don’t what the hell me. I’m the one who gets to what the hell. Are you seriously telling me you’ve been going over there every single Sunday night for ten years, and you haven’t once told them you married me to get your green card?”
“No,” he says, unperturbed.
“So you did tell them.”
He hesitates. “No, I mean I don’t go over there every Sunday night. I’ve missed a few.”
I punch him again, and this time he grabs my wrist. “Stop doing that.”
I try to wiggle my arm away, but he holds firm, so I settle for glaring. “What was your plan? To just wait for me to come back to New York and deliver the bad news? Let them think you’re the patient, abandoned husband while I’m the selfish, disloyal airhead?”
He doesn’t reply, and my mouth drops open.
“Oh my God. That was your nefarious plan.”
“Nefarious? I didn’t have a plan, Charlotte. I’m not a cartoon villain. I didn’t set out to let them think anything. I saw an aging, lonely couple who missed their grown children. You flitted off to San Francisco without a backward glance. Justin’s wife’s work took them to Frankfurt. It didn’t hurt me any to join them for a home-cooked meal, so I did.”