My entire childhood was a mess of ever-changing rules and no real structure. There was no way to know if I was doing or saying the right thing because my father would change his mind about what he wanted day to day, hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute.
So yes. I want rules. I want them written down and referable, that way we never question where we stand or how to approach this entire situation.
With these in place, I figure our chances of making it through a year can only increase.
“These are the parameters of our agreement,” I explain. “Both of our expectations.”
I settle at the table and poise the pen over the paper. “First rule, obviously, we must follow all the requirements set forth by my grandmother.”
Charlie nods, settling in beside me.
“Okay. Now you.”
Charlie takes the pen from my hand and slides the paper his way. Then he hesitates, brow scrunched, as if in deep thought.
“Seriously? You don’t have a list already? How are you unsure about this right now?”
Charlie offers a confused shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we’d figure things out as we go.”
Oh, sweet, naive man.
“Maybe in an actual relationship.” I reach out to tap the paper. “But this is basically a business deal. Why don’t you add the stuff about Pig to start?” I prod him in the side, still not fathoming my future fake husband doesn’t have more hard limits at the ready.
Charlie carefully jots down a few sentences, then passes the paper back to me.
As if I have the right to add more.
I read over his scrawl.
Luna will adopt Pig, but Charlie will be the primary caregiver until the end of their marriage.
That’s it.
“Okay, what about house rules?” Maybe if I lead him enough, the ideas will start flowing.
Charlie tugs on his lower lip, thoughtful. “I don’t know. This is your house.”
“Oh my fucking god. This is like pulling teeth. Be a little selfish. A little honest. What’ll make you more comfortable here?”
He shrugs. “I’m an organized person. Not a fan of clutter or mess. You don’t mind me cleaning your place regularly, do you?”
My forehead hits the table, and not too gently. “You’re turning yourself into my live-in maid? What universe are we in right now?”
“Hey.” Charlie’s hand comes to my head, urging me up. “Cooking. I’m not great at that. How about you cook, I clean? Or you get us take-out if you’re a shitty chef too.”
“I’m a nutritionist. Cooking is in my wheelhouse. I’ll handle the meals.” At this point I’m desperate, so I write that rule down. “We can split the other chores. You don’t have to clean the house.”
Charlie shakes his head. “You’re at work all day. I’ll handle it.”
“Charlie!” I shove up from my chair to pace. “I’m not marrying you to get a housekeeper! I’m supposed to be your sugar mamma!”
His teeth sink into his thick lower lip, obviously trying to stifle a laugh at my outburst.
“Luna.” He takes on a gentler tone. “You are supporting me financially for the next year. You’re giving me the freedom and time to figure out my life’s passion. This is not a one-sided exchange.”
When I open my mouth to protest, he stops me with a raised hand. “How about this? We’ll add a rule that if I’m ever feeling overwhelmed with the amount of housework, we’ll talk about it and devise a new system. Okay?”
The deal still sounds like him creating an out he’ll never use, but it’s hard to argue with Charlie when he gives me those hopeful eyes.
“Fine.”
My fake fiancé’s shoulders relax, and he grabs the pen and scribbles on the paper. Then he pauses and I can tell by the edge he holds himself on that he’s finally thought of something.
Thank god.
“What is it?”
“I just…” He trails off, then rubs an agitated hand over his skull.
“Come on. What rule do you want to add?”
He clears his throat once. Then again. “I know this isn’t a real marriage, but…” Another throat clearing. “Commitment would be nice. For as long as this lasts.”
Ah. That.
A year of celibacy shouldn’t be hard. It’s been six months since I was last with someone, and the experience wasn’t worth repeating.
Then the image of Charlie entering the house some night with a strange woman wrapped around him appears in my mind. The thought has me queasy for a reason I don’t want to dwell on.
“Yes. Fine.” My words are terse. “We’ll both abstain from dating other people while we’re married.”
Charlie nods and writes some more words down. I move to stare over his shoulder, baffled by the short list of items.
Is this how easy it is to fake a relationship with another person?
I thought we’d have a whole scroll of stipulations. Multiple notebooks. That we’d need a table of contents and a glossary.
“I guess we don’t have to laminate this tonight. I kind of sprung it on you. You can take the next few days before we sign the marriage license to brainstorm whatever else you want.”
“Sure,” Charlie says, not sounding like he needs the time.
Is this why I gravitated toward him? Why I thought pitching this wild idea would have a chance?
The man is just so easygoing. It’s strange for me to be around someone who doesn’t seem even mildly anxious about what we’re setting out to do. I’m not normally a worrier. Not anymore. I spent the last decade honing myself into a person ready to take on most any challenge.
But that was all physical stuff. Now I have this, a requirement to simply coexist, and I’m checking my arms to see if hives have broken out.
“Luna.”
The way Charlie says my name, softly with a hint of wariness, as if he’s concerned I’ll sprint toward the door, lets me know how much of my disquiet I’m showing on the surface.
Time to bury that shit.
“Yeah?”
“This can be a good thing.” A smile plumps his cheeks. “A fun thing. I don’t want you to approach this marriage as a job.” He nudges my hip with his elbow. “We’re becoming friends, in some of the strangest circumstances possible. But I’m being honest when I say I’m looking forward to this next year. You know what…”
The way he trails off ratchets up my anxiety, but then he reaches for the paper and I calm a bit. More rules. More clarity. This is good.
Then I read the five words he pens down.
Have fun with each other.
“What does that mean?”
“It means what I wrote.” In the face of my scowl, Charlie only laughs. “I want us to do fun things together. Show me what you love about Nashville. I’ll come up with stuff too. We’re partners. Let’s be partners in fun!”
“Oh god. You’re, like, super-dorky, aren’t you?” The question came out drier than I meant, and I want to stuff it back in my mouth, hating that I might have hurt Charlie’s feelings.
But he just stands from his chair, towering a good foot over me, and grins down at my upturned face.
“Hell yeah I am. What do you say, Luna Lamont? Do you agree to my rule? Will you have fun with your dorky husband?”
There’s a whole range of sarcastic answers that pop into my mind. But every one of them borders on cruel. Even if I’m not a nice person, I don’t want Charlie thinking I’m an asshole.
Besides, there’s a simpler, easier answer.
“Yes. I’ll have fun with you. Not sure I’ll be any good at it.”
“All I ask is that you try.” He’s still smiling at me, the expression sinking into something comfortable on his face. And there’s a subtle heat to it that has me snatching the pen back.
“As two single people living in close proximity, I believe it is important we keep this completely platonic. An agreement between friends, which means no fooling around.” I can’t meet Charlie’s eyes when I make this declaration, instead focusing on where the point of the pen meets the paper. “Agreed?”
A pause. Then, “Agreed.”
“Good.” Good, I repeat to my brain silently, to make sure it’s on the same page.
Yes, Charlie is an attractive, kind man. But the end goal of this is more important than any brief pleasure we’d get from a hookup that would just end up destroying our carefully created partnership. We have to get through this year with our sham of a marriage intact if I want any hope of freeing my brother.
“Might as well add for clarification that this all lasts until May 11th of next year. Then you’ll be free of me, off to live the new life you’ve decided you want.”
When I glance up from the paper, having finished writing that sixth rule, I’m met with the sight of Charlie’s back. Instead of facing me, he stares out the window into my backyard, seeming lost in thought.
“A year,” Charlie murmurs. “Probably be over before we know it.”