My phone rings at three fifteen exactly. I chew on my bottom lip, knowing who is calling without even looking at the screen. Westbrook High, where Rachel works, lets out at three fifteen.
I send the email I just finished proofreading and answer.
“Hi, Rachel.”
“You got married?” The question comes out in a shriek, running through a couple of octaves. “You got actually married—in Las Vegas, to a guy I’ve never heard you mention, let alone met—and I find out about it because you told Dad and Dad told Mom and Mom told me?”
I pause. “Yes.”
“Hannah! What the fuck?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” That’s true, at least. I’ve never lied to my sister, not about anything like this.
“How did you even meet this guy?”
“At a bar, in New York.” I lean back in my chair, staring at the black and white prints I have framed on my wall. Palm trees, the silhouette of a surfer, the Santa Monica Pier. “He came over to me and said all the perfect things. We both travel a lot for work, so we’ve met up in different places the past few months.”
It’s not a total lie.
But it’s not how I met the guy I’m married to. And it feels wrong to swap one Kensington in for the other. I might have met them both in bars, but that’s where the similarities in the stories end.
Crew pursued me. I made the first move with Oliver.
“He happened to be in Vegas for a friend’s bachelor party. Dad sent me there about the Coyotes, you know. We met up for drinks, one thing led to another, and…”
“And you married him. You, who said marriage was for fools with unrealistic expectations after Declan proposed.”
“We’re getting divorced, Rachel. Proving my point.”
“Yeah, that’s what Dad said. He’s disappointed, Han. He thought he’d finally have another son.”
I rest my cheek on my palm so I can massage my temple. “Don’t guilt trip me. I made a drunken mistake. If I’d gotten a tattoo, wouldn’t you support me getting it removed?”
“It would depend on what the tattoo was.”
I sigh. “Look, I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you. But it’s because I was hoping there would be nothing to tell. I just want to pretend it never happened.”
“Yeah…good luck with that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Mom is hell bent on meeting the guy who got you down the aisle.”
“What do you mean, she’s hell bent on meeting him?”
“Exactly that. You married him, sis. Drunken or not, that means something.”
“It really doesn’t.”
“More than Declan managed.”
“If Declan had asked me while I was drunk, I probably would have married him too.”
Rachel laughs. “Yeah, right.”
“Okay, well, this has been fun. But I actually have a meeting to get to…”
Another lie. All of a sudden, they’re really piling up.
“Fiiinnneee. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I toss the phone on my desk, rubbing my temple faster.
I’ve avoided my father ever since dumping the news of my marriage on him. We finished the meeting with Logan Cassidy, and thankfully, most of the awkwardness faded by the time we ordered our meals.
Of course my father told my mother. They’ve always had that fairytale sort of relationship I’ve secretly been in awe of. The type that endures hardships and lows with the stability of a steamship at sea.
And considering my family leans toward oversharing, I shouldn’t be surprised Rachel found out. If she knows, Eddie and April must too.
The only upside of my historically harsh view on marriage is that my father and Rachel were both too shocked by the revelation I am married to ask any questions about who I’m married to. None of my family members know about my history with Crew, and I don’t think anyone besides my father will recognize the Kensington name. But still, it’s more than I ever wanted them to know.
I rush through the rest of my work and head home right at five. Traffic is worse than usual, but at least it means I finish the latest episode of my favorite podcast before reaching my street. It always bothers me, stopping with only a few minutes left.
I park in the driveway, grab my bag from the passenger seat and walk toward my house. California real estate is insane, especially in the southern part of the state.
I lucked out by finding a ranch that needed major renovations and was even luckier that I was able to live with my parents while they were taking place.
I’ve always loved interior design and decoration. It’s part of what drew me to architecture. It’s like a complicated puzzle, where you get to choose all the pieces and then also decide how to fit them together.
My steps up the front walk slow when I spot the figure sitting in the swing beside the door.
“Hi, Mom.” My grip on the keys tightens as I force a casual tone, climbing the two steps that lead to the porch and making a show of flipping through the two magazines that were delivered to my mailbox.
She stands. “You got married and didn’t tell me?”
It’s the guilt trip from Rachel all over again. Except worse, because it’s in person. And because she’s my mother, not my sister.
“I’m sorry if you’re upset—”
“Upset? Honey, I’m so happy for you!”
Not the response I was expecting. Or hoping for. It never occurred to me my Vegas marriage is anything my family might be excited about. “Mom…”
“When can I meet him?” she asks.
Dammit. Rachel wasn’t exaggerating. “Mom…didn’t Dad tell you I’m not staying married?”
She waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Yes, your father told me everything. And I still can’t believe you didn’t, Hannah! How do you think it makes me feel to know that you told a potential client of your father’s you were married before informing your own mother?!”
I’m starting to really reconsider whether telling my father was the right decision. If Logan Cassidy wasn’t involved, I never would have.
I was worried my lie would blow back on him somehow. That either he wouldn’t want to work with Garner Sports Agency, thinking I was unhinged or overdramatic, going around telling men I’m married when I’m not. Or that my father would make too many assumptions about why I’d felt the need to lie in the first place.
