Page 55 of Bridesmaid By Chance
“It is for someone who likes to talk. Who enjoys conversation. For someone who is attempting to get to know the other person. For him, I’m sure he’s having a ball of a time.”
“I see,” Stacey says. “He’s all clammed up?”
“Yes.” I glance down at the coffee table and notice paint samples. I pick them up and start sorting through them as I continue. “He wants to take the marriage seriously, but when I ask him things about himself, it’s as if he doesn’t know how to use words. He just stops talking. And how am I supposed to act like this man is my husband when I couldn’t tell you what his favorite color is?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because,” I say, handing her a green that I really like, “he’s acting likethis marriage is real, hence why I’m currently living with him rather than here.” I toss another green at her. “Are you picking colors without me by the way?”
“Just perusing. I wouldn’t make any final choices without you.”
I sink into the couch and stare up at the ceiling. “What am I doing, Stacey? I should be here, helping with the house. I mean, this exciting thing is happening for us, we are working to purchase this place, and here I am, attempting to play wifey with my boss.”
“It’s only temporary,” she says. “It’s not like it’s going to be like this forever.”
“Feels like forever.” I turn toward her. “At dinner last night, we sat in silence for over five minutes. I know this because I checked my phone. Five minutes, Stacey—that’s unheard of with me. But after a while of him not responding, I just kind of gave up. It’s not healthy. This situation is not healthy.”
“Five minutes, wow, I’m surprised you didn’t explode.”
“I know.” I toss my hands up in the air. “And the worst part is that on the drive home, he put his hand on my thigh.” I grip her arm. “My thigh, Stacey. I can’t remember the last time my thigh was touched. It made my insides flip upside down. Then of course I went into a perpetual state of horniness, and let’s just say it wasn’t pretty after that.”
“Yeah, no need to get into the details.”
I groan. “And I have a whole week of this, and then God knows how long we’ll be in London. I can’t…I can’t live like this. The silence. It’s going to eat me alive.”
“Then keep trying to talk to him. If anyone can break him, it’s you, with your constant chatter and nonsense.”
“I would take offense to that if it wasn’t so true.” I sit up taller. “Enough about my sham of a marriage. Tell me what you’re thinking about for the house.”
“Well, before I pull out my binder and show you every little thing thatI’ve thought of, let me end with this: Don’t let yourself be uncomfortable with him. If you’re going to make this work and pull it off, he’s going to have to meet you halfway. So keep pushing, okay? Don’t let him dictate how this relationship will work.”
“You’re right.” I sigh heavily. “He’s not the boss of me. I’m the boss of me.”
“Well, technically, he is your boss, but I understand what you’re saying. Take charge.”
I slam my fist into the couch, feeling reinvigorated. “Take charge. That I can do. Now…show me this folder. We have a house to work on.”
“Thanks for bringing home dinner,” I say, as I help Hudson with the takeout bags.
He texted earlier and asked if I liked Thai food. It was an immediate yes for me. While he was gone, I pulled out my phone and started writing down conversation starters, things I thought he would answer without realizing that he was opening up to me.
Not just a hat rack, my friends.
“I’ll grab plates,” he says as he heads into the kitchen while I take the food to the dining room table. I will say this: Thank God I know Hudson well enough to move around in his space like this without feeling too awkward. If this arrangement was with someone else, I don’t think I would feel as comfortable.
While he grabs plates and silverware, I fill up two glasses with sparkling water for us and take two lime wedges out of a Tupperware bin and place them on the side. When I make it back to the table, he’s removing his suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
I avert my eyes from his forearms. I’ve stared at them long enough before to know the effect they have on me. Tonight is about business and getting him to open up. Simple as that.
We pull out the cartons of food and start digging in together, filling up our plates with a plethora of noodles, steamed veggies, and curry chicken.
“Smells amazing,” I say. “Is this where you order from normally?”
Question number one. Simple but hopefully effective.
“Yes,” he answers, falling for it.
I wait for him to say more, but when he doesn’t, I feel an edge of defeat. Okay, it’s fine, it was just a warm-up.
