His empty shelves stick out like an ugly thumb, and I wonder if he’s even considered filling them with some very manly décor. Nothing fancy, just, like, a plant or two and some heavy black stoneware and maybe, like, one gold accent.
I rub at my lips with my pointer finger and my thumb as I flip through the rolodex of New York vendors in my head who I know have that kind of stuff on hand. I’m only a shelf and a half into my design plan when I shake myself awake from la-la land with a scrub of my face and a shimmy.
“Stop it, Daisy. The man doesn’t need you and your design aesthetic throwing up all over his loft.”
With an internal scoff, I push the comforter off with a toss, pausing slightly when the gust of wind from my brusque motion sends a tiny piece of notebook paper flying off the bed and onto the floor.
I hop down and scoop it up quickly, and then I read through the short-stroked, manly scroll.
Daisy-
At work.
-Flynn
Oh. Well. I mean, I guess that makes sense. Of course he has work. His life didn’t stop just because I got here.
Even if your own issues mean you’re a little disappointed that it didn’t…
Moving on from the bed to the closet where one of my suitcases lies open for its unpacking, I dig through recklessly and toss on the first pair of sweatpants and T-shirt I come to. I have a lot of my life to get organized today so that I can be ready to focus on work when I start tomorrow, but I need coffee first.
I pad my way down the hallway on careful feet, just in case Flynn’s note about going to work was a recent deposit and he hasn’t actually had time to leave, and peek into the main living area of the apartment with a crane of my neck that rivals several safari animals, even with their far more accommodating physiology.
It doesn’t take but a moment to ascertain that this space, too, is empty. My lips purse and my shoulders settle as my body takes a beat to adjust. Walking normally then, I make my way behind the sofa and around into the kitchen to the coffeepot in the corner. The coffee itself, sugar, and mugs are all in the cabinet directly above, making my ability to set up the pot and switch it to brew swift and painless. For that, I’m thankful.
The pot spits and gurgles as it works to produce my precious nectar, and I take that time to snoop a little bit more. Dishes are in the cabinet two down from the stove, spices in the one directly to the left. The counters are pretty devoid of things, both in decoration and functionality, and I make a mental note to see if he’s got a toaster somewhere.
I’m not high-maintenance, but some peanut butter toast on my way out the door to work in the morning wouldn’t go amiss.
During my scan, I notice my purse sitting on the corner of the island counter and walk immediately to it to dig through its contents and sort them. My phone, which I know is still inside, will need to be charged, and the shiny key I’m guessing Flynn left for me sitting next to my bag needs to be secured on my key ring.
My stomach flutters as I slip the gold metal through the split in my silver ring, and I press myself into the counter in an attempt to stop it. My oh my, how strange this normally huge milestone feels.
The move in. The next step. The declaration of intentions. Normally, that’s what the exchange of keys or codes or any general method for making yourself at home in someone else’s residence would mean, but not for us. For us, it’s a requirement in our charade with USCIS, and for Flynn, I’m sure a necessity so that he doesn’t have to babysit me twenty-four seven.
I’ve just pushed the key past the final millimeter of the split, securing it in place with the rest of my own when my phone starts to ring wildly on the counter, my volume set quite apparently to the max.
“Jesus,” I groan, swiping quickly without looking at the screen to stop the nearly violent playing of Gwen Stefani’s “Don’t Speak.” Evidently, a couple of months ago, I found the idea of making a song with that name my ringtone ironic. Right now, in the midst of my emotional confusion, it’s just obnoxious.
“Hello?”
“Daisy, doll! I’m officially back on dry land!” Gwen declares excitedly. “Ready to hear all about my favorite girl and her exciting life in the States!”
Oh shittt. What am I going to tell Gwen about all this?
With her gone on the cruise for the last two weeks, I haven’t even thought about how I might explain the fact that I’m married to a man I barely know in order to keep my exciting life in the States.
Gwen’s an open-minded, fluid person, but I’m pretty sure if her pseudodaughter told her she climbed on the back of the bike of a man she didn’t know and expected herself to come out alive, she’d kind of object. If that pseudodaughter then told her she went on to marry him, move all the way across the country, and lie to pretty much everyone she comes in contact with, I’m pretty sure she’d call the police.
Gah.
“Daisy? Are you there? These stupid cell thingies never get good reception.”
Speak, for the love of everything. Say something.
“Sorry, Gwen. I’m here. I was just… Yeah, you were breaking up. How was the discount cruise? Was it the dollar store version of Alaska or the real one?”
Gwen laughs. “I guess I don’t know for certain, as Kammie didn’t want to get off the boat, but the pictures I have look real.”
I’m not surprised by this info. Kammie is the one broad in their girl group who always manages to put a snag in the plans.
“Okay, but I’ll have to see the evidence to believe you.”
“Of course, darling, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Why wouldn’t Kammie get off the boat?”
“Something about her facelift scars showing in the reflection of the snow.”
“Right. Of course. I mean, what else would it be, right?”
Gwen’s laugh rolls like a soft melody, the ease of our normal conversations obviously—thankfully—conveying on her end. For my part, I’m so freaking nervous I could wet myself if I uncrossed my legs.
“What about you, my little flower? How’s work? And Damien?”
It might seem a little strange on the surface for Gwen to be asking about Damien, but the truth is, I started blurring the boss, employee, childhood guardian line a while ago. I’ve included them in the details of each other’s lives and forced them together more than a few times. Hell, not even a month ago, I forced Damien to sit on a FaceTime call with Gwen while she taught me—and Damien, because I dragged him into it—how to paint lilies like it was some kind of virtual chat with Bob Ross.
“Work is good. Damien is still Damien. A powerhouse in Prada with no time for anyone’s shit.” I take a deep breath and pause to gather myself for the best truth I can come up with—the half-truth. “I’m actually in New York.”
“New York? Oh, that’s exciting! For the day or for the week?”
“For three months, actually.”
“What? Three months?”
“Yep. Dame had some special projects over here he wanted me to be involved in,” I lie, closing my eyes against the overwhelming wave of guilt nausea. Lie, lie, lie.
“Wow! That’s pretty incredible, but three months is a long hotel stay. Even hopeless wanderers like me need little touches of home every now and then. Is he flying you home on any of the weekends?”