Chapter Four

Adam

I never leave class early, and Shapiro loves to jaw with me about whatever article caught her interest in the latest scientific journal. She’s smart as hell, and I can usually stay a good forty minutes after class is over just debating the role of physics in coaching extreme sports, or whether it makes sense to extend the dietician program so it encompasses classes beyond the physics core. It’s not my specific discipline, but I love getting her take on things in general.

And with the way my yeast trays are going, I’m beginning to wonder if I might have chosen the wrong focus.

But today I can’t spare any time. Because I’m going on a date. I guess. Or not a date. Just two friends who might be getting married eating food in a scenic location. Nothing weird about that…

I expect Dr. Shapiro to be bummed when I break the news to her, but she’s smiling wide. “You have—what’s that phrase?—a ‘previous commitment,’ is it?”

I rub the back of my neck. “Something like that.”

“Hmm. Does she have a name?” She puts her folders into her briefcase and we leave the lecture hall.

“Genevieve.” Her name sounds beautiful—exotic even—when I say it to someone else.

“I bet she’s lovely. I’m glad you’re coming out of your shell, Adam,” Dr. Shapiro says. “Science is wonderful, but it can be isolating, can’t it? Enjoy your date. You do know that’s what it’s called when you go out with a beautiful woman, right?” She winks and laughs over her shoulder as she leaves me on the sidewalk.

Should friends who are getting married date? That’s a question for the Sociology Department, and there’s no way in hell I want to go there.

I drive back to the dorm and strip off my work clothes. I put on the only decent jeans I own, a dark sweater, and my good sneakers. I use gel. I brush my teeth twice and gargle with mouthwash.

I did eat a double-double with extra onion for lunch.

I follow Genevieve’s directions and pull up at a nice house with a million plants on the wide front porch and a homey, crowded feel, like dozens of people are probably running through it and around it at any given moment. Nothing like the neat, Spartan apartment I grew up in. Genevieve flies out the door, both hands wrapped around a basket she can barely lift. I get out to help her and she stops short on the steps.

“Wow.” She looks me up and down. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything but khakis and a button down or a nerd T-shirt.”

I heft the basket into my arms, glad it weighs around a metric ton. I’m starved.

“You’re just used to seeing me right after work, or at the lab,” I explain, not bothering to add that I rarely feel the need to “dress up” for my friends. Because that makes no sense. Genevieve is still my friend. This whole marriage thing isn’t changing that.

She’s wearing another impossibly tiny top that barely covers her. Not that I’m complaining. She looks amazing. But it must be uncomfortable. “Are you sure you want to wear those shoes?”

She looks down at the shoes, which are green, like limes, with little bows over the place where her toes poke out. The heels are at least four inches high, and there’s only this tiny green strap around her ankle holding them on.

“Aren’t they cute?” she asks.

“I don’t know how qualified I am to answer that.” I peer down at them, wondering what would possess her to torture her feet that much, no matter how “cute” the shoes are. “I think you look great. But I think you’re forgetting what a hike it is to the observatory. I don’t want you to twist your ankle or anything.”

She smiles brightly and waves her hand back and forth. “It’s not going to be a problem.” She walks to the car, graceful as a gazelle.

Of course, she only has to walk a hundred feet on a flat, paved driveway.

I decide keeping my mouth shut is probably the best way to start this…date. Is this a date? I have no idea. I decide to just think of it as Gen and me hanging out.

Though she’s definitely dressed for a date. She’s wearing that sexy little top, black with lime green ribbons that match the shoes, and a tight skirt. That’s dressed up, right?

Or maybe I’m reading into it, and it’s just Genevieve. She dresses like this all the time.

“Did you get a chance to look over the problems Eidelberg worked up for you?” I ask, and she flips a hot look my way.

Not hot like bedrooms and sex, hot like she’s attempting to blister my skin with her eyeballs.

“Do you have any idea just how much food I stuffed into that picnic basket?” she asks, her voice sweet. Dangerously sweet. Too sweet. “Broccoli salad with feta dressing, cheddar cornmeal biscuits, poached spinach and walnut pesto chicken, and chocolate chip cookies. All homemade, all kosher. And I had to run to the store for a few ingredients before I started cooking.”

“Oh.” I feel like an ass, but I was thinking the basket was filled with tuna fish sandwiches and sliced apples or something.

So this is a date.

Why the hell am I so hung up on labeling this…whatever? This is the same Gen I’ve been hanging out with a few times a week for the last three years. We’ve eaten, we’ve worn clothes, there’s nothing different about today.

So why does it feel so different?

