JENNIE
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What is the saying about squeezing blood from a turnip? That's me at the moment. I never envisioned my life taking up residence in the crapper of life, not that anyone does. I made a conscious effort to do things better than my mom. Be a better person. Make better decisions. And even now, I'm not sure what I did wrong. Living with intention can't outweigh sheer luck—or lack thereof.
"I heard you're checking out tonight," Lisa says as she saunters into the room, wearing a reserved smile and clutching a red sports drink.
"I'm fine. And I think they're fine with it too, since I don't have an insurance company paying for the inflated fees and unnecessary tests. And let me tell you … as a repeat offender of seizures, I know just how criminal the price of everything is in the hospital. Seventy-five dollars for a warm blanket. No joke. Insurance or not, people should be upset and revolt."
Lisa digests my words with her eyes narrowed a fraction and lips rolled together. "I'm concerned about you."
"Because I sound like a conspiracy theorist?"
"No." She chuckles. "I talked with the nurse. She said you shouldn't drive again until you've gone six months without having a seizure. Have you thought about that?"
My gaze angles toward the window. "I just need a different medication or dose or something."
"Then let's have your doctor decide what you need."
"Cha-ching." I laugh at her expensive idea. They just spent the afternoon removing glass from my body. I can only imagine how much that bill will be.
"I'll pay for it," she says.
"No. It's not your problem. We're not talking about a fifty-dollar loan. There's a reason why people need insurance—because without it, you can't afford to be sick. But … stupid me. I had to be a fucking epileptic."
Lisa shakes her head, quickly stifling her amusement. "Sorry. I'm not laughing at your situation. I just…" she fists her hand at her mouth "…haven't heard you swear like that before."
"Gee, Lalisa … so glad I could entertain you today."
"Listen …" She clears her throat. "This isn't sustainable. We need to figure something out for you."
"We? It's kind of you to take me into your home like the stray that I am, but my health and financial issues aren't your burdens to bear."
"I understand. Still … we can discuss it without me feeling burdened by you … which I do not."
"Liar." I narrow my eyes and she rolls hers.
Then … we get the hell out of here.
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Lisa's eagerness to discuss my situation seems to fade before we ever get home. She's quiet, distracted, and not the bossy girl from the hospital. Has reality sunk in? Is she tired of taking care of women who need constant care?
I refuse to be her burden. I'll move back into my car before I let that happen. Chaeng wanted me to make sure she moved forward. I'm hardly helping her move forward.
"Harry Pawter." I grimace as he pokes his coned head around the corner, bandages wrapped around two of his paws, making us twins.
Chan appears just behind him, the lone, runty towhead in the dark-haired, brown-eyed Manoban family. "The vet said to change the bandages daily. There's an ointment on the kitchen counter. And he has to wear the cone as long as he refuses to leave the bandages alone." He stuffs his hands into his back pockets.
"Thanks. What do I owe you?" I ask.
"Nothing. I've got it," Lisa relinquishes her first four words since leaving the hospital. She guides me to the sofa and helps me ease my ass onto it.
"Chan, what do I owe you?" I repeat.
Chan's eyes widen, darting back and forth, signaling his disinterest in getting involved in my little financial squabble with Lisa. "Welp. Feel better."
"Traitor," I grumble.
Chan chuckles and pats Lisa on the shoulder. "You're a good person. Let me know if you need anything else."
Good person. Yes, Lisa is a good person. That might be an understatement.
"You are too. Thanks." Lisa gives a weak smile to her brother as he brushes past her.
When Chan's footsteps fade behind the closed front door, leaving us in silence, I try to stand.
"What are you doing?" Lisa steps toward me, reaching for my arm.
"I'm going to the bedroom."
"Oh." She helps me get to my feet. "Good idea. You should rest."
"Yeah," I reply on a long sigh.
When I'm nestled in bed with Harry Cone Head Pawter, I close my eyes—anything to shield my guilty conscience from the toxic stress lining Lisa's face.
The pain. It's pure angst.
I did this. And I feel terrible.
As I listen to the descent of her steps, I speak. It's just too much to keep inside. "I'm moving out."
Silence.
More silence.
I blink open my eyes, unsure if she heard me.
She stands in the doorway with her back to me, unmoving, head bowed. "Why?"
"Look at me, Lisa. I'm a walking disaster. And while I have the best intentions for digging myself out of this hole, it's not going to happen overnight. In the meantime, I'm pulling you into it. That was never my intention. I should never have stayed here in the first place."
