Page 27 of Married in Michigan
“And I’m poor—a maid in your mom’s hotel, barely making ends meet.”
He nods. “Dad, my sister, all of them—you’re not allowed past the front door if you’re notsomeone.Sara collects famous friends, Uncle Nicholas plays golf with A-list celebrities, Dad is always flying to Germany and Italy to get all smarmy with the heads of the VW Group and Ferrari and Lamborghini and guys like that, Mom is heavy into the political scene in DC…we don’t do nobodies.”
I cock an eyebrow. “I know you said the tabloids are mostly bullshit, but it seems like you’re guilty of that too.”
He nods. “Sure. It’s part of the gig. I grew up around rich, famous people, grew up with my parents’ rich, famous friends’ kids. And it’s just easier to stick with people who…I dunno, get it, I guess.”
“Who also know what it’s like to grow up rich and famous, you mean?”
He nods again. “Yeah. It’s got its tricky aspects, and those are things you can’t understand if you didn’t grow up with it.”
“Poor you,” I say, droll.
He snorts. “Not my point, Makayla. I can’t help who I was born to any more than you can, and I can no more pretend to understand your circumstances than you can mine.”
“Fair enough.” I’m scared of the fact that there’s a certain part of me that’s not just hearing him out, but actuallylistening, and…considering. “Go on.”
He shrugs. “You’re the last thing Mom would expect, on every level there is. Not just Mom, but everyone. They’re all complicit—they all play the game, to one degree or another, and I’m fucking sick of it. Sara dumped a really good guy who had real feelings for her on my mom’s say-so, and she didn’t back me up when I fought with Mom over Monique. I was pissed about that, and it was a big, big fight. Uncle Nicholas got pulled into it, and that Christmas was a pretty damned tense affair, I’ll tell you. I expected Sara to have my back, considering, but she took Mom’s side. Acted all disapproving, and like I should know better and shit.”
I spend a few seconds thinking. “So, I get why me, now—a poor, biracial nobody brown chick who works in your mom’s hotel—the most objectionable possible choice for what is essentially a forced marriage. The real question, then, is why in the hell would I agree to it? Why would I marry you, knowing your mom won’t approve, and neither will the rest of your family. She’ll say she doesn’t care who you marry, as long as she plays the game—but do I know how to the play game, Paxton? If all I’d have to do is look pretty on your arm, I could probably pull it off, assuming you even think I’m anything butvery pretty.” I put venom into those words, because it still rankles. “But something tells me there’s more to it than just being arm candy. And I’ll tell you one thing for free about me, Paxton—I’m not an arm candy kind of girl. I don’t like wearing heels, I hate heavy jewelry, I don’t like parties, and I don’t dance except for at the club with my friends.”
Paxton opens his mouth, but I’m not done.
“I’m not arm candy. I don’t look the part, for one thing. And I’m not getting plastic surgery to look the part, either. You’d take me as I am, or not at all.” I can’t believe these words coming out of my mouth—it almost sounds as if I’m considering his crazy-ass plan. “I don’t know shit about your world, about how to behave at the events I’m sure you’d drag me to. I don’t have it in me to play pretend for very long, if at all, so the whole fake marriage, knowing you’re cheating on me thing? That don’t fly with this chick, Paxton.” I gesture with a hand. “So…what makes you think I’m a good choice for your little game? And more to the point? What’s in it for me?”
Paxton, to his credit, doesn’t offer me a flippant, off-the-cuff answer. He takes his time, mulling over his answer. “I’m not sure how to put this without insulting you, or in such a way that you wouldn’t assume I’m saying something I’m not.”
“Well, with that caveat in place, you may as well just come out with it.”
He blows out a breath. “Okay, but…fuck. You’re gonna assume the worst anyway, so fuck it.” He sits forward. “You said it yourself, you’re a poor, biracial nobody brown chick. I can offer you a lifestyle you really can’t even fathom, and I don’t say that to be a dick about your life or cocky about mine.” He pauses, considering his next words, and I give him the space to think. “It would be a chance for you to…I don’t know. Get a break from the struggle, I guess you could say. No responsibilities, no boss. It would be temporary, I’m assuming. We do the marriage thing for a while, a few months, a couple years at most, and then we put it out there that it’s not working, irreconcilable differences, blah blah blah, we get a divorce, and you’re set for life once the dust settles.”
I suck in a long breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. “Paxton…”
“I don’t want you to think I’m offering you, like, a financial contract to be my fake wife. But I’m not ready to concede to my mom’s bullshit games, and I’m also not willing to marry someone I don’t like. For whatever reason, even though we don’t know shit about each other and we’re vastly different people, I feel like I could actually like you. I’ve enjoyed this time together this morning, and I really don’t often trulyenjoyhanging out with many people. It would be fake, yes, as in we’re not getting married for love, and we’re both going into it knowing it’s fake and will end.” He eyes me with disconcerting openness. “It can be fun for you, if nothing else. Some vacations to the Caribbean, fill a closet with fancy shit from Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive, fly private, live in a mansion, all that. Or a condo in New York, if that’s your gig. In return, we do our best to make it look to my mom like we gave it a shot. It buys me time to figure out what I’m going to do about her in a more long-term sense. Perhaps get myself settled in a position where I can really afford to tell her to fuck off.”
I don’t know what to say. I’d thought—and said—that there was no possible way he could tempt with this bullshit crazy idea.
But he has.
Six words in particular tempt me more than any others:Get a break from the struggle.
It’d be temporary.
Have some fun playing rich girl.
I have visions of lying on a beach somewhere in a teeny bikini, without a care in the world.
Except…I do have a care. Something no amount of money or finery or luxury can change.
She lives in a nursing home here in Petoskey, and she has advanced multiple sclerosis, and I’ve never spent more than a weekend away from her.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t leave her for a fake marriage to some spoiled rich white boy.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t—will not—ask or expect Paxton to take care of her expenses, because she’s my mother and it’s nobody’s responsibility but mine. But what if I could leverage this, somehow, in such a way that I can get ahead on her nursing home expenses?
Maybe there’d be some kind of weekly or monthly allowance, and I could pretend to spend it but really send it to the nursing home. Or buy expensive stuff, wear it once or twice, and then pawn it for cash.