“It’s not this huge deal,” she rushes to explain. “I mean, I actually love cooking. It kind of relaxes me. I’ve probably never mentioned it because I like to play it cool around you, but when I’m stressed and about to fail calculus, it helps me calm down. So, it’s not like…any big deal.” She rolls her eyes and nudges my ribs, like the Gen I’m used to.

So…not a date?

Stop it, Adam!

“That’s amazing. Well, you know when I’m stressed, I play video games for hours on end. Or chew on my nails. Your de-stressing is way more productive. And it sounds delicious. All of it,” I insist.

Her smile puts me at ease. “Thank you. I’m sure it will be.”

We drive the rest of the way talking about things that don’t really matter: who won the latest singing talent show she watches, how things are going at her parents’ furniture store, and then she asks about my yeast experiments. I’m just about to tell her the entire saga, but I don’t want to ruin my appetite thinking about it, so instead I say it’s all good and focus on finding a parking space along the dusty, curving road.

“I love this place,” I tell her as I parallel park with a respectable amount of skill. “And we got a decent spot.”

“Wait. I haven’t been here in a long time. Remind me—where’s the observatory?” she asks, opening her car door slowly. I point. Those soft gray eyes follow the direction of my arm and turn back on me, so wide I’m afraid they’ll pop out.

“I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing the picnic basket. “Do you think you can make it? I could always drop you up there and come back to park.”

She looks down at her green shoes and then up at me, her face determined. “I’m walking it. And I’ll be fine. Lead the way.”

Fifteen minutes later, she’s pushing her sweat-damp hair back off her forehead and grabbing onto my arm for balance. I’m trying not to let her see how my arms are shaking, especially because if she decides to let go of me, I have a bad feeling she’s going to trip on those stupid heels and plummet into the ravine below. When we get to the first picnic table, I’ve never been so glad to see a surface to sit down on in my life. I drop the basket and brace my arms on the rough wood, trying to catch my breath.

I expect to see Genevieve at my side, but she’s walking to the little clump of trees at the edge of the ravine. I get up and follow her, wishing I could slide my arm around her waist to make sure she keeps her balance, but she grabs onto my arm again and squeezes before I go crazy worrying. Her voice is just this breathy whisper.

“Look at that, Adam. Look.”

I do. The sun is setting, casting the entire sky above the ravine in a soft purple light streaked with orange and sprinkled with a glint of silver stars. The bright white letters of the Hollywood sign are offset by the dark trees, bending slightly as the wind picks up. It moves Genevieve’s silky black hair, pressing it back from her face as she looks out. Below the ravine, all of L.A. winks in the night with thousands of milky, twinkling lights.

“It’s amazing,” I say, my voice low in this moment that feels so private, even though there are people milling all over and a city of millions below us. “When I first moved here, I was so damn homesick. All the time. Funny, because the only thing I ever wanted to do growing up was leave Tel Aviv—leave Israel, actually—for good. I never expected to miss it. I have no idea why, but coming here made me miss it less.”

“I’ve lived right by this place my whole life, but I haven’t been here since I was a little kid. That’s just stupid, right? It’s like…it’s like you take what’s right in front of you for granted. Like this place. You just assume that it’ll always be here, so you don’t make the effort to come see it.” She turns to look at me, brushing back stray pieces of hair that fly around her face.

She’s so gorgeous it makes me a little dizzy.

She has this face that’s pretty much the perfect example of human beauty and symmetry—sharp, high cheekbones, full lips, wide eyes—but even though the scientist in me knows that her beauty is based on years of evolution that trains me to see signs of health and vigor as attractive, the man in me knows it’s something else that makes her so hard to look away from.

It’s the way her eyes shine when she looks at something she’s interested in. The way her smile seems to take over her entire face and flick it on like a light switch. The way her hair is always down, long, and wild, like a kid’s. But not like a kid’s at all because, for all the ways Genevieve can be so fun and even silly, she’s still a woman. Completely a woman.

“Not stupid at all. There’s this place in Tel Aviv, the Azrieli Observatory. It’s the kind of thing I’d probably love. But I’ve never been there.” I shrug and don’t move away even when strands of her hair fly up and tickle my neck. “I think sometimes when you’re not happy in a place, you’ll look for any excuse to leave. Sometimes that means avoiding the things that might tie you closer to it.”

She leans against my shoulder. “I know exactly what you mean.”

When she turns, her face is so close I feel like maybe she wants to kiss me. If I’m being totally honest with myself, I’ll admit that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our kiss.

I wish it hadn’t been a clear ploy to make Deo jealous.

Whatever the motive, that kiss seared itself into my brain and made me want more.

