triple talk all the more telling.
She’s clearly endeavoring to reset.
But is she simply trying to slide back to who we were, or is she attempting to sweep the last several minutes under the rug?
We head down the steps outside, and I scan the street for the gleaming black town car I ordered.
I need a few minutes to regroup too, and figure out what’s next. Not just where we go from here, but how we interact with each other, because her nervous, out-of-sight-out-of-mind reaction isn’t what I expected.
But then, what did I expect?
I suppose, truth be told, I expected that if we ever did fuck, everything would remain the same.
Wishful thinking.
I laugh privately.
Perhaps that hope makes me a fool. But that’s exactly what I imagined we’d do next.
And precisely what I want.
A man in a black suit thirty or so feet away lifts an iPad with the words flashing on the screen: Mr. and Mrs. Dickens.
I drop my voice to a whisper. “We can pick a different name each night, different accent too. English tonight. The next time we could go for French, and we could be Mr. and Mrs. Descartes.” I slide into that accent, my lips curving into a grin.
That earns me a smile, and the smile makes me feel better, especially when she returns to witty, clever Scarlett. “Yes, of course. Let’s do everything in homage to your philosophy degree. We could then be Mr. and Mrs. Rousseau. Or what about Mr. and Mrs. Nietzsche? But then you would need to do a German accent.”
I adopt one. “I can do that. I can definitely do that if you want to go full nihilist.”
She laughs, then says, “Don’t forget English philosopher John Locke. That would keep you in your delectable English accent. But I love the way you speak French.”
Delectable.
Yes, let’s keep going.
I give her a taste of French, shifting not merely to the accent, but the language. “But if you want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Rousseau, I can pretend to be French for you.”
A tremble rushes down her body. A sign. This woman loves to pretend. She loves to role-play.
“I would like that,” she murmurs.
And I would like to keep this up.
But a voice cuts in as the driver steps closer. “Mr. and Mrs. Dickens, I presume?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s us.”
“I’m here to take you to your hotel. It’s wonderful to see you,” the driver says, then opens the back door for us.
“After you, Mrs. Dickens,” I say to Scarlett, and she slides in, shaking her head, rolling her eyes, but laughing again.
Perhaps I have reset us. Perhaps a little more pretend is what Scarlett needs to feel comfortable.
I can give her plenty of pretend.
That’s my stock-in-trade.
I thank the man then join my temporary wife in the back seat. She already seems more herself again.
“Maybe next time I want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Joplin,” she says playfully, tapping her chin. “Or Mr. and Mrs. Nicks. Or Mr. and Mrs. Jett.”
“I didn’t know you were such a fan of classic rock and anthemic female singers,” I say with an approving look.
Her eyes twinkle. “Maybe I’m just a fan of surprising you.”
“You’re full of surprises, Scarlett. And I love them all. They’re the cat’s whiskers,” I say.
She furrows her brow. “Bullshit.”
“What do you mean?”
“By ‘bullshit,’ I mean I don’t believe you.”
I laugh. “Yes, I’m familiar with what ‘bullshit’ means. I’m wondering why you’re calling bullshit on what I said.”
“I don’t think you like surprises. You like to think you like surprises. But you always prefer to know exactly what’s going on.”
Scarlett sees inside me in a way that others rarely can. It’s as if she’s holding up a mirror, reflecting the truth back at me.
And it’s . . . enticing.
While she doesn’t know all the dark secrets I hold in my heart, she can see the edges. She can tell they have shape and form.
I don’t mind her having that knowledge, that power.
I’m not sure why it doesn’t bother me, but I’ll evaluate that another time.
For now, I take perhaps one of the biggest steps I’ve ever taken—admitting she’s right. “Yes, I suppose that may be true. I suppose I have spent a large portion of my life trying to protect myself against surprises.”
She shoots me a sympathetic look, then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me about them.”
She turns her gaze to the window, staring at the whirl of color and light on the street outside.
I sigh in relief that she’s