I couldn't believe the plan that I'd hatched. Sure, it would work if we stuck to it, but a fake marriage? That was a little beyond the pale. But there was no other way. I'd screwed up big time by getting involved in a student, and now Roxanne and I were both going to pay the price by having to partake in a ridiculous charade for the next couple of months. I was right, however, in that if we can just make it through the rest of the semester, we'd be out of the clear. After all, you can't really fault a man for calling of an engagement, can you?

That weekend, I hired a team of movers to bring over the contents of Roxanne's tiny apartment. There wasn't much: just a few pieces of Ikea furniture, her clothes, and boxes of books. I couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia as I looked over her belongings; it reminded me of my own years as an undergrad, eating ramen noodles, buying used books, and studying into the night.

"This can be your room," I said, leading Roxanne to one of the guest bedrooms in the house.

"Pretty swanky," she said, looking over the high-ceilinged room, the French windows opened up to the long green span of the backyard beyond. "This whole house is a lot more than what I'd expect for a professor."

"Oh, really?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "What, you expect me to live in a library or something?"

"No," she said, taking a seat on the large four-post bed, "just that it's pretty big. And nice."

"Rosemary, my former fiancée, loved this old Victorian style of house. We'd had our eye on this place ever since I moved here. When I had my first successes with my books, we had enough to buy this place outright, intending to start a family here and put all of this extra space to good use. Things didn't go quite that way, however."

Roxanne's expression turned to one of sympathy.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to bring up any bad memories."

"Don't worry about it," I said, leaning against the door frame. "None of those memories are bad ones."

I stood in the room, thinking about Rosemary and the time we took our first walk through the house after we'd moved in, talking happily about our plans to have a child for each of the bedrooms. We talked about names, wondering if they'd be boys or girls, imagining what sort of interests and hobbies they'd have.

But I shook my head before I became too carried away with my daydreaming.

"I almost forgot," I said.

I left the room, walking quickly across the wood floor to the study. Once there, I took one of the paintings off of the wall, revealing a safe. Flicking the dial back and forth, I put in the combination and popped the thing open. Among other important documents, I found what I was looking for: a small box of purple velvet. The item in hand, I made my way back to Roxanne's bedroom.

"Here," I said, walking towards her with the box. "You'll need this."

I handed the box to her and she popped it open, revealing the brilliant, antique engagement ring within.

"Wow," said Roxanne, awe in her voice as she looked over the gorgeous, glittering stone. "This is beautiful."

"It's an antique," I said, sitting down next to Roxanne. "It belonged to my grandmother; they don't really make rings like this anymore."

"Was this the ring that you gave to your ex-fiancée?" asked Roxanne, taking her eyes away from the ring and bringing her gaze to mine.

"It was."

"I don't know if I can wear this," she said. "It's incredible. Too much for someone like me."

I put my hand on Roxanne's leg, as if interrupting her.

"No," I said. "It's just incredible enough."

Her beautiful face softened at this, and a small smile came to her mouth.

"Still," she said. "I think a cheap fake from the store would work just as fine."

"No, no," I said. "This is all about the ruse. The details have to be perfect."

This answer seemed to satisfy her. Taking the ring out of the box, she slipped it on her finger and looked it over, extending her hand out and letting the afternoon light play on the facets.

"Well," she said, "even if it's a fake engagement, I never thought I'd wear a ring like this."

She was being facetious, but I was still a little disheartened by how keen Roxanne seemed to be on talking down to herself.

"There's one rule for staying here," I said.

"Oh?"

"No badmouthing yourself."

A guilty little smile formed on her mouth.

"Sorry," she said. "Just force of habit."

"Roxanne, you're a wonderful young woman. You're brilliant, you're beautiful, and you've got an amazing life ahead of you. You deserve anything good that happens to you; don't ever think otherwise."

"Thanks," she said, her eyes now on mine.

We started at each other for a time, the silence heavy with anticipation. Soon, our lips began to move closer and closer, a crackle of electricity in the air between us.

"Daddy!" shouted Darla from downstairs.

"Duty calls," I said, both of us pulling away from one another.

Roxanne and I headed downstairs where Darla was already shucking off her coat and putting her school belongings away. As soon as Darla laid eyes on Roxanne, she rushed over, wrapping her arms around her legs.

"Roxy!" she shouted, clearly pleased to see her.

"Hey, kid!" said Roxanne, returning the hug.

I watched the display happily. Ever since the week in Europe when Darla came to visit, she'd been asking about Roxanne constantly. She was overjoyed, to say the least, when I told her that Roxanne would be staying with us for a time.

"Are you going to live with us forever now?" asked Darla, looking up at Roxanne with wide, eager eyes.

"Um, not forever. But for the rest of the year."

Her arms still around Roxanne's legs, Darla turned her attention to me.

"Can we get pizza tonight, Dad?"

The rest of the day passed with such ease and comfort that it was surprising to think it was the first night Roxanne had been here. She helped Darla with her homework as I worked on class business, then we worked on the book in my study for an hour or so over coffee, going over this detail and that. After that was pizza, which we ate the living room while watching one of Darla's movies, some animated thing about a talking cat. The first winter chill had set in that night, and a warm, roaring fire was set in the fireplace.

Soon after, Darla was in bed, and it was just Roxanne and I. We decided to have a glass of wine before heading to bed.

"This is a weird arrangement, I have to admit," said Roxanne, sitting on the couch wrapped in blankets, the orange glow of the fire dancing on her face. "But I think it'll work."

"I feel the same way," I said, a feeling of contentment creeping into my heart that I hadn't known for many years.