“I’ve never felt less homesick than I do right now,” I say, half to stop myself from kissing her before I can come up with a good enough reason not to, half because I want her to know how being around her for the last few years has felt more like “home” than living in Israel for two decades ever did.

Those are years I never really talk to anyone about, not in any substantial way. Even with my best friend.

Which makes me think about being legally married to Genevieve. It would be bad enough to marry someone who knew so little about me; if it was just a normal love match we could figure things out on our own. But this is for a green card. I know firsthand how invasive a process it can be when you have to lay your life bare for the U.S. government—they leave no stone unturned.

Genevieve has always seen me as a logical, smart, capable guy, largely because that’s the role I play for her and everyone else. What’s going to happen when she knows all the weird, crazy details of my life back home? Because I’m going to need to tell her everything to make sure we don’t run into any problems with our paperwork.

And telling her everything will change our relationship. I’ve always been more attracted to her than I should be, as her friend. But spilling my guts on top of that might push our relationship to a place I won’t be comfortable with.

I don’t want to be the kind fool who tricks himself into thinking he’s in something real, only to get sucker punched in a few years when his “wife” waltzes in to throw the “happy divorce” party she thinks we both want.

Holding back has kept me safe, let me be in control of the situation so far. Is it possible I can reveal things in a logical, self-contained way so I avoid stupidly falling for the friend who can never be more to me than a wife-of-convenience?

“I know exactly how you feel,” she says, interrupting my panicked thoughts. Her voice is soft, her lips close. Though alarm bells are going off in my head, I move toward her. It feels like the air between us is crackling with the friction of everything we want and haven’t said and are just beginning to understand when—

“Hey! Excuse me? Are you sitting here?” A woman with a high, whiny voice who’s pulling a bungee-corded cooler points to our picnic basket on the table. I wrestle the urge to push her into the ravine.

“Yes,” I growl. “We are.”

She marches away, muttering loudly about how some people have no manners anymore, and I look at Genevieve, half bummed, half relieved that we lost our opportunity to kiss.

I can’t push this relationship. Genevieve lives to flirt. This is all part of the game for her, but I know myself too well. As smart as I am with a textbook, I’m an idiot when it comes to feelings. If I don’t want to get pulled into something I can’t handle, I need to slow things down.

Friends. We’re just friends, and it needs to stay that way.

“‘Some people,’ huh? Was that because we’re Jewish?” She laughs, and it’s contagious.

The tension clears, and I focus on the main reason I started hanging with Genevieve in the first place—her incredible sense of humor. We’re both laughing as we head back to the table, and then, for a long time, I have nothing to say because I’m too busy attacking every single thing she packed.

“This is freaking amazing,” I say, reaching for another biscuit.

She shakes her head. “I definitely used too much cornmeal. You’re just impressed because you’ve been eating canned pasta for weeks. So sad.”

“I’m telling you, I was the fattest kid when I was little. After my mom died, all three of her sisters, plus every lady looking to snag my dad, would cook for us, all old school Jewish food, all the time. I swear, everything I put in my mouth when I was a kid was fried in duck fat. I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack by the time I was thirteen. That said, if I’d been eating your cooking, I would have become obese. And probably died a young, happy death.” I grab another biscuit and when I look up and see the familiar look of pity in her eyes, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut about Mom.

This. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Gen has always been good at knocking my defenses down. When we were friends, it was okay to let a wall or two crumble. But I’m not sure we can keep doing that if we’re going to live together as a married couple.

What the hell am I doing?

“I know you don’t like talking about her…” she begins.

I shake my head and try to keep things light but informational.

Then it hits me like a bolt of lightning. The key to making this work is treating this marriage like an extension of a tutoring session. Logical explanations, facts, study guides, flashcards—that’s my comfort zone. I can handle that.

“Hey, we’re going to get hitched. You deserve to know about your future husband’s family, right? Ask away.” I wish we could have done this in PowerPoint, but I can make it work in an informal picnic setting. I’m flexible like that.

“How old were you?” she asks, her fingers reaching past the halfway point on the table, like she wants to hold my hand and comfort me.

I’ve always wanted Gen to want to touch me—but not like this.

“When I got fat?” I avoid eye contact. The last thing I need is to look into those big gray eyes and get all therapy-session weepy on her.

Just stick to the facts, Abramowitz, and you’ll be just fine.

“When you lost your mother.” She pulls back, folds her hands on the table, and looks at me, waiting.

How old was I?

When I lost my mother?

When my life as I knew it ended?

When everything good and fun and loving got muted, stomped on, suffocated, and my father and I were left gutted and depressed, staring at each other like we had no idea what to do without her?

We never figured it out.

