Page 29 of Married in Michigan

I’m not sure if this scheme of Paxton’s counts as whoring myself out—I certainly have no intention of sleeping with him just because we got married. Sure, he’s attractive, and sure, I feel the weight of his incomparable beauty every moment I’m near him, but I know for a fact I can hold my libido in check indefinitely.

I have needs, obviously, and those needs are powerful, and sometimes I find myself with no choice but to find a willing partner for a night to sate them. Those hookups serve to temporarily dull the edge of my needs, physically, but emotionally they do nothing. I’m not really emotionally built to be a one-night stand sort of girl. It’s not what I want from a sexual partner, and I dream of finding someone who sweeps me off my feet—what woman doesn’t? But my life is just not…there.

Taking care of Mom is a full-time job, and once that became more than I could handle and we knew it was time for her to start getting round-the-clock hospice care, I had to work overtime to pay for that care—full-time at the hotel during the week, plus I work weekends—waiting tables early at a breakfast place, and as a cocktail waitress at a late-night pub. So there’s just no time for dating, let alone a boyfriend.

See? Thinking about it is a rabbit hole. Down, down, down I go.

If I take the offer and fake-but-for-real marry Paxton, how will I visit Mom? I’m assuming he’ll expect me to live with him wherever it is he lives year-round.

I know I have to talk to Mom about this.

I’ve avoided it, so far, even though I visit her nearly every day, but I can tell she’s sniffing out the fact that I’ve got something on my mind.

So, five days after the discussion with Paxton, I’m sitting with Mom and we’re watchingBeaches, because it’s one of Mom’s favorites, and a go-to when we’re caught up on our shows and don’t know what to watch.

We’re holding hands, as we always do. I’m trying to figure out how to broach the subject when I feel Mom’s hand squeeze mine.

I look at her, and she gives me a long, penetrating glare. “Out…with it,” she says. Today is a better day.

I sigh. “I don’t know even know where to start.”

“Beginning.” This, with a Mom smirk, teasing.

“So, I told you I met someone, but not really.” Mom squeezes my hand twice, which meansgo on. “This is hard. I want to tell you everything, but I’m scared to.”

“Tell me.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.” I have to look away from her, at the TV. “There’s a decision I have to make. I have this…opportunity. Not really a job, per se. But it would mean I’d be able to take care of you better, without having to work three jobs seven days a week.” I chew on my thoughts, deciding how much to tell her. “It’s crazy. It doesn’t make any sense. But I…I kind of want to do it. Not just for the money aspect of it, which is in itself kinda tricky. I just…on paper, it’s really crazy. You’d probably tell me not to do it. I know I probably shouldn’t. But I think—I think I’m going to. Not just for you.”

Mom stares at me a long, long time. “Mack.” Her private nickname for me, which no other human being is allowed to call me. “Nothing for me.”

“I just said, it’s not entirely for you. It’d be for me, too.”

“Is there…” She has to pause, hunting through the speech/cognitive impediment for the right words. “Is there a man…in it?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“You like him?”

I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. Yes, and no. It’s complicated.”

Her eyes narrow at me. “Sugar baby?”

“No, Mom.” I mean, it’s not that, is it? It’s not. It’s something else. Not sure what, but something else.

“Rules are…are rules, Mack.”

Meaning, the agreement stands. I’m not allowed to use my body or my sexuality to pay for her care. Which this isn’t. It’s using my entire self, my life, my person. Which somehow seems more intimate. Scarier. Worse, somehow, than just trading sex for money, or taking my clothes off for dollar bills.

“I know, Mom. It’s nothing like that.” I squeeze her hand three times. “I promise.”

“Don’t understand.”

“It’s kind of impossible to explain, and…” I sigh. “The hardest part of it is that if I do it, it’d mean I’d have to go away for a while. I’d still make sure I call you every day and come visit as much as possible.”

Mom’s eyes search me, deeply, carefully, thoroughly. “You…want this?” She wriggles slightly, seeking a more comfortable position, and I help her adjust. “Whatever it is…you want it, foryou?”

I wince, shrug. “Yes, sort of. It’s scary. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. But part of me wants to see it through, and yes, it would be for you, but also for me.”