Page 8 of Merging Wright

“Nope.” Out the window, the downtown area continues to sleep. Lights here and there speckle the windows of the buildings around us, hinting at other early risers like Jane and me. The skyscrapers stand for stability, prosperity, and the future. Returning to my small hometown, population less than the number of people employed in the building where we work, does not represent any of those things.

“Mr. Wright.”

I groan, closing my eyes at the title. “You should probably call me Mach . . . as my wife.”

“As your pretend wife . . . there are things I should know about you.” Her hand smooths around the oversized steering wheel, and a memory hits me so hard I almost double over.

Tracy. Her delicate fingers caressing the old wheel. The heel of her hand casually guiding this beast.

My eyes close, and I turn my head away from Jane. There is no way I’m telling Jane the history of this truck. Or me. I open my lids again to aimlessly stare out the side window. Dawn is breaking in the sky. “You know enough.”

Jane sighs. “We’ll need to have our stories straight.”

“What story?”

We speed out of the city and leave the cold comfort of steel towers behind us.

“The one where we explain how we met or how you proposed or why you married me.” Her voice rises in irritation.

God, I love it when she starts to get worked up like she is. Her agitation pulls me from the haunting in my head, but her questions rattle me. “Who is going to need to know all that?”

“Your mother, for one.”

I scoff. Ma. She’d be all too pleased to believe I’ve married Jane. Jane and her damn need to answer my phone on occasion when she notices Ma’s name on the screen and then pass the device to me. She’s spoken to my mother a few times, winning her over like she wins over everyone else. The idea of lying to Ma swells the ache in my chest, but the concept doesn’t hurt enough to force me to change my plan.

She wouldn’t explain anything over the phone when I called to find out how the old man died and what sending the truck to me was supposed to mean.

“You got the truck?” The soft Scottish lilt of my mother’s voice sounded cheerful despite the passing of her father. Then again, if anyone should be pleased the crotchety miser is finally gone, she’s the one. He’d made her life miserable . . . because of me.

While my mother doesn’t know all the reasons I don’t want this truck, she also knows enough of my history with the pickup, that I can’t believe she is pushing me. Or that she’d sent it to me.

“I didn’t send it. Da did.” Da. Her father. He was dead. What game was he playing? What did he want from me? At forty-eight, I was too old for this shit. Still, everyone knows family can be as evil as enemies. I don’t know how many times I overheard Fischer mutter, Keep your friends close. Your enemies closer, and family the closest because they are the ones most likely to cut you the deepest.

“We just stick to the truth. We met at work. We work together constantly. Everything grew from there.”

Jane isn’t wearing glasses this morning, and she squints on occasion as we drive down the streetlamp-lit highway heading south. Her nude-colored shirt hugs her upper body, accentuating her breasts and sticking to her smooth belly. The color hints at what she’d look like naked, minus the rosy tips of her nipples. Or would they be a dusty brown? Either color would have me hard if my thoughts weren’t a jumble this morning.

Facing the cold steel structure of this truck, then kicking the tire and punching the side panel, was not how I intended to start the day. My knuckles ache as a reminder of what I’ve done. I should have at least washed off the blood, as Jane had suggested.

“How romantic,” she mumbles.

“Romantic? What’s romance have to do with anything?” I shift slightly to face her. “We’re pretending to be married. Most marriages are an act. Romance is not a trait of the institution.” Sitting inside this truck again, the words taste like ashes in my mouth.

Jane snorts.

“Name one happy couple our age you know?” I don’t want her including young newlyweds who are blinded by the innocence of youth and the fearless hope of an endless future.

“My older brother Garrett and his new wife, Dolores.” Did I know she had a brother? “And Tucker and Mae.”

Tucker Ashford—affectionately called Ashe—is my business partner and best friend. He and Jane’s sister are a newly-in-love couple, and the way they look at one another is almost sickening. The heat. The heart. I’ve never seen Ashe like he is with Mae, proving my point. When he was married, he was miserable.

“Look, it’s only for a few days. We don’t need to touch. We can say PDA bothers me.” It’s not far from the truth. Holding hands. Arms around one another. That stuff is for lovesick schmucks. “We keep it professional at the office. That will explain why we’re practiced at not touching.”

Jane’s fingers curl around the steering wheel, gripping the leather harder, causing her knuckles to whiten. What would her hands on me feel like? Right now, she probably wants to claw my skin off.

My knuckles throb, and I should have taken her other advice to obtain some ice. Still, the pain is a good reminder of all I lost because of this damn beast we are riding in. All I’ll never have.

My gaze lands on Jane’s profile. Her dark hair is pulled into a twist, purposely intended to look messy but professional. Tendrils fall around her face, and those fine hairs curve around her neck. My fingers twitch to tug her hair free, letting those long locks loose. She chews at her lower lip, a sure sign she doesn’t like what I’ve said about PDA, but not touching Jane is for the best. I don’t trust myself.