The pain shocks through me, but I fight back. Damn, I wish I had some index cards to read from right now.

“I was three days away from my tenth birthday,” I say, my voice a carefully controlled monotone. “It was breast cancer. Same thing her mother died from.”

“Did she have any recipes you loved?” Her voice is reverential, but practical. I appreciate that.

I’m also kind of surprised at the question. Talking about food is way easier than talking about feelings.

“You know what? Now that you mention it, she used to make this amazing French toast with challah bread. The best was with the circle loaf from Rosh Hashanah. I don’t know why that would make it taste better. The shape, I mean.”

“I think shape has a lot to do with how things taste. I love Hershey kisses, but I don’t like Hershey bars.” Genevieve shrugs, her shoulders delicate and kissable.

Is it because of the kiss that was interrupted? Her mention of the candy? Am I just going crazy? Because I definitely never thought of a girl’s shoulders as kissable before, but now I can’t think of anything other than kissing her shoulders. And so much more.

“I guess I get that,” I say, looking at the chicken on my plate so I don’t gawk at her shoulders, or any other body part. “I like ziti, but I don’t like rotini.”

“Yes!” She nibbles on a chocolate chip cookie. “I’ll have to try making you the challah French toast for breakfast sometime. My abuela makes the most delicious challah, and she only taught me the secret family recipe. You’ll fall in love.”

I swallow hard. “I bet I will.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

She bites her lip and fiddles with the picnic basket handle. Despite my attempt to play it cool, I think we both know I wasn’t referring to bread. I reach over to help put things back in the basket, brushing a hand against hers or leaning close enough to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo, because, apparently, I love to torture myself.

“I’ll walk this back to the car,” I offer, and she just nods and attempts a smile that doesn’t quite make it across her entire face.

I walk fast. The basket is way less heavy now that we’ve devoured most of the food in it, and I have time to think. About this date or non-date. About how I could take her, so fragile and strong all at once, and kiss her the way she deserves to be kissed. Not for show in front of the guy who broke her heart. Not like she’s some flake in a tight outfit and high heels. I want to kiss her like she’s mine. I want to kiss her to show her that I see through the facade she puts up for everyone else. I want to kiss her so she’ll never forget it.

But that’s dangerous territory. That’s beyond fact and logic.

My head can accept that, but my stupid heart didn’t seem to get the memo.

I walk back and see her sitting on the picnic table, her feet propped on the bench, her arms stretched behind her, her head tilted back.

A few days ago, Genevieve was a friend, and I only thought in private moments about kissing her. Then she proposed this crazy marriage scheme, kissed me for show, and now my mind can’t stop imagining kissing her for real…

If her shoulders made me want to kiss her before, now I can’t pick a body part that doesn’t make me want to do something, everything. I want to lick the line of her lips until she opens for me. I want my hands on her hips, pulling her close. I want to lay her back and rub my face against her stomach, run my fingers down her arms, suck on her neck, and press my body tight against hers.

I want Genevieve, even though I’m not sure desire is part of the marriage agreement. Clearly we need to talk ground rules.

“Do you want to go see the observatory?” I ask.

She jumps, like my voice startled her. “Yes.” She slips off the table and holds a hand out for mine.

It feels pretty damn amazing, all things considered. I hold it tight and walk slowly because I know her feet must be killing her. We head to the huge white building, and her heels click on the marble floor when we make our way inside.

Astronomy isn’t my area of expertise, but I know enough to explain her questions as we pass the shadow-box exhibits. And she doesn’t just ask me things. She tells me about camping in a valley in high school, when meteor showers made the sky burst into a choreographed explosion of streaking light. She tells me about sitting up until dawn on the sloped roof outside her bedroom window to see Venus clearly. She tells me about the mnemonic devices she made up to remember facts about the planets when she was a little girl.

“So you were always a closet scientist?” I ask as she leans over to get a better look at a replica model of Saturn turning on an improvised axis.

“Me?” She flicks a glance my way and snorts. “Not even remotely. I was destined to sell ottomans and bedroom sets in the illustrious Rodriguez Furniture Warehouse. This degree? It’s pretty much my parents humoring me. It’s going to be in finance and business. So I might one day graduate from selling sectionals to balancing the books. If I’m lucky.”

“Is that what you want?” I ask, keeping my hand at the small of her back while she walks to the next exhibit.

We both watch the Earth, moon, and sun replicas spin around slowly, sometimes eclipsing, sometimes spreading apart like they’re on paths that will never connect.

“What I want?” She takes a deep breath and moves closer to me. “I want to be free.”

“What would happen if you stopped working at your parents’ business?” I ask, and she spins around suddenly, narrowing her eyes at me.