She slowly turns. "Where are you going?"
"Don't worry about it."
"That's code for you have no fucking clue."
WHOA!
I'm not the only one dropping the f-bombs today. Why is she angry? She should be relieved.
"That's code for you lost your wife, and I'm not your problem. That's code for I've made it this far, I'll figure something out. That's code for you're off the hook. Smile. God! Please smile because I hate the look you've had on your face since we left the hospital. Doom and gloom. Panic. It's actually palpable at this very moment."
Her head eases side to side. "It's not what you think."
"Bullshit! You took me in because you knew Chaeng wouldn't have had it any other way. And that look … right there…" I jerk my chin in her direction… "that look says it all. It says you're in over your head, and you can't figure out how you're going to get the walking disaster out of your house … out of your life … so you can truly move forward and figure out what's next for you."
Lisa rests her forearms on the door frame, a twisted expression marring her handsome face. She's not mine. I'm not supposed to feel any attraction toward her. I was supposed to look out for her. Bravo. I've done an amazingly awful job at it. Chaeng befriended the wrong person. I have no clue what I'm doing.
I'm broken—physically and emotionally.
"For your information, the look on my face is one of angst. I'm trying to figure out how to suggest something—ask you something—without you losing your shit and flying off the handle into one of your ego-driven tangents about how you don't need anything or anyone."
"I don't fly off the handle." I do. I'm stubborn to a fault, but I will never admit that to her or anyone else because of said stubbornness. "Just say what you need to say or ask or … whatever."
"I have to preface it with a few things."
With my less injured hand, I scoot my body up a bit so I'm resting against the headboard. "Preface away."
"Okay. But please don't interrupt me because what I'm about to say will sound a little harsh at first."
I swallow hard and prepare for her version of harsh.
She continues, "I don't know if I'll ever find love again, and I'm okay with Rosé being the last woman I love. So what I'm going to say is not about love. It's about gratitude and trying to repay you for everything you did for Rosé … and for me."
My eyes narrow. "Lisa … you paid me—"
"I'm not talking about cleaning the house." She shakes her head a half dozen times. "She needed a friend, a true friend. A friend I couldn't be because I was too busy suffocating her with my love. You gave her the kind of love she needed. The unselfish kind." She deflates a fraction, gaze pointed to the floor. "And you were … you are my friend too. You were just…" she lifts her gaze again "…everything we had no idea we needed."
This is ridiculous. I'm living in her house, and she's thanking me?
"Before Rosé died, she asked me to do something. She wanted me to make a difference in someone's life. And I've been hearing her voice in my head, telling me to do it. So this is it. I want to do this for you, and I want to do this for her. I know this would make her happy. And even in death, her happiness matters to me. I think peace is what we find after we die. Happiness is how we experience love while we're alive. She has peace. I need to seek happiness."
I have no idea where she's going with this. But if I die right now in the wake of Lisa's words, I think I'd be good. Leaving this house won't be easy because she's felt like happiness, the kind I didn't seek. The kind that just found me.
"I can do something for you. I want to do this for you. And someday I know you'll pay it forward, and that will make me even happier."
"What?"
She pulls in a long breath and lets it out as she drops her arms from the door frame. "I want to marry you."
Record scratch. Brakes screeching. Thunk of a mic dropping.
She doesn't let it sit unexplained in the air for long, but it feels like an eternity because the thoughts in my mind travel at the speed of light. And by the time she continues, I've already had a million thoughts and emotions paint a picture in my head.
"It will be temporary. No one will have to know. It will just be until you find a job with benefits or find someone else you want to marry for love. I have really good health insurance that would be yours. And you want to travel. Well … I can get you incredibly cheap tickets. You can visit every wonder of the world and take pictures until your heart's content."
After at least a hundred unanswered breaths, I whisper, "A fake marriage."
"A legal marriage," she corrects me.
"Cha—"
"She died," she says. "But she would have wanted this for you."
I'm too shocked to appease her with the ego-driven tangent she expects. Did Chaeng tell her what she told me? Did she tell her about the looks she thought we were giving each other, even though I don't recall any looks from either one of us? But she prefaced everything with "what I'm going to say is not about love."
"You don't have to decide now. Just … think about it."
Answer? I can barely breathe or even blink, but I manage to scrounge a single nod.
