J ames

“You seriously need me to say it?” The look on Tom’s face is priceless. Any other time, I’d be savoring it .

“Yup.”

“Fine: you shouldn’t have done that! ” He rolls his eyes. “I mean, who is she? Did you run a background check? Credit check? Of course you didn’t! She could be—You’re talking about marriage here. You’d be taking on her debt; there could be legal obligations—even if you divorce her in a year, that doesn’t go away! You could be liable for — “

“Tom.”

“—all kinds of financial fuckery, things that wouldn’t occur to you, till they bite you in the — “

“Tom. ”

“—ass. What ? ”

“I’d do all that. Check into her, I mean. Obviously, she’s gotta be solid—this is all about the morality clause. She can’t be some...debt-ridden shopaholic with a sideline in serial murder. So I’ll do that. All I’m asking is, can you draw up the contract ?”

“You’re unbelievable.” He shows me his back. I can see how pissed he is by the way his shoulders hunch almost to his ears .

“C’mon.”

“First of all, I told you to get a girlfriend, not some kind of...prefab wife. Someone who’d keep you in line. Look good at a press conference. Educated, you know? On your level. This woman sounds like a — “

“Careful.”

“I’m just being honest! What kind of woman — “

“Hey, now.” I peel myself out of my chair. Don’t know how educated Diana is, but all she’s done wrong so far is hear out my crazy plan. She doesn’t deserve this kind of talk. “Like I said, I’ll find out what kind of woman she is. And let’s be honest: you don’t exactly have the moral high ground here .”

“What’s that supposed to mean ?”

“Someone educated? Press conference ready? Willing to keep me in line? That’s not a girlfriend—That’s a prop. Or a babysitter. Shouldn’t I have... Shouldn’t I at least get a chance at something real? Someone I like ?”

Tom whirls on me. He’s all blotchy and furious. “So date her! Get to know her! Don’t—don’t just marry her, out of nowhere !”

“No time for that.” I frown. Need to make him understand. “You didn’t see Nasmith, the way he was hanging over me like a vampire bat. That man is looking for the slightest thing, and... You don’t get it.” Just thinking about him saps the strength out of my legs. I plunk down on a hassock. “He’s gonna find something. Doesn’t matter what I do. Doesn’t matter if I stay home this weekend and every weekend after it. One speeding ticket, one late-night Redtube session—hell, a shirt that lets my nipples shine through—I’ll be toast .”

Tom sits down, too. I’ve got him thinking .

“Listen, I know it sounds bad. Cynical. Pretty sure she thought so too, at first. But....” I look away, ashamed of what I’m saying. “This would give me leverage. Good press. It’ll be harder to squeeze me out on a technicality when I’ve just married some sweet local girl, someone wholesome, hardworking .”

Tom’s looking at me like something the dog tracked in .

I hang my head. “I know. I’m shit. But this is where we are .”

“This is where you are.” Tom clucks his tongue. “I mean, I can do the contract. What you’re talking about is basically a prenup. Like you said. Standard stuff, spells out your rights and obligations. Wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.” He reaches out and grabs my wrist, so hard I jump. “The intent behind it, though—that’s.... Man, you’re going to get hurt. Or she is. Or both of you. As your lawyer, yeah, NBD. I can do it. As your friend, this is a terrible idea .”

“But—“

“Terrible.”

“I just — “

“Terrible. ”

“I’m going through with it.” I wasn’t sure, even five seconds ago, but hearing myself say it out loud.... “If she agrees. I want this .”

“Jim....”

“Nothing’s too extreme.” I narrow my eyes. “Even if it’s horrible, even if I’m signing up for eighteen months of The Taming of the Shrew , I can’t let it all be for nothing. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve built—I can’t lose it. I can’t . ”

Tom sucks air through his teeth. “Guess I’d better start on that background check .”

“Guess you’d better .”

Don’t think he’ll find anything—nothing bad, anyway. I had my own little Google-stalking session last night. She’s Diana Carson in real life: grew up in Fenwick; buried her dad around the same time I did, last year; loves dogs; went to Brock. No idea what she studied, or if she graduated, but she posted a hell of a doofy student ID pic to Facebook a few years ago. She doesn’t look good with a perm: one more fact for the dossier .

I reach for my phone, tempted to call her. She’s not a shrew. She’s more of a lovebird: sweet, bright-colored, nice voice. I could use some of that honey in my ear, after the confrontation I just had. But I stop dialing halfway through. It hasn’t even been a day. When she said she needed time, I don’t think she meant sixteen hours. Gotta soft-pedal this: any hint of pestering, nudging, or wheedling, that lovebird’s going to fly .

Three days should be enough for the background check. Three days—I’ll check in with her then. Till then, I’ll do hospital-lab-gym-home, no room for fuckups. Just to be sure, I’ll clear my house of alcohol. Percy should be thrilled: this’ll be one long week of walkies and Frisbee and Netflix on the couch. Maybe I’ll even take that plastic off .