“I don’t want to be a scientist.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

I hold my hands up, surrender-style. “I’m not a recruiter for the program, if that’s what you think.”

“You’re giving off the vibe.” She drops her arms and pokes one finger into my chest.

“Sorry.” I take her hand, watch her eyes go dark, and hold back a groan when her tongue darts out, quick and pink, and wets her bottom lip. Before I can stop myself, I’m going down that path I shouldn’t be, telling her things that aren’t facts about my life—they’re useless murky memories that would never come up on a government questionnaire. But I figure one tiny detail won’t throw me too much…

“The thing I remember most about my mother?” Genevieve leans closer—so close I can see the pattern of grays and lighter blues that make up her irises. “She lived every second like she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do. I’m sure she had regrets, but I think she just loved…everything. And when she died, I hated everything. I thought it was a shitty testament to who she’d been.”

My voice is shaky with emotion, and I realize how dangerous “one tiny detail” can be. I’m a scientist. I know all about chaos theory and fractals, the butterfly effect—I should be more careful.

The problem is, being with Genevieve makes my usually logical brain short circuit.

“It’s normal to hate everything when you lose someone you love,” she says, threading her fingers through mine.

“Yeah, it is.” I brush her hair back from her face and let my palm linger on her cheek. She closes her eyes and breathes deep. “But it starts to become a habit. I fight it every day. Because sometimes I have beauty and happiness staring me right in the face, and I never even notice. Not until it’s too late. I don’t want to keep making that mistake.”

“It’s not too late,” she says, her words a soft promise. Or is it a dare? “We can make sure it isn’t. This will work, Adam.”

Her body is warm and soft in all the right places. I haven’t slept with a girl since my summer fling with a visiting research assistant, so some of what I’m feeling is pure, pent-up need. But that’s not how this is going to go. I’m not going to use Genevieve, because what I feel for her extends way beyond animal urges. I respect her. I love the way she makes me feel, the way she makes me want to change.

“Do you want to go to the roof?” I ask, and the words vibrate with my glaring frustration with my inability to keep a lid on my erratic thoughts.

Her eyes startle wide open at my tone. “Sure.”

I spin her body from mine in one neat movement and we rush up the stairs, coming out onto the wide roof and into the cool night air. Night took over while we were inside, and the deep blue of the sky cools every bit of temper that flared in me.

“It feels so…wide open up here,” she says, twirling around, head tilted back. “Free.”

“You could tell your parents you’re not working for them anymore. Don’t you have brothers and sisters who could help out?”

She’s talking about the celestial beauty of freedom; I’m talking practical applications of it.

“You know my brother, Cohen, was going to leave, but my father offered him a raise and the accounting position. I think it helped that Dad also hired Cohen’s fiancée to work there, at least until she graduates and gets a teaching job. Lydia is this crazy successful lawyer. Enzo has always done whatever the hell he wanted to, even when we were just kids. Cece will probably get a full time job as a professor.” She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “Hey, maybe you’ve run into her on campus? She just got a position as a TA in Comparative Feminist Lit?”

I think back to the way Cody and I made fun of the comparative lit losers and feel a surge of panic. Not like Genevieve could possibly know that. Mocking her sister, even inadvertently, is not something I want to do. Or want her to know I do, anyway.

“Uh, no. They’re so, um, different. Just, yeah, different. Plus, you know, the liberal arts department is kind of segregated from ours.” By a big, fat line of real knowledge and usefulness.

“Wait, are you serious about your beef with the liberal arts? I thought that was just a bad joke, like Schrodinger’s cat.” I can hear the laugh behind her words. “Holy crap! I can see it in your face! You do look down your nose at them. What a science snob you are, Adam. So, like, exactly how much do you hate them? Is it like a separate water fountains and bathrooms kind of thing?”

“I don’t hate them,” I object. “And if we have separate bathrooms, it’s just because those douches from philosophy are always wandering into the bathroom and forgetting to leave. Or that’s what I hear from the Math Department. Those poor guys have to share bathrooms with some outlier liberal artists who snuck into their territory.”

She’s laughing hard and loud now, and the sound gets caught in the wind, which picks it up and tosses it around on the roof. “Here I was thinking my future husband is all open-minded, but apparently I’m marrying a bigot. So what if I told you I wanted to major in philosophy instead of working at my parents’ place?”

“As my future wife, you’d be the one and only person who could bring me over to the dark side and make a liberal arts lover out of me. Never repeat that in front of Cody,” I warn, loving the easy way she bumps my hip with hers and puts a hand on my arm.

