“I shouldn’t have hit you,” Cora said as we posed together, doing our best to smile for the camera.
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”
“I lost it a little bit. I didn’t expect you to touch me.”
“What, like this?” I put my hand on the small of her back.
She flinched but didn’t move away as the photographer kept snapping pictures.
“Yes, like that.”
“We’re married now, you know. I’ll probably be touching you with some frequency.”
She stiffened. “I don’t think so.”
“No? I thought that’s what married couples did. You know, when a man loves a woman—”
“There’s no love here.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” She turned to me, ignoring the photographer. “We need to lay out some ground rules for this.”
I tilted my head and smiled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Another spark of anger flashed into her eyes.
It was almost too easy.
“Reid,” she said, and her tone was warning.
I held up a hand. “Okay, okay. Look, we’ll talk about that tomorrow, all right? Tonight, let’s pretend we’re happy about this fucked-up situation and deal with it all in the morning.”
“Fine.”
“Now, come here and press your ass against my crotch. I want a prom-style photo.”
Her eyes went wide. “What are you—”
“Relax. I’m kidding. At least pretend like you’re not disgusted by me.”
Her face softened. “You’re not disgusting.”
I pulled her against me, arm around her shoulder. “I know that. I’m the most handsome man you’ve ever been married to.”
I glanced down and saw her smiling, just a little bit, as the photographer continued to snap photos.
I might’ve been the dumbest man alive. I thought the hard part was going to be the wedding. I figured the moment where I saw her for the first time would be the toughest bit, and then everything after would sort itself out.
As I stood there, smiling next to my new pretty wife who very clearly despised the shit out of me, I realized that the hard part hadn’t even begun yet.
2
Cora
The wedding was a nightmare.
And my husband was a monster. A handsome, charming monster, but still a monster
Like everyone else in that horrible church.
I sucked it up and after that one embarrassing outburst, I smiled and played the part of the happy bride on her wedding day—while inside, I was crumbling to ash and dust.
Drinking helped. I had five glasses of champagne and the fizzy alcohol made my head light enough to get through the evening. I had a first dance with a stranger, cut a cake with a stranger, even did one of those kiss things where everyone clinks their glass with a total stranger.
And in the morning, I woke up in a strange room in a strange bed and realized my nightmare was far from over.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the clock. I had a hangover headache and my mouth tasted like the underside of a used sandal. I licked my lips and sat up, rubbing at my temples. The room was sparse—bureau, nightstand, closet, bathroom—with nothing hanging on the white walls. A single rose peeked out from a blue vase, but the petals were already beginning to wilt. I looked around for Reid but couldn’t find him anywhere, and for half a second I thought we might’ve slept together.
Except the room was empty and the other pillow was cold.
I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. My hazy memory of the end of the night began to come back to me. I vaguely recalled getting into a cab with him, laughing at some joke he made, letting him carry me inside, letting him help me up into this room—and leaving me there to sleep.
Which was actually sort of surprising. I thought a guy like Reid would try to take advantage of me, but instead he made sure I was safe and comfortable before turning out the light and telling me goodnight.
I had on a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt, which meant I got changed at some point. I got up and found my bag tucked in the corner of the room. I got out fresh clothes and my toothbrush, then stumbled into a small but nice bathroom to shower and brush my teeth.
When I was done, I lingered in my room and stared at the closed door.
My husband was somewhere in this house. My husband, a man I didn’t know, but a man I was legally married too—and obligated to live with for a few years, at least if I wanted to get what was owed to me. Anger sparked in my chest all over again, fresh anger mixed with fresh embarrassment. The memory of slapping Reid in the vestibule after the ceremony flooded back and I felt like such an asshole.
I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t mad at him, not really. I was mad at the situation, at Vincent for pushing me into it, at my father for rolling over and letting it happen, and at the family in general— for being violent pieces of shit. I closed my eyes and tried to think of what Alex would say if he were still alive, and found I could barely picture his chubby, boyish half-smile and his floppy mess of brown hair.
No, the memory of him on the ground riddled with bullet holes, his brains splattered on the side of a silver Nissan Altima, was much easier to recall. Dead Alex, murdered Alex, that version of him always seemed to come back whether I wanted it to or not—but living Alex, happy Alex, my former best friend Alex, that version of him seemed like it was fading into nothing.
I groaned and rubbed my head then stormed to the door and threw it open. The hall stared back at me, dim and bare. Wood floors flowed to the right toward more doors and to the left toward stairs. I hesitated then headed to the stairs, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet. My toes were painted pink and I smiled a little, remembered sitting in my tiny apartment painting them while I stared at the wedding dress hanging on the back of the door across from me, and wondering if I could go through with it.
Now I knew—I could do it, even if it hurt.
I went down the steps and found a comfortable, well-lit living room. The couch was low and gray, the coffee table was wooden and covered in neat, orderly magazines, and several potted plants hung from the ceiling and were placed on the deep front windowsill. I walked toward the back of the house, passing a blank flatscreen TV, and entered the kitchen.
Reid sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee in front of him. I stared into his eyes—then let my gaze drift down to his shirtless torso. He leaned back, that infuriating, handsome smile drifting over his lips, and tilted his head as I looked at his muscular chest and defined abs.
“Morning, wife.”
That snapped me out of it. I looked away. “Morning.”
“How’d you sleep?”
“Fine.” I walked over to the coffee pot, found a mug in the cabinet above it, and poured some for myself. I took a long sip of it black as he watched me, a curious look in his eyes.
“I’ve got to admit, this is pretty weird.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Him stating the obvious like that seemed to break some kind of strange dam that threatened to block me up completely, and I shook my head as I took another long sip. The coffee was black and hot and tasteless, but it woke me up and helped with the headache.