"Okay. Sleep. I'll check on you before I go to bed. You might feel hungry by then." Lisa closes the door behind her.
I used to envy Chaeng, even with her terminal cancer. She married the most attentive human in the world. Loving and generous with every action. And I used to sleep in my car, in a Walmart parking lot, dreaming about what it would feel like to be married to a Lalisa Manoban or a clone of her. My dreams involved this clone coming home from work, loosening her tie, and smiling at me with a bouquet of flowers in her hand, the way she used to greet Chaeng.
They were just dreams—innocent, unrealistic dreams. I never really imagined I could be her wife, yet that's the offer on the table. But she won't come home with flowers in her hand and look at me like I'm the brightest constellation in her sky. She'll come home and treat me like her roommate. She'll wonder how my search for a job with benefits is going. She'll wonder if I've met a nice man to marry so she can release me and feel satisfied with her good deeds.
Me? I'll spend every day wondering how I married the woman of my dreams, though it will feel like the worst nightmare.
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Not to brag, but over the next couple of days, I do a spectacular job of ignoring the ten-thousand-pound elephant in the room holding an invisible diamond ring. It's invisible, of course, because the elephant is invisible and the proposal is fake, but the marriage would be … legal.
I'll be twenty-four next month. Marriage was in my ten-year plan. Babies in my fifteen-year plan. Fake marriages rank about as high as anal sex. To be fair to Lisa, she lubed it quite well. She's made sure I know it will not involve love. No one will know. And it will only last until I find a job with health insurance or another wife or husband. A real one—hopefully with health insurance as well.
"I work tomorrow. Do you want me to see if my mom or Chan can stay with you?" Lisa asks, squatted in front of me as she swaps out the bandages on my arms, neck, and face. The stitches come out in a few days. She'll do Harry Pawter's paws next. Poor thing is sick of his cone.
"Yes. I think you should find the maid a babysitter."
She pauses her hands and glances up at me. "Is that sarcasm?"
"When did you know you wanted to be a pilot? And no, I don't need a babysitter." Banter and subject diversion have become our official language.
Lisa holds my gaze, and warmth snakes up my neck, settling into my cheeks. Those brown eyes … they always seem to hold a secret. Even if I haven't been consciously pining for her, it's hard not to feel something beyond friendship toward someone who proposes to you.
"I'll have someone check in on you. And I knew I wanted to be a pilot when my grandpa bought me a remote-controlled airplane. I was ten. When did you know you wanted to be a photographer?"
I laugh at the simplicity of her question. "I fell in love with photography when the only decent guy my mom dated introduced me to it. Sometimes I wonder if all the photos I take are just pieces to a puzzle that will lead me to my destiny. However … I have found a possible temporary job with a wedding photographer. I'm thinking about it. No benefits. But it's experience that might lead to something more. And it would just be weekends, so I could still keep my clients."
"Working with another photographer sounds like a good opportunity." She places the last new bandage on my wrist, keeping her attention on her hands. "Speaking of weddings …"
I withdraw my arm from her grasp, pulling her gaze up to meet mine. "Wedding? No. More like a pity marriage."
"Call it what you want. Doesn't change the fact that it would help you a lot." She scratches the back of her head, messing her slightly longer hair.
It's hard to wrap my heart around this idea, probably because my heart isn't supposed to have any part of it. My mind isn't supposed to recall my dreams of a big wedding with flowers in every shade of pink. Three different flavors of cake. A live band. A throng of family and friends. Of course, the family would not be mine … or most of the friends for that matter.
Lisa is offering health insurance and a big bonus of cheap airfare by way of a little legal contract. Marriage. Not a wedding.
When I don't contribute any more to the conversation other than a frown, Lisa stands and gathers the first aid supplies. Before she makes it three feet in the direction of the bathroom, I think of more questions—as if I'm seriously considering her ringless, loveless proposal.
"So … I'd still live here?"
She turns. "Only if you want to. I'd prefer you not live out of your car."
"And I'd date? Like … married to you but date other?"
She offers a bemused smile. I don't like that smile, and by don't like I mean I love that smile, but it's not good for me to love anything about Lisa since love is not part of the proposal.
"Yes, Jennie, you can date. It will be like we're not married, except when you need insurance, you'll have it."
"And when I need to fly, I'll get cheap tickets."
That bemused smile swells a little more. I don't care for pity or being the butt of a joke, however, I don't mind being the source of her amusement.