“Your secret is safe with me. And you won’t have to hide your face in shame as the husband of a dreaded liberal arts major. I don’t want a degree in philosophy. I guess this is going to sound so flighty, but I don’t know what I want. I just know it’s not what I have.” She puts her hands over her face. “Ugh. That sounds like some pathetic first world problem. You don’t have to tell me it doesn’t.”

I tug her hands down. “Hey, I’ve worked in some pretty desperate places—refugee camps, ghettos… What you feel? That’s an everyone problem. I’m not saying you aren’t lucky to have political freedom and clean water and vaccinations. All good stuff. But you have a right to ask for more out of your life and not feel like a bad person for it.”

“So, it’s not just science and math that you’re all brilliant at, is it?” she says.

“I guess not.” I sit on the low ledge over a sharp drop, and Genevieve backs up a step.

“Get off of there.” She clutches a hand over her heart.

“Are you afraid of heights? It’s okay,” I say, jumping onto the ledge to show her. “I grew up balcony hopping across apartments. I’ve got an amazing sense of balance.” I back up a few inches, just enough so I can feel the wind tug and swirl at my back.

She puts her other hand over her mouth, then rips it away and whisper-screams, “Get. Down. Now! Right now!”

“Genevieve, I’m fine. I swear. See, even if I fell, I know how to bend my knees, arch my back, keep my feet together… I’m trained in physics. I’d probably only break my legs, worst case scenario.” I turn to look down, and it’s a far fall, even for me. And I’m used to heights.

She’s taking steps back, shaking her head. “Please,” she begs.

I jump down and walk to her, about to tease her for worrying, when she shoves me in the chest, hard.

“What were you thinking?” she demands, backing me up to a wall. “You could have fallen. You could have died. What the hell, Adam? What the hell!”

I take her hand in mine. “Whoa. Calm down. I was totally safe.”

“You say that, but you and I both know you weren’t. What if something happened to you? What would I do?”

The way she’s shaking, I’m pretty sure she’s going to smack me across the face. And I’ll take it because, though I never meant to do it, I hate that I upset her. “Nothing was going to happen, but I’m sor—”

She flings herself into my arms and clutches at my shirt, her head buried in my shoulder, her heart thumping so hard, I can feel it against my chest.

I put my arms around her, holding her close, petting her hair, doing what I can to calm her down.

“Asshole. You’re an asshole,” she says. “Don’t scare me like that.”

She’s this upset because she was worried. About me.

I’m not exactly sure how to process that. Holding her under the speckled, inky sky, on top of the world, I only know I don’t want to let go.

“Hey, c’mon, I was just showing off.”

She peeks up at me from under her lashes, relief bringing back her sense of humor. “Don’t do that again. At least not until we have a will made up.”

“I think you’re overestimating my vast wealth,” I say with a laugh. “You’re agreeing to marry a pretty poor man, Gen.”

“Good thing I’m not a gold digger.” She bites her lip. “On that note, we should talk about what we actually want from this, um…marriage.”

“Right. You’re right.” I nod. “Want to head to the beach? You mentioned you think better there.”

“I did, didn’t I? It’s true.”

We leave the observatory and head down the highway, Genevieve flipping the radio stations, singing along until a song she likes ends, then flipping again to find a new one. I like her clear, strong voice. I like that she kicks her ridiculous heels off and tucks her bare feet under her legs.

She rolls down the window, and I lose the potent scent of her, but I get to see the way her face looks when she tips her head back, closes her eyes, and breathes the night air deep into her lungs. She lets one hand hang out the window, holds it flat in the rush of air, and watches her fingers jump and pulse in the current. When she shivers, I reach back and grab a hoodie, hand it to her, and watch as she pulls it over her head, the hood so huge, it hides her entire face.

“My shirt is so freaking uncomfortable,” she says, wrestling with herself in the loose cloth. “Will it be weird if I take it off?”

“Not weird at all,” I say, forcing the words to come out evenly.

She twists her arms inside the hoodie and pulls the little green-ribboned shirt out the bottom, sighing heavily as she drops it on the floor. Her entire body looks different all of a sudden. She curves and stretches like she’s just been untied from ropes.

“You can turn right here,” she says, pointing to an exit off the highway I’ve never even noticed. We follow a long, winding road to a tiny shop by the ocean. A surf shop.

“You know this place?” I ask as I pull into the lot and park.

She nods, but doesn’t bother to explain any further. As soon as we’re stopped, she hops out, barefoot, arms wide, and runs through the sand and down to the waves. I walk after her, glancing back at the shop I’m sure is Deo’s place. Besides being her crush, I realize he’s practically part of her family. As much as it irks me that he broke her heart, I have to accept that he’s a part of her past, is in her present, and will be around for the foreseeable future.

