My dad’s unexpected visit leaves an invisible tension hanging over our household. Every time I leave for work, there’s a nagging voice in the back of my brain telling me I need to check in on Charlie. That if I’m not here, something bad will happen to him.
The same voice shouts at me when I’m at the house and he goes out.
Charlie often takes Pig with him on errands. Guess Nashville is a pretty dog friendly town because he always seems to find stores that allow our pit bull inside as long as she stays on a leash. And ultimate dog dad that he is, Charlie loves the constant bonding.
Pig’s heart is going to break when this marriage ends.
I’m torn about them going out together. On the one hand my dad hates dogs, so she might help in that arena. On the other hand Charlie is a tall Black man and Pig is a pit bull. The world doesn’t look kindly on them separately, and together I can imagine the ignorant, hostile interactions that could happen at any moment.
No matter how I look at the situation, I worry.
This is why I don’t let people into my life. Dash and Leo give me enough stress.
Even though I know my persistent anxiety would only make my father happy, I can’t seem to eradicate the worry. The apprehension seeps into every inch of my body, and I find myself jogging from my car to my front door, eager to check that my little—temporary—family is safe and secure.
A week later when I arrive home from work, a savory scent drifts to me when I enter my house. I pull in a deeper breath.
“Charlie?” Following my nose, I find him in the kitchen, bent over the stove.
He straightens and offers a sheepish smile. Pig trots up to me, wagging her tail wildly as I scratch behind her ears.
“Hey.” Charlie continues to stir a large pot. “How was work?”
The question is so domestic I’m immediately on guard.
“Fine.” I drag the word out. “What’s this?”
Because he’s not just making dinner. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the table, and my fake husband wears a white button-down shirt and a pair of dove-gray slacks that hug his ass so well there should be a monument built in honor of the curves.
Not something I should notice about my fake husband, I remind myself for roughly the thousandth time.
“Come here.” Charlie steps around the island, picking up a beer on the way and pressing the cool glass into my hand as he guides me to the kitchen table. On the wooden surface is a stack of wrapped gifts.
“My birthday isn’t until May.”
“Ah. But this isn’t for your birthday.” Charlie kneels on one knee beside my chair. If we weren’t already married, I’d be concerned he was about to propose. “Happy one-month anniversary.”
“Charlie,” I groan as realization hits. “Seriously? We’re fake married! You can’t get me gifts for a fake anniversary.”
“Too late!” He grins.
“Well then, return them.” I shove the packages away like the ungrateful bitch I am.
But Charlie only shrugs, his smile not wavering in the slightest. “Can’t. They’re personalized.”
I mutter a curse as he straightens and returns to the kitchen, likely to finish making whatever delicious creation I smell. For a full minute I sit pouting and sipping my beer. Charlie doesn’t prod or get mad or insist I open the gifts.
He just keeps cooking.
Eventually, curiosity overwhelms my good sense, and I pull the first wrapped rectangle toward me. There’s a certain pleasure in tearing off the paper. Until all I find is an empty frame. Picking it up, I check the back, then the front again.
But nope, nothing to see.
“It’s empty,” I announce.
Charlie makes a noncommittal noise in his throat.
I move on to the next one.
And the next.
And the next.
And so on until I’ve opened six empty frames.
Well, this is a certain kind of bullshit. And when I realize I’m disappointed, I have to admit I let myself get excited about a surprise that shouldn’t even be happening.
“Here.” Charlie sets another wrapped rectangle down in front of me.
I use all of my willpower not to glare up at him. “You forgot one of the very important empty frames?”
Charlie barks out a laugh but doesn’t answer, choosing to set the table instead.
My bar resting very low, I tear off the gold paper.
The string of empty frames ends when I stare down at a small, thin hardback book.
At the sight of the cover, I suck in a sharp breath, every muscle in my body tightening. “Where’d you get this?”
“Dash.” Charlie’s voice has lost its teasing edge, all sincerity now.
The image is of me, not exactly smiling, but I know I’m happy no matter what my face says. Because beside me is my Wai Po. Dash took this photo on our second visit when the three of us went to the botanical gardens. Behind us is a colorful meadow I never would’ve thought to find in Delaware.
If I look at the picture much longer, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Since there’s a risk of tears, I flip the cover open.
Only to be slammed with another heart-aching memento.
One of my grandmother’s recipes.
“I’m sorry. I broke my promise. I touched them. But I swear I wore gloves, and I only took each one out for long enough to scan them and then put them back. They’re all safe and accounted for.”
“You made a recipe book?”
“I thought you could use this when you’re cooking. That way you don’t have to worry about getting food on the originals. Or if you’d rather stick with the originals, you can have this as a backup.”
“The frames?”
“I thought if you like the book, then maybe you’d frame the originals. That way they’re safe, but you can see them without worrying.”
Six frames. For six recipes.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Charlie circulates between the stovetop and the table with jerky movements, not meeting my eyes as he does. “I know it’s a weird gift.”
“It is not weird.” My voice sounds stiff. Overly formal. Because if I let what I’m feeling out, I’ll start crying, and I hate crying. “It’s a good gift. A really good gift.”
My fake husband offers me one of his wildly handsome smiles, and I barely restrain myself from breaking the marriage rules and jumping him.
Charlie will make someone—not me—a very happy partner one day. I try not to dwell on how that causes a throbbing ache right in the center of my chest.
“So, food.” His voice grows gruff, and I watch his cheeks darken with a blush. “Hopefully, this doesn’t put me on a nutritionist hit list, but I made us mac and cheese.” Charlie opens up the oven, releasing a delicious herb scent. With oven-mitt-covered hands, he slides a skillet out and places the heavy pan on the stovetop. “There’s also green beans and a salad, so dinner is not entirely melted dairy.”
