“What? God, no,” I answer. “There hasn’t been a man near my naked body in far too long.”
He cringes. “I don’t need the details.”
“You asked.”
He gives me a once-over and I can see he’s not fully satisfied, but he offers Greer one more kiss before moving past me, just as Stella busts through the door.
“I’m here. Sorry, Romeo was being a whiny baby about not having lunch with me.” When she looks up at Arlo, she says, “Looks like Mr. Cardigan is having the same issue. What would these men do without us?”
“Clearly not survive,” I answer, moving to one of the desks in Greer’s classroom.
“Looks like I’ll be joining Romeo for lunch,” Arlo says. “Maybe he has an idea what this is all about?”
And with one last glance, he takes off. Stella shuts the door behind him and locks it, and before I can even open my mouth, Stella says, “Don’t worry, I told Romeo nothing.”
I slouch in my chair. “Thank God.” I set my whipped cream can, notepad, and pen on the desk.
Stella and Greer just stare at me.
“This can’t be good,” Stella says.
I lift the can of whipped cream, tilt my head back, and shoot some in my mouth. “It’s not. Pull up a chair.” Of course, with said mouthful of whipped cream, that sounded more like “Ifwot. Poowupafair.” But, hey.
Greer and Stella both situate themselves in desks, forming a small circle as we always do so we’re all facing each other. Their lunches aren’t present and that’s probably because I left them hanging last night with what this is all about. Probably the last thing on their minds is lunch.
But telling them what happened through text? No way. This is too big. Too monumental. I needed to have this conversation in person.
I let out a deep sigh and say, “He wants to stay married.”
Silence.
Blank stares greet me.
And then . . .
“What did you say?” Stella asks while rubbing her ear. “Because it sounded as though you said he wants to stay married.”
With a nervous laugh, Greer grimaces. “I thought she said that too. Did you say that?”
I stare at the whiteboard without seeing it, my mouth seeming to move at a glacier’s pace as I force out the words. “Yes, you heard me correctly. He wants to stay married.”
“As in . . . like . . . be a married couple?” Stella asks.
“Yes. As in, husband and wife.”
“But . . . how is that—” Greer pauses and says, “What?”
“You’re going to have to walk us through what happened last night,” Stella says.
“It’s simple,” I answer. I shoot some more whipped cream into my mouth and then continue, “I came home, mentioned an annulment, and he said no, that he wants to give this marriage thing a shot, and that was that. Then pizza was consumed.”
“But why?” Stella asks.
“That’s the question of the century, my friend. Why? Why does this man want to stay married to me?” I fling my arm to the side. “Why would any man want to stay married to a stranger?” Feeling that I’m starting to reach a hysterical level, I shoot some more whipped cream into my mouth to settle myself down.
“Is it a green card thing?” Greer asks.
I shake my head. “No, I asked him that last night. He just said maybe there could be something between us and we should give it a shot.”
“That doesn’t sound like Pike Greyson at all.” Stella shifts in her chair. “He’s so . . . aloof. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would want to give marriage a shot, specifically to someone he barely knows. Did you try to deter him?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say in an annoyed voice. “Desperately. I even brought up mega nighttime pads and how I refused to hide them from him.”
“And he still wants to stay married?” Stella asks.
“He barely even flinched at the mention of feminine products. It was maddening. And he was so . . . calm. Like everything was going to be okay.” I slap my hand on the desk. “How on earth are things going to be okay? We’re married. Freaking married! This isn’t normal. This isn’t a time to be calm. This is a time to FREAK OUT!”
“Whoa.” Stella pats my arm. “Cora, your eyes are popping out of their sockets.”
I take a calming breath and bring my hand to my chest. “I apologize that you had to witness that outburst.” With another press of my finger to the nozzle, I take down more whipped cream. Mouth full, I say, “I’m good now.”