Which now includes me.

“Adam!” she calls over the crash of the waves. “Come here!”

I run down the beach to her. “Why?” I ask.

“Because look at this!” she yells, jumping back away from the waves, then biting her lip and darting forward. “Isn’t this amazing? Doesn’t it just make you feel like no matter how bad things are, they just can’t be that bad. Right? Because look at this!”

The sky is starlit and the silver moon is so huge it lights up the entire sky. The waves are dark and harsh, but beautiful. The air feels like it’s buzzing with an energy that’s impossible to resist. I catch her happiness like a fever.

That’s what I’ve always loved about Genevieve. I know my own boundaries, my limits, really well. I know I tend to be the guy who sits in the corner and watches the fun from afar. But Genevieve doesn’t let me do that. She drags me in and makes me participate.

“It’s amazing,” I agree.

She stops jumping in the waves and pushes her hair back from her face with both hands. “You aren’t seriously saying this is amazing while you still have your shoes on. Take them off. Now.” She crooks her finger at me.

If there’s a man on this earth who could resist that crooked finger, I’d love to meet him and shake his damn hand. Because he’s a far stronger man than I am.

My shoes are off, and I cuff my jeans then wade out to her side.

“That’s better.” She grins, focused on me, as a huge swell gathers and breaks right at the back of her legs. I know she’s not gauging for it, so I grab her around the waist and hold her still until the water sucks back out.

“Careful,” I say, my voice quiet, because she freaked me out. It scared me to think of her falling under the water and getting pulled out with the undercurrent. What if I wasn’t here to catch her?

Which is an idiotic thought. I haven’t been around for most of Genevieve’s life, and I’m positive tonight isn’t the first time she’s done something bordering on insane.

I also realize this must have been the exact way she felt when I was standing on the ledge of the observatory like an idiot. Only she couldn’t catch me. It’s shocking, sometimes, what a complete and total jackass I am.

“You’re making a habit of this whole knight in shining armor thing, aren’t you?” she asks, tilting her head back and laughing.

Which leaves her neck exposed. Once again, I’m fighting back the urge to kiss the line of her neck and up her jaw. I think about kissing her the way I bet none of her shitty boyfriends ever have. Like she’s the only goddamn girl in the world. Like I never want to kiss anyone else.

But I don’t. I wouldn’t have back when she was just my friend, and it doesn’t feel right to do it now just because we’re friends with the promise of marriage. The whole point of this arrangement is that our relationship stays the same while our legal status changes. Most people see tying the knot as accepting a ball and chain, but for Gen and me, marriage will be freedom. Freedom for me to continue my studies and not have to move back to my gloating father in Israel, and freedom for her to spread her wings, move out of her parents’ home, and prove to everyone that she’s over her longtime crush—whether she really is or not.

The scary part is my growing inability to keep things compartmentalized when it comes to Genevieve. She’s naturally impetuous and emotional—so I have to be the logical one. I have to weigh the pros and cons. I have to get close enough that we can convince any government agent we’re an actual couple, without falling head over heels for the friend I’ve always had a crush on. Because as good as this feels right now, it’s going to hurt like hell if I let myself believe it’s real, only to get kicked by reality when she pulls the plug.

This isn’t meant to last, and I have to make sure I keep that in mind. She deserves to live her life with the person she chooses for love, not convenience. One day that guy will come along, and she’ll expect the amicable divorce this situation calls for.

The fact that thinking about that eventuality already makes me sick to my stomach is a bad sign. A very bad sign. I need to be more careful.

“Hey, come here!” Genevieve cries, dragging me by the hand. I follow her.

Of course I follow her.

She leads me up a craggy bunch of rocks just out of reach of the surf, slick with seaweed and damp with the sea spray. She pulls my sweatshirt down so she can sit on it and pulls her knees up to her chest, yanking the bottom of the sweatshirt over them and down to her ankles. I sit next to her, watching the waves smash close to where we sit, protected for this minute. Until the tide comes in.

“It makes me feel better.” I gesture out to the roaring ocean. “It’s easier to accept that I’m just a blip in the universe here.”

Genevieve looks at me, her face small inside the large hood. “Yeah. I get that. I come here when I can for that exact reason, when I’m stressing about classes and grades. It’s an excellent reminder.”

“I remember being nervous as hell when I was getting my BA,” I say. “You’re smart and hard working. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Maybe you can start visiting the ocean to, you know, just sunbathe and stuff.”

