Till Summer Do Us Part(12)

“I wouldn’t say never. Your best friend is my brother. If he ever gets married, we’ll definitely see each other, unless there’s a falling-out between the two of you.”

“You know what I mean. This, us, we won’t have to play these parts again. Okay?”

“What if I need you to return the favor in a fake marriage scheme?”

“Then obviously, we’d see each other again, but that’s only because I would feel the need to do so.”

“Good to know.”

“Now, are you ready? Or do you have any other questions?”

“Nah, let’s do this.” I rub my hands together and then follow my fake wife up the street to our first marriage counseling session.

Let the games begin.





Chapter Four





SCOTTIE

This was a terrible idea.

Probably one of the worst I’ve ever had.

I should have just told Ellison the truth yesterday, that I spoke out of turn, forgot that I got divorced, and that I won’t make that mistake again. Instead, here I am riding up an elevator with a man I don’t even know to share a marriage counseling session.

And what the hell is wrong with Mika?

Why didn’t he ever tell me that his brother is a hipster version of Prince Eric? I wasn’t expecting such a…such an attractive man to show up. The gene pool in that family is incredibly impressive. Black hair peeks out from his knitted beanie, a square jawline dusted in black scruff, and the lightest gray eyes I’ve ever seen. I had to look away a few times because they were so unique. Mika’s are gray, but they’re not this light.

When Mika offered up his brother as Tribute, I was thinking that a squid of a man who sells apps with gelled-back hair was going to show up in a suit, ready to play pretend, but this…this I was not expecting.

He’s tall, probably six feet, maybe six two. His shoulders and biceps pull against the threadbare cotton of his about-to-fall-apart shirt that probably costs three hundred dollars. His waist is narrow, causing his pants to sag ever so slightly off his hips, and his black Converse have seen better days. And then there’s his tattoo. Inked on his right forearm just below his elbow are three solid black rings that wrap around his arm like bracelets.

But that’s not the worst of it.

Nope, it’s the lip ring.

On the right corner of his mouth is a small black ring that wraps around his lip. I zeroed in on it the moment he started tugging on it with his teeth. The movement made me feel embarrassingly weak in the knees. It’s a lip ring, yet here I am, panting and bouncing my leg up and down.

These are all things Mika should have conveyed when suggesting his brother.

I could have handled the bored, uninterested brother.

I could have worked with the hipster vibe.

But the lip ring? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

The elevator dings as the doors part, opening up to a serene office space: white walls, white furniture, calming music, and plants everywhere. It feels like we’re walking into a couples massage rather than couples counseling.

“You must be Scottie,” the receptionist says as she stands from her desk. “We’re ready for you.”

“Oh, uh, great,” I say as I move forward.

“Can I get you anything to drink before you enter your session?”

“Water would be great,” I say.

“Do you have any Coke Zero?” Wilder asks.

“We do.”

“I would love one. Thank you.”

“Of course. Let me show you into Sanders’s office, and then I’ll bring you your drinks.”

“Thank you,” I say as we follow her down to the end of a hallway.

She knocks on the door three times and then pushes it open, revealing…

What the hell is this?

“Please take a seat on the leather couch. Sanders will be right in.”

We both shuffle past stacks and stacks of boxes, across a brown rug, right to a brown leather couch that is worn and torn in every manner. Tears in the seat. Tears in the couch arms. Even in the back cushions. Above the couch is a framed Knicks jersey, signed by who knows, as well as a Mets pin-striped jersey.

Mets, really?

You live in New York City, and you’re going to be a Mets fan when the Yankees are the clear option? Not sure Sanders can be trusted.

The rest of the office is filled with boxes, some opened, some sealed shut. Some are in pristine condition; some have seen the inner depths of postal hell. There is a desk tucked back in the corner that is covered in files and a computer and keyboard that has not been stroked since at least 1995. Chipped and stained floating shelves hang unevenly around the room and are decked out in sports memorabilia ranging from signed and encased basketballs to what I can only assume is a size twenty-two basketball shoe to a few hockey sticks and even some Jets footballs.

Okay, now I really know he can’t be trusted.

“Jets,” I mumble to Wilder. “Out of all the football teams to choose from, and he chooses the Jets?”

“Shows resilience,” Wilder says. “Because who would really be able to survive that kind of suffering without a heavy dose of enduring tenacity?”

I mean, he has a point. No one can be tortured for that long without building at least an ounce of resilience.