"If you're flexible with your schedule, yes, you'll get cheap tickets."
"And you?"
"And me what?"
Don't ask. Don't ask!
Ignoring the sound advice of my common sense, I ask anyway. "You'll date too. Right?"
That amusement vanishes from her handsome face. "I lost my wife recently. I have no desire to date. I have health insurance. I have the means to travel if I so choose. This isn't for me, Jennie. This is for you."
Ouch.
The Young and Stupid virus strikes again. When will I try harder to see things through her eyes? Of course, she has no desire to date. Of course, this is all for me. Of course, my stubborn reluctancy is riding her last nerve. I see the endless possibilities in my future, and she can't stop gazing at the past like it's the last time she'll see the sun.
Again, she pivots to return the supplies to the bathroom. I inspect my arms and feel the stiffness in my neck from the healing cuts. This is my life at the moment. I'll no doubt go on to do great things, but right now … I'm struggling.
I toss my pride onto the floor and squash it with my foot on my way out of the kitchen. "Yes. I'll marry you," I say just as she steps out of the bathroom.
Lisa eyes me as if I ended my announcement with a comma instead of a period. She's waiting for the but.
No buts.
I'll marry her.
I'll dig myself out of debt.
I'll find a job.
Maybe even a new husband who loves me.
Pressing my lips together, so she knows I'm done speaking, I clasp my fingers in front of me.
"Okay. We'll apply for a marriage license next week, and we can be married the same day."
Oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY GOD!
My racing pulse radiates a deafening whoosh to my ears. I hope she's done speaking because I can't hear right now.
This is happening. I'm getting married next week.
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Lisa gives me fifteen minutes because she has a dental appointment at four, so we need to get going.
Fifteen minutes to get ready for my wedding? Marriage? Nuptials? I don't know what to call it, nor do I know what I'm supposed to wear. I go through five outfit changes.
"Jennie, let's go!"
"Shit …" I mumble, not happy with the itchy fabric on my body. In less than ten seconds, I swap out the itchy dress for a knee-length skirt and pink, three-quarter-length sleeved sweater. It's not fair to ask someone like me—someone with such passion for clothes—to just throw on something to wear for my wedding.
"Jennie—"
"Coming!" We're on the verge of our first fight, and we're not even married yet. I shove some makeup and my hair brush into my bag before running toward the backdoor with ballet flats in my other hand.
Lisa's brows stretch toward her hairline.
"What?" I glance down at my outfit.
"Nothing."
I eye her jeans and pocket tee. It's basic, but unfaded and free of wrinkles, maybe something from Celine. "You think I'm overdressed? I wear skirts all the time. Don't read into this like I think today is special. I simply threw on the first thing I found that didn't need to be ironed." She's not a real wife. I'm not taking an oath to be honest. I don't think wedding vows address honesty. And lying is sometimes necessary.
The hint of a smile touches her lips. "You look nice."
After a quick pause to gage her sincerity, I mumble, "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Let's go."
On the way to the courthouse, I ignore her sideways glances while I apply a little makeup. Again, I wear makeup on days I don't get married. It's no big deal.
It's a huge fucking deal!
What I don't ignore is Lisa singing to the radio, Imagine Dragons' "Next to Me." Rosé wasn't lying; she has a great voice. I hum along since I don't know all the words. From the corner of my eye, I see her grin, but she doesn't stop singing. The words are poetic and oddly poignant for my life. Someone standing by you despite the messiness of life, believing in someone when they're at their worst, loving them unconditionally. Lisa doesn't love me, but she's unquestionably a saint in my life right now.
A marriage license requires two forms of I.D. And in Lisa's case, proof of death. I don't know if Lisa feels my guilt and remorse when she has to hand over the certificate to prove that her previous wife died, but I turn to stone and hold my breath. Even my heart slows to act as invisible as possible.
With the license in hand, we head straight to the judge's chambers with a few minutes to spare before our scheduled appointment time.
"He'll use traditional, generic vows. It's not a requirement to exchange rings, so we won't."
I nod a half dozen times and swallow hard at least as many times. My nerves fire into overdrive as my gaze attaches to her left hand and ringless finger. She had it on earlier this morning.
"Is everything okay?" She brings me out of my racing thoughts.
"Um … the kiss. Will he ask us to kiss?"
Lisa shrugs like she's not sure and it doesn't matter. But it does matter.
