Page 39 of Married in Michigan

He follows my gaze. “Okay, well this watch is literally the one exception of everything I personally own, and it was a gift from my grandmother when I won my seat in Congress. It’s not really my personal style, but Grandma gave it to me so I wear it.”

I can’t help a little smile. “That’s sweet.”

He frowns. “That feels a little condescending, Makayla.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Just because I’m rich and arrogant doesn’t mean I don’t love my family.”

I blink. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that, Paxton, and if I gave you that impression, then I apologize.”

He waves a hand. “Whatever. Let’s get this show on the road.” But instead of heading for the door, he ambles into my room, and stares thoughtfully at my little pile of crates. “So, idea.”

I lean in the doorway next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Okay?”

“How about you take, like, a few changes of clothes, and that’s it?” He gestures at the tubs. “Underwear, some jeans and shorts and T-shirts and workout stuff, a few things of your own in case you get, like, homesick or whatever, but leave the bulk of it? As soon as we get to DC, I’m hiring a stylist and personal shopper to outfit you with a decent wardrobe. So, really, you don’t need any of this, because you’ll be wearing all new stuff. I just figure you’d feel better having at least a little bit of your own stuff.”

I sigh, a long, slow exhale. “I guess you’re right. All this is from the thrift store anyway.” I set my purse down and open the duffel bag. “Just give me, like, five minutes.”

He shrugs, and sits on the bed to wait, and watch. But, as soon as he sits, he frowns, and bounces on the mattress, which is so old it has actual springs in it. “How the hell do you sleep on this? I can feel the springs through the mattress.”

I laugh. “It’s what I’ve got, so it’s what I use. Beggars can’t be choosers. And I mean, I’m not a beggar, but when I got this apartment from my boss it was empty and I had no furniture and about a grand total to furnish it, including appliances.”

He frowns. “I’m not an expert by any means, but I thought most landlords provided appliances?”

“He had just finished remodeling, and so he waived the deposit and gave me a discount on rent for the first year if I provided my own appliances. So, to the thrift store I went, for everything from T-shirts to my microwave to my kitchen utensils.”

He grimaces harder. “You bought kitchen utensils from a thrift store.”

I laugh at his disgust. “And underwear and bras.”

He blinks. “Wow.”

I shrug. “Hey, if you’ve never been poor, you don’t know, and you don’t get to judge. And besides, you always wash before you use.”

I don’t bother folding, I just cram a handful of underwear—thongs, boy shorts, period granny panties, my two best sports bras, my one bought-new full coverage bra and, for reasons I’m not entirely certain of, the one matching set I own, purchased on a whim because the set was clearance and my size. I’ve never worn the lingerie, and the tags are still attached—I’m not even sure what it looks like on me, or what I was thinking when I bought it, or why I’m including it.

I steal a glance at Paxton as I shove the racy, lacy red thong and demi push-up bra into the bag—thankfully, he’s on his phone again and not looking.

Resolutely, I leave the lingerie in the bag, despite not having any clue what’s going through that section of my brain.

Quickly, then, I put my favorite sleepwear, laze-around T-shirts and sweatpants, my most form-flattering jeans, my one nice going-out skirt and blouse, a few T-shirts, my work out tank tops and shorts, and—again, for reasons I don’t care to examine too closely—my one slinky, revealing, tight, barely mid-thigh little black dress. Again, bought on sale because it fit me and was dirt cheap, and I had the idiotic idea I’d wear it someday. The tags are still on it, and I’ve never worn it besides trying it on in the fitting room.

Now, my toiletries, clothes, and my few personal effects are all contained in this one small duffel bag.

I zip it closed, and hold it, staring at it. “So, this is my entire life. Everything I own of value, not including the stuff I’m leaving.”

Paxton nods. “Compact and efficient. I like it.”

I snort. “I meant something kind of the opposite.”

He pats me on the shoulder. “By the end of the week, Makayla, that will no longer be true.”

I consider what he means. “Well, no. Not really. You will have bought me a bunch of stuff. That’s not the same as it being mine.”

He tilts his head, genuinely confused. “Yes—I’ll have bought things for you, therefore they will be yours. If, or when, rather, we get a divorce, you’ll keep it all. So, yours.”

I shake my head and pat his shoulder like he did mine. “I realize you can’t know this about me yet, Paxton, but that’s not how I work. It’s not who I am as a person. You buying me shit, giving me shit—that’syourshit. I didn’t buy it; I didn’t earn the money that bought it. So it ain’t mine.” I hear my mother in my voice, the old her, the born-and-raised in inner-city Detroit, pre-MS, the vehemently and proudly independent, don’t need nobody, won’t ever ask for help version of her. I lift my chin, stare him in the eyes. “Don’t think I won’t be appreciative, mind you—but nothing you give me will be mine.”

He frowns, stares back. “What the hell would you want me to do with a closet full of women’s clothes and whatever?”

I shrug. “Your business. Donate them? Give them to the next girl?” I snicker. “Not like the next girl will be built like me, though.”