Damn him. He’s coming at me from all directions with his thoughtful gift and savory food. If the stuff tastes good, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself.
“Another beer? Or wine?” My fake husband moves around the kitchen with such purpose no one could ever deny that he belongs there. Unfortunately, his competence has my thighs clenching.
“Wine.” I choke out the word, the only one I can manage in the face of this domesticity.
Charlie does everything for the dinner. Setting the table, serving the food, making sure I have a glass of wine and the bottle at hand. I can’t fathom why he’s gone through all this effort. On a good day, I’m a mildly tolerable fake wife. But he’s acting like I’ve done something worthy of this care.
And I don’t get it.
“Just sit down,” I command when he jumps out of his chair again to move the salt and pepper closer. “You’re making me dizzy. I don’t need anything else.”
Except maybe a casket, because when I bite into Charlie’s mac and cheese, I’m sure I’ve died and found paradise.
“Oh, fuck yes,” I groan, my mouth full. I’m torn between chewing faster versus letting this first bite linger for days.
“You like it?” Charlie leans partway across the table, his eyes fixated on my mouth in a way that has me suddenly self-conscious about how I chew. Then I immediately get over that insecurity because who has time to judge themselves when there is more of this ambrosia to consume?
“So good,” I mumble through another mouthful. For the next few minutes, all I focus on is consumption. I can’t bear to glance Charlie’s way again and find him staring at me with that same intensity.
Or worse, ignoring me in pursuit of his own delicious meal.
Something is wrong in my brain. At some point a couple of wires got crossed, and now I’m too focused on how Charlie interacts with me. As if he’s integral to my well-being.
Which he is not.
“I made dessert too.” Charlie’s declaration pulls me out of my thoughts and forces my eyes up from my plate.
The sheepish expression on his face softens all the hard points inside me. The ones demanding I protect myself.
“You did?” I glance around. “Where is this mystery dessert?”
“Things didn’t go exactly to plan.” His eyes shift away.
Consider my curiosity piqued. I stand from the table, peering around the kitchen, wanting a glimpse of this food that has Charlie off-kilter. “What do you mean by not going to plan?” I stroll toward the island, but only see the remnants of the dinner. Nothing sweet. “Is it edible?”
“Yes. The baking part didn’t go wrong.”
I face him. “But something did go wrong? What is it? What are you hiding?”
Charlie pulls his napkin off his lap before standing and striding into the kitchen. “No need to go hunting for it, I’ll show you.”
Even though he says he will, my fake husband hesitates, fists on his hips. While he works out whatever silent debate he’s got going on, I boost myself up to sit on the clean part of the counter. This puts me closer to his height. Gives me the sense we’re on equal footing.
“Come on.” I reach out my leg, poking his thigh with my toe.
“It’s embarrassing.” Still, he’s smiling again.
“Do you not remember the first day we met? Or how about the one after that? You, Charlie Keller, are a pro at embarrassing yourself in front of me.” I tilt forward, lowering my voice as if we’re sharing a secret. “And it only makes me like you more.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have revealed that, but when he gives me such a joyful grin, it’s hard to regret my honesty. Something about Charlie turns me playful. He naturally surpasses my bitchy armor without effort.
He lets out a defeated sigh. “Okay. But I need to preface this by saying I tried, but I won’t be offended if you laugh.”
“Alright,” I say, dragging the word out.
Charlie opens the fridge, retrieving a platter. The serving dish holds something resembling a cake, and I wonder what would have me laughing about that.
Then he stands in front of me, and I choke on air.
“What is that?” I don’t know whether to lean close for a better look or run away screaming.
Charlie offers a defeated smile. “I tried to make it look like Pig. The plan was sound, but something went wrong during the execution.”
I’ll say. The thing before me is a strange splotchy mixer of vanilla and chocolate icing, with unbalanced eyes and a gaping mouth that looks more like a demon trying to swallow souls than my friendly animal companion.
“It’s,” I snort, “hideous.” More laughter spills out of me, filling the kitchen and easing all the tension from my shoulders.
How can he do this? Put me at ease without even trying?
Part of it has to be the vulnerability. Charlie never puts up shields between us, while that’s all I ever seem to do.
Because it’s all I’ve ever known.
He sets the monster cake down and grabs a plate. Next thing I know, he’s handing me a fork and holding up a section of the offending dessert.
“Let me know if I at least got the taste right.”
I guess this is my punishment for laughing. Now I have to be the cake guinea pig. Mastering my self-control, I don’t let even the slightest cringe appear when Charlie offers me a forkful. He’s feeding me, I think, just as the chocolate hits my tongue.
Before, I’d thought I’d hoped for too much. That there was no way something could both be that ugly yet also taste delicious.
But Charlie managed it.
“What do you think?” my fake husband asks.
“Good.” I lick my lips. “Really good. I’ll take my piece.” When I hold out my hands, he passes the plate over. Then he cuts himself one, pleasure creeping over his face as he chews his first bite.
Proving to himself I wasn’t lying.
“How’d I do?” Charlie accepts my empty plate, setting them both in the sink.
“Like I said, the cake is tasty.”
“Thank you, but I meant with the anniversary. Was this too much? I figured since we’re only going to have a year’s worth, better make it count. And have them more often.”
“You’re going to do this every month?” The skepticism coats my voice, but I guess the guy has a lot of time on his hands to plan things if he wants.
Charlie steps closer to me. “Probably. How else will my cake game improve? Speaking of, you have some icing, just here.” He taps a long finger to his bottom lip.
I try to wipe the same spot on my own face, but he shakes his head. “Here. I’ll get it.”
And as if we’re a real couple and he’s done this hundreds of times before, Charlie cups my cheek in his warm palm and carefully swipes his thumb over my sensitive lip.
And a tension inside me snaps.