"I think it's just permission," she says. "Not a requirement. Like you may kiss the bride. Doesn't mean we have to kiss."
"Okay. But won't it look suspicious if we don't kiss?" My voice won't stop shaking.
"If you're worried about it, then we'll just kiss."
We'll just kiss? Really? She's fine kissing me. Fine not kissing me. I'm a hot mess and anything but fine.
"Okay," I squeak out that one word.
"Okay to the kiss? Or it's okay if we don't?"
Before I get the chance to answer, the door opens, and we're beckoned into the judge's chambers.
I'm going to puke.
Don't puke!
The he judge is a she judge, and she greets us with a warm smile. I suppose she reserves her scowl for the days she sentences people to jail—like people who commit insurance fraud through a fake marriage. Lisa stays cool. That's her gift. Flying hundreds of passengers through the skies and delivering them safely to their destinations is what she does best. A fake marriage must be an afterthought compared to that.
I excel at the nervous smile and occasional nod. After a little chit-chat that she handles, we get down to business. No coffee or last-minute counseling. Nope. She's reciting vows before I realize it's happening.
It's. Happening!
"Do you, Lalisa, take Jennie to be your lawfully wedded wife to have and to hold from this day forward …"
I hear the words faithful, love, honor, cherish, for as long as you both shall live. My lungs crave oxygen, but I can't seem to get enough.
Breathe … breathe … breathe …
Then, as if she reads my mind, Lisa says, "I do," and leans forward next to my ear to whisper, "Breathe, Jennie."
Her words and her warm breath brand my skin.
"Do you, Jennie …" The judge continues like she has other things to do today. Maybe she has a dental appointment too.
Maybe I should have scheduled something today like a manicure or a psychiatric appointment. I could use some therapy.
There's the longest pause after the judge asks me that final question.
"…as long as you both shall live?"
It's times like these that I feel grateful for my experiences with JK. I had anal sex in exchange for a shower. Is fraud really too big of a risk for health insurance and cheap airfare? I think not.
"I do," I say.
"I now declare you.."
I'm too busy being so proud of myself for coming to terms with this and answering before things get too suspicious, that I totally forget the final—albeit optional—act.
"You may kiss your bride."
Oh shit …
We didn't make a decision on this. Lisa asked. I started to reply. The judge called us in here. And now … we have to decide. I give a quick glance to the judge. She appears rather pleased and happy for us. We must look like an adorable, although fraudulent, couple. Forgoing the kiss will be a red flag. I feel it.
Inching forward a tiny step, I look up at Lisa and rub my glossed lips together while gulping to keep my fear in check. She reads my silent acceptance and ducks her head until her lips are nearly touching mine. A breath of hesitation exists, even if the judge doesn't see it. I think, maybe I hope, she's taking this fraction of a second to get permission from Rosé or maybe to just remind herself it's only an act—a means to something greater. A humanitarian act if you will.
The kiss is short and soft, but long enough for everything in my head to spin until I forget what we're doing. My hand rests on her chest to keep me balanced, but she ends the kiss and grabs my hand, bringing it to my side and giving it a gentle, platonic squeeze.
It says we are friends. I care about you as a friend. Here is your health insurance, but you don't need to know the outline of my chest.
We get our marriage certificate and bounce before anyone has a chance to question us.
"I have time to run you home before my appointment," Lisa says while retrieving her wedding band from her pocket and slipping it back onto her finger.
I ignore the little reminder that she's not mine and instead focus on the fact that she's spending our honeymoon with a dental hygienist. I might be slightly jealous that she's going to be in Lisa's mouth for forty-five minutes—up close and personal with my new wife. Good lord … I hope Rosé can only read her mind and not mine. How do I break it to my best friend (or maybe admit it, since she already knew) that I have a massive crush on her wife? Oh … and she's no longer her wife. She's mine.
I'm losing my mind! I'm not really crushing on Lisa. I'm infatuated with the idea of Lisa. The perfect human. And Rosé's voice is stuck in my head, making ridiculous accusations that Lisa and I look at each other in some subconscious way that implies more than friendship. She was sick … and, therefore delusional. Right?
"Okay. Or I can grab a cab." I shrug.
"No. I'll drive you." She opens my door. I try not to think the words my wife is such a gentlewoman, but I can't help it. As much as it feels wrong like I stole something invaluable from my best friend, it also feels a little amazing to be married to Lisa. And now it bears repeating—I could use some therapy.
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