Her smile is tight. “I know the way I dress, how I present myself sometimes, may seem like I’m shallow. But I’m way more into contemplating my place in the universe than I am into making sure I don’t have tan lines.”

“I didn’t mean— I just wanted you to know that I have faith in you. That I think you’re gonna be just fine.” I want to touch her face again, brush her hair back like I did before, but I don’t. And I probably never should have in the first place. I have no idea what the rules are anymore.

“Whoa, teach. Back up,” she says, a nervous giggle erupting out of her throat. “It sounds suspiciously like you’re trying to break up with me.”

I brush my finger over her wrist and down her hand. She sucks her breath in and looks at me for a long second.

“I would never choose to not help you, Genevieve. I know I sometimes complain, but I really do enjoy working with you. Plus now I have a vested interest in making sure you do well. I mean, I can’t have my wife flunking out of college.”

Her brow furrows and her eyes narrow. “About all that. What…what are the ground rules?”

“For our sham marriage?”

“Don’t call it that,” she says, her voice drowned out by the waves. “It’s just…an unconventional marriage. I get that it won’t last forever, but if we’re going to be doing this for a few years, we need to know where we both stand, right? Like I’m cool with living together, but do we sleep together, too?” She’s edging toward the slippery rocks now, a few feet away from the foaming, frothing explosion of ocean below.

“I can’t afford to live anywhere other than the dorms,” I say. “The married dorms are all one bedroom, but I’m happy to take the couch.” I’m keeping my voice calm and trying to make eye contact, but she’s flying off the handle. She stands up suddenly, and I stand next to her and try to lead her away from the edge. Man, karma is biting me in the ass, hard. “I’m happy to do whatever makes you comfortable.”

“You think you’d be okay sleeping on the couch for months or years?” she demands, her hands clutching at the front of my shirt. “This is temporary, sure, but it’s long-term temporary. You work hard and you need your rest, which means you need to sleep in a bed.”

She’s being practical. She’s making valid points that jostle our accepted social norms, but she’s not coming onto me. I have to tell myself that, because when I look down into her wild eyes, she makes my heart thud with a want I’ve never felt for anyone before.

“It’s more complicated than that,” I tell her, but I can see from the way she pulls her mouth to the side that she thinks I’m the one making things complicated. “It’s not just my ability to sleep. Or yours. What about…what about if, during the time we’re doing this, you meet someone you really care about? Is it cheating if you decide to be with him?”

“I think we can cross that bridge if we ever come to it. And I think we have to acknowledge the fact that…” She pulls closer to me, and I can feel the heat of her skin through her clothes. “I’m a red-blooded woman, Adam. I’ve noticed the way you look at me. You’re actually very hot—when I can get past your Doctor Who shirts.” I laugh, and she bites her lip. “I don’t think it’s realistic for us to be celibate for years. And I think our lives will be complicated enough without casually dating other people in the meantime. We’re adults, we’re friends. This situation is going to test our relationship and change it anyway. I hope we’re strong enough to roll with it, and…I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m willing to go all the way with this experiment.”

I shake my head, and I get up the guts to put my hands on her face again. It may be one of the last times. Her skin is softer than I expected. I rub my thumbs over her cheekbones and watch her lips part. “I can’t let you do that. I want you to have the kind of love you deserve. I don’t want you to put that aside so I can finish my fucking research.”

“Adam, I have my whole life to find my soul mate, okay? If you and I spend the next few years in a very official ‘friends with benefits’ capacity, that will just give me time to move away from my family, get my head on straight, finish school, and escape the stigma of my whole Deo crush—”

“I’m happy to help with that.” I know Deo didn’t technically do anything wrong by marrying the girl he loved, but still, he hurt Gen, and that makes me blind with rage. God, she looks gorgeous, her lips bright pink, her eyes flashing the way they do when she’s right on the cusp of solving a really complicated problem. The wind picks up, and I use it as an excuse to brush her hair away from her face. “I want you to know, I’m aware how lucky I am to have such a fearless, loyal, smart-as-hell best friend. Since I moved here, you’ve made this place feel like my home. I owe so much to you, Genevieve.”

She’s not making eye contact with me. Her eyes dart back and forth and she bites her lips. She’s breathing heavy, and when she finally looks up at me, her eyebrows are furrowed low. “Funny you say that, Adam. I feel exactly the same way you do. I know getting married as friends seems rash and full of potential problems, but if anyone could make this work, it’s me and you.”

“Very true,” I laugh. “You’re sure, Gen? You’re sure this is what you want? Because the last thing I want is to be your biggest regret.”

“Marry me, Adam.” Genevieve looks at me, and her hands come up to either side of my face and grip it hard. “Marry me and stay my best friend.”