The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

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      “How’s your eye?” she asked.

      He shrugged, half a smile on his lips. “It’s still there.”

      “Could I see?” Noting his reluctance, she added, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

      Slowly, he reached for the glasses and slid them free. In the swollen bruising she discovered an irony of beauty she didn’t expect. He’d always projected such certainty in her uncertain world that strangely she found the sight comforting, proof of his vulnerable side. A symbol of commonality she could actually touch.

      “Does it hurt?” Her fingertips brushed his skin before she could remind herself to keep her distance.

      “It’ll heal.”

      She nodded and withdrew her hand. Her gaze shifted to the distant figure of Emma, whose raised arms couldn’t reach her fleeing balloon. Already twenty feet up, it zigzagged a path toward the ceiling of clouds, away from the chaos, the worries of life. Maddie had the sudden desire to be tethered to its string.

      “I don’t have much time,” he said. “But we need to talk …. It’s about us.”

      That phrase again.

      He gestured to a thick, weather-beaten log. “Why don’t we sit down?”

      She didn’t reply, simply led them to perch on the bumpy seat. Waves before them lapped the sand, weakening the shore layer by layer. She clasped her hands on her skirted lap. So close to Lane now, she could almost taste the fragrance of his skin. It smelled of citrus and cinnamon and leaves. At the Pico Drive-in, where they’d spent numerous dates necking through double features, Maddie would inhale that lovely mixture. Afterward, she’d sleep in the cardigan she had worn, to savor his scent until it faded.

      Would their memories together just as surely disappear?

      She banished the thought. She needed to concentrate, to review the practical reasons to loosen their ties. Their usual outings, for one: hidden from crowds, cloaked in darkness. Lookout points and desolate parks. Only on occasion would they venture to the openness of a bowling alley or skating rink, requiring them to refrain from acts of affection.

      Just like now.

      Lane hooked his glasses in the V of his royal-blue sweater. He stared straight ahead as he continued. “Last spring, you told me you thought it was best if we didn’t tell anyone about our dating, and I went along with it. I lied when I said I agreed.” He wet his lips, took a breath. “But the truth is, you were right. It was better that we didn’t say anything. My family wouldn’t have understood, what with our … differences. God knows, they wouldn’t have taken us seriously. They might have even thought I went steady with you to make a point.”

      Their racial diversity had, before now, seemed an off-limit topic. An issue to deny through tiptoeing and silence. But more striking than this new candidness was his usage of the past tense. Went steady with you. Wouldn’t have taken us seriously.

      He wasn’t asking for her opinion. To him, the relationship was already over.

      “I’m tired of sneaking around,” he said. “I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want you to lie anymore. Especially to TJ. He’s more than a friend, he’s like a brother to me.”

      She couldn’t argue. None of this had been fair, to any of them.

      “Maddie …” Lane’s mouth opened slightly and held. He seemed to be awaiting the arrival of a rehearsed conclusion, a finale to their courtship. He angled toward her with a graveness that wrenched her heart. “There’s something you don’t know. Something I should’ve told you before, but I wasn’t sure how.”

      Maddie blinked. What was he talking about? What had he been keeping from her?

      “It’s my parents,” he said. “They’ve arranged a marriage for me.”

      The word marriage entered her ears with a calmness that, in seconds, gained the piercing shock of a siren. “To whom?” she found herself asking.

      He scrunched his forehead, a revelation playing over his face. “I’m not sure, actually. The baishakunin—the matchmaker—found her in Japan. Tokyo, I think they said. Anyway, her family is supposed to be a good fit.”

      “I … didn’t realize … they still did that.” The response was ridiculous, trite. Yet the blow was too great to formulate anything better.

      “The custom is crazy, I know. But as their oldest son, their only son, it’s my responsibility to do what’s best for the family.” Annoyance projected in the timbre of his voice. He shook his head. “It’s no more than a business negotiation. Same as my parents were. And they want to bring her over right away.”

      A scrapbook materialized in Maddie’s mind: a portrait of Lane in a tuxedo, beside him a wife as exotic as her wedding garb; their children waving to the procession of a Chinese New Year parade; a snapshot of the family at Sunday supper, a foursome with identical almond eyes.

      “All of this,” he said finally, “is why I needed to see you.” He laid his hand on hers, a sympathetic gesture. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and there’s only one thing that makes sense for us.”

      The breeze blew a lock of her hair that caught in her eyelashes, a shield to hide