Telling the truth seemed like the only option at the time. Staring at my mom’s hurt, confused expression, I’m second-guessing.
I look down at my keys, running a fingertip along the edge of the rough metal. “I wasn’t planning to tell anyone.”
“You really thought we would judge you, sweetheart? Everyone makes impulsive decisions sometimes. That doesn’t make them mistakes.”
I huff a laugh. “Well, my impulsive decision was definitely a mistake.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“I’m sure, Mom.”
“Hannah, you’ve never jumped impulsively into anything in your life. That you did means something.”
“I think you’re seriously underestimating the effect of a few martinis.”
She shakes her head. “Your father and I will always support you, sweetheart. If ending this marriage is what you really want, then that’s what you should do. But at least let us meet him! He’s your husband!”
“Mom, he lives in New York. He’s busy. I can’t just ask him to drop everything and fly here in a few days.”
“Not even to meet his in-laws?”
“I’m not—it’s not—we don’t have that kind of relationship. We’re getting divorced!”
“Your father said you’ve been dating this man for a few months. He’s never asked to meet your family?”
The dig of metal into my skin is painful at this point. I force my fingers to unclench the keys before I draw blood.
This is why you don’t lie. Because the twist of the truth complicates it. When I saw my father’s stunned, worried expression, all I could think about was getting rid of it as soon as possible. Marrying a guy I was dating sounded a little bit better than marrying a guy I’d known for a matter of hours. But now, I can see where that was a massive mistake.
“We were dating casually.”
She tucks a piece of hair back into her blonde bob. “You’ve always been an excellent judge of character. I trust anyone you chose to get involved with is someone special.”
Maybe it was a mistake, not allowing my parents to see the messiness in my life up until now.
I’ve shielded my parents from my disastrous love life, in particular, because their marriage is such an aspirational one. As most of my friend’s parents got divorced, I heard over and over again how lucky I was my parents were steady and solid.
“Rachel, April, and Eddie are all coming over for dinner on Saturday night. Hopefully you’ll be able to join us too. With a special guest.”
I don’t need to ask who I’m supposed to be bringing. “I’ll ask him, Mom. No promises.”
The last time I saw my mother look this thrilled was when she found out her first grandchild was on its way. “Wonderful.” She beams. “The weather this weekend is supposed to be gorgeous. Hopefully, we’ll be able to barbeque.”
“He has an important job, and it’s last minute and a long way to come for just a weekend.”
I call out as many excuses as I can think of after my mom’s retreating back. Her car is parked along the curb, almost to my neighbor’s hedge.
Her only response is a wave. “See you Saturday, sweetheart!”
I swear under my breath before stomping into the house.
She’s certain Oliver will show up, and I share none of that confidence.
I can’t even imagine asking him. I went into this divorce intent on not asking anything of him. To make it quick and painless and cordial, like snipping a string.
That’s all that’s tying me and Oliver together: a piece of paper we both signed during an alcohol-induced bout of insanity.
It’s bad enough he sent me a text reminding me to get an attorney, which I still haven’t responded to. Now I’m going to have to be the one to renege on my let the lawyers talk suggestion, call him, and ask for a favor.
Once inside, I change out of my work clothes into a pair of leggings and a t-shirt. Hair up in a messy ponytail, I pad into the kitchen to survey the contents of my fridge. I’m an experimental cook, the kind who buys random ingredients at the store based on what sounds good at the time and then has to cobble them together into some semblance of a meal.
Tonight, it’s leftover chicken and an assortment of vegetables over lettuce. I drizzle the creation with dressing and skip over the bottle of white wine that’s chilling in favor of the grapefruit infused vodka in the freezer.
I don’t even bother with a glass. Just carry the plate and the bottle over to the couch and plop down to call Rosie.
She picks up on the fourth ring with a cheery tone that indicates her day is going way better than mine. “Hey! How was Vegas? How was the baby shower? Did—”
“I fucked up, Rosie.”
There’s a pause. I steel myself, taking a pull from the frosted bottle and resisting the strong urge to spit it out. It’s like drinking frozen fire. “Worse than the time you—”
“I’m drinking flavored vodka straight out of the bottle as we speak.”
“Okay, so you’re not pregnant. It can’t be that bad.”
“I married Oliver Kensington.”
Silence. A long, incredulous silence.
“I’m sorry, there must be wires down between Chicago and LA. Because you couldn’t have possibly said you married Oliver Kensington.”
I groan and take another sip. Her shocked horror isn’t helping. I was kind of hoping she’d be blasé about the whole thing and tell me I’m overreacting. But not only does my best friend tend to be dramatic, she’s the one person who knows about my fling with Crew Kensington.
“How, Hannah? Why? I swear, if this is a joke and you’re fucking with me—”
“It’s not a joke. I met him in a bar—”
“What is it with you and billionaires in bars?”
I ignore her commentary. “I didn’t know who he was. He was just a hot guy, and we got drunk and somehow married. I don’t remember much of it.”
“Not even if he’s the bigger brother?” she teases.
“We didn’t have sex.”
“I thought you don’t remember anything.”
“I don’t. But I got a look at his dick the next morning. I would have been sore.”
“Excellent work, Detective.”
I scoff and take another pull from the bottle, contorting my face when the artificial taste of grapefruit burns my throat. “I’m less concerned about the size of his dick and more with how I’m married to him, Rosie.”
“Does Crew know?”
“I don’t think so. I actually ran into him a few days ago, at the sandwich shop on Melbourne.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. It was…I don’t know. Fine. Weird. We cleared the air a little. He didn’t say anything about Oliver. They’re not that close.”
“Holy shit. I just realized…you married a Kensington. You’re a multi-billionaire, Han.”
Rosie grew up with money, same as me. But there’s rich, and then there’s the generations of wealth the Kensingtons have accumulated.
“Not for long. I’m divorcing him as soon as possible.”
“After getting half, right?” she teases. “You can buy me a yacht.”
“I just want this over with as quickly as possible.”
She sobers, her voice growing serious again. “I can’t believe you got married before me. Never would have expected that.”
I take another sip of vodka and then lie back, staring up at the white plaster ceiling. “Me neither. My family knows.”
“Wow. You didn’t tell them about you and Declan for a month.”
“It was an accident. I said something to a client of my dad’s. It was either come clean or possibly ruin this guy’s career.”
“Are you sure you chose right?”
“Haha,” I intone. “And now, they want to meet him.”
“Of course they do. The only downside of being part of a wholesome, supportive family.”
“I don’t want to ask him to come. But I have to, I guess? And I don’t think there’s any way he’ll agree—”
“Holy shit.” Rosie exclaims, suddenly.
“What?”
Her urgent tone would probably make me sit up, in other circumstances. But vodka is starting to swim through me in lazy warmth, making moving sound really unappealing.
“I just looked up a photo of your husband. I’ve never actually seen what Oliver looks like. Crew is always the one who was out getting photographed.”
Rosie grew up in New York City. She even went to school with Scarlett Ellsworth for a couple of years before Crew’s future wife left for some fancy boarding school. The stories she told me are part of what spawned my instant dislike of the stunning brunette.
Keys tap. “Wow, does he ever smile? I mean, the tall, dark, and broody thing works for him, but really, what does he have to complain about? He’s hot, rich, and married to my beautiful best friend.”
“I think that last part is probably why he’s scowling,” I reply.
Rosie laughs. “Oh, Jude’s here.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I just need to buzz him in. We don’t have to hang up. If I park him in front of the television with a beer and something sporty, he’ll probably thank you for keeping me occupied.”
I smile, then stare at my sad salad. I should have stopped for takeout on the drive home. “No, it’s fine. I need to go make dinner anyway.”
The lies keep piling up.
“Okay. We’ll talk soon.” There’s a pause. “Is Congratulations the wrong sentiment to end with here?”
I huff a laugh. “Probably. But thanks.”
Rosie laughs too. “Bye, Han.”
“Bye.”
I drop my phone onto the couch, then grab the remote to turn on the television. The next hour is spent picking at my salad while half-watching a comedy I’ve seen a dozen times before. Occasionally, I sip more vodka.
When I pick up my phone again, it’s after ten. There’s a chance he’s still at work, but it seems unlikely. And the less serious version of Oliver is who I want to talk to.
Oliver answers the call with a groggy, “Hannah?”
Belatedly, I realize he’s on east coast time. It’s after one in the morning in New York.
“Shit. I’m so sorry. I forgot about the time difference.”
There’s a sigh. Sheets rustle. He’s in bed, I realize. “I thought you were apologizing about not texting me back. Nice to know your phone works.”
“Sorry, I forgot to text you back.”
His exhale almost sounds like a laugh, but I can’t tell for sure.
There’s a pause where we’re both silent. I stare up at my ceiling, picturing him doing the same. He must live in some big, fancy building.
It should feel strange, lying here listening to him breathe, but it’s not. It’s surprisingly…nice.
“You called me,” Oliver says eventually. He doesn’t sound mad about it, more curious.
“My family knows we’re married.”
Another long pause, this one neither peaceful nor comfortable.
“You told them?”
“Not exactly. My dad accidentally found out. He told my mom; my mom told my siblings.”
“You have siblings?”
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Two. A brother and a sister.”
“Huh. I figured you were an only child.”
“Is that an insult?”
“No. Just an observation.” He pauses. “I have a brother.”
I laugh, caught off guard by his dry comment. Oliver’s sense of humor is…unexpected, I guess.
“Sorry for waking you up. I’ll, uh, good night.”
I’m a coward. I should just ask him about this weekend and listen to his No, like tearing a Band-Aid off.
But that will ruin this conversation, this quiet moment where it just feels like I’m a girl talking to a guy who gives me butterflies. I can feel them fluttering in my stomach, probably vodka-soaked.
“Is everything okay, Hannah?” His voice has changed. It dips, so it’s a little softer. Almost caring.
“Everything’s fine. Bye.”
I hang up before he can say anything else, rolling over and burying my face in the couch cushions.
