Good at Being Alive(14)

“Oddly enough, my bachelor party would have much the same schedule, but we need to get this done.”

“You’d enjoy having all those male strippers thrust in your face, wouldn’t you? Or perhaps not. It might make you feel inadequate.”

His laughter is smug, confident…and a touch filthy. “I assure you I wouldn’t be plagued by feelings of inadequacy.”

Damn. Ignoring that.

I glance at Paula. “Please note that he doesn’t address the part about the male strippers, just the inadequacy.”

She sighs. “I may have misspoken when I said they have Sam-and-Diane energy. Sid and Nancy is more fitting.”

I’m familiar with Sid and Nancy, and I think he eventually killed her. So yes, that does sound fairly accurate.





Theo


In four days, I’ll be a married man if Lars and Paula are able to pull everything together the way they expect.

It feels very sudden. Because it is sudden and also because I have no desire to marry the girl waiting for the elevator beside me, who is currently pulling her hair into a ponytail and showing a serious amount of skin in the process: her flat stomach and—the lower curve of her perky breasts. No bra. Jesus.

“No one is ever going to buy this,” I say. I sound bored. What I’m feeling, however, is…I’m not sure what it is. But it’s something that shouldn’t be there.

“Sure they will,” she says. Her arms come down at last, thank Christ. “It’s a story as old as time: I’m the young, hot wife and you’re the hideous, significantly older husband I’m only with because of your extreme wealth.”

“I hate to point this out, but I can’t be that hideous given that you kissed me within minutes of our meeting.”

“Ah, you’re assuming I have standards,” she says, stepping onto the elevator. “That’s where you’d be wrong. If I’m willing to fuck a glass bottle, I’m willing to fuck a guy pushing fifty.”

“I’m nowhere near fif…you fucked a glass bottle?”

She shrugs. “It was a dare. It’s not like I did it solo for the fun of it.”

Fuck. I’m turned on. I’m also resigned to the fact that this show is fucking doomed. There is nothing this woman deems too much information.

People will already have their doubts once they see a wedding photo of us online, one in which I’m wearing a tux and she’s clad in a dress made out of marijuana leaves, and then she’ll tell them they can find her on Instagram at cumslut69, and the jig will be up.

“Look,” I begin slowly, knowing she will definitely resent what I’m about to say. “I realize you prefer to turn everything into a joke, but I’m fairly well-known in certain circles. If we don’t want anonymous sources coming forward from my side insisting the marriage is fake…it would be helpful if you could present yourself as someone I’d actually marry.”

Her eyes narrow. “Masochistic?”

“Respectable. We need to look like we belong together. So maybe a wedding dress that can’t double as a bikini, that sort of thing.”

“Fine,” she replies. “But you’re paying. Let’s see if there’s a dress store nearby.”

“Rebecca, I don’t shop with any woman I’m not actively fucking.”

She glances around us. “Will a blow job suffice? It’s kind of hard to have sex in an elevator.”

Goddammit. If I could adjust myself without her noticing, I would. In three minutes’ time, I’ve gotten a glimpse of her breasts, learned that she’s fucked a glass bottle on a dare, and been offered a blow job.

I insisted she could survive these next few months.

Now it’s me I’m worried about.

We arrive in the lobby and I walk out fast before she can make the situation worse. I’m relieved, at least, that she’s putting the sweatshirt back on.

“I’ve been renting an executive apartment near Maplewood since the winter,” I tell her when she gets outside. “I suppose I’ll just move my things over to your house sometime this week?”

Her eyes widen and then she looks away. “No. Let’s hold off on that. I’m just going to stay in the city for a while.”

It’s the small catch to her voice that snares my attention. She’s so blasé most of the time that I tend to forget how much she’s suffered these past few months. I’m remembering it now, though, with a thud.

“Rebecca…have you been home since the funeral?”

“I haven’t had time,” she says, still not meeting my eye.

How often did my mother use that excuse to avoid going through Kieran’s things? Three years have passed and neither of us can stand to go near the building where he jumped. And Bex has got nothing but time—she’s already admitted she spends her days in bed watching TV. So is she avoiding the house itself…or is she avoiding the train?

“I can call a car to take you to New Jersey,” I offer. “And I can pick you up when we have to come back on Friday.”

Her eyes flicker up to me and there it is, suddenly: that fragile thing I saw in her face at the funeral—something shocked and young and so wounded.

“Thanks,” she says, “but I still have to get a dress. And I think it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”