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“It’s not for life, right?” I say, my words betraying the way my decision is swinging.
A huge smile beams across Debs’s face. “Nope. It’s also a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Are you really going to do this?” Sharon cries, her eyes as wide as saucers.
And then I find myself nodding. “I think I am. But now, I need more help.”
Sharon is clearly still gobsmacked, while Debs is on the edge of her chair, eagerly awaiting my next words.
“If I’m going to do this, there need to be some rules.” I look from one to the other. “You’re going to have to help me figure out what.”
The following morning, there’s a buzz of excitement in the office. Debs eventually talked Sharon around last night, and then we spent two whole hours figuring out what boundaries I needed to set. If Ryan can’t agree to them, then there’ll be no wedding. It’s as simple as that.
When he arrives for his appointment, Sharon, under my request, gives no sign whatsoever that she knows what’s going on, and after greeting him, I take him into the treatment room.
“I’ve come to a decision,” I say before we go any further.
I don’t need him tense during his therapy. It does neither of us any good.
“Okay,” he says tentatively. “What did you decide?”
9
Ryan
“Maybe we should sitdown,” Emma says.
I’m trying to read her face, desperately wanting to know what her answer is while desperately trying not to show her that I desperately want to know what her answer is. Even thinking about that is hard work, never mind actually putting it into practice.
“I will admit,” she begins, “the idea of us getting married scared me to death when you first mentioned it, so I’m sorry for how I reacted.”
“It’s fine,” I say, still trying to control my breathing.
“That being said, I’ve put a lot of thought into it since, and I have come to a decision.”
Just get on with it, woman!
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” I blurt.
She lifts a hand to stop me while giving me a firm look. “There are conditions.”
But I’m too busy reeling with excitement to care about conditions. She can tell me I have to walk around on one hand for the entire time we’re together for all I care. I just can’t believe she’s agreeing to it, and that’s far more than I could ever have imagined happening.
Then she stands and walks over to her desk, lifts a pile of papers, separates them, and gives me a pile that is stapled in one corner. The two piles are about the same size, and it’s only when I look down that I see why.
Printed in capital letters at the top and center of the page is a word. It’s even in bold, just in case I might miss the importance of it:
CONTRACT
And then she starts reading.
I’ll be honest, I’m pretty used to contracts. I’ve been signing them my whole life. A part of me just wants to get to the end, where I sign my name on the dotted line. But then I pull myself back and think.
Maybe for once in your life, you could not be a selfish idiot. This is clearly a big deal for her. You should be grateful she’s agreed to it at all.
And it’s true: I should be, and I am. And so, I put my arrogant inconsideration to the side, sit up a little straighter in the chair, and read along with the paragraphs she’s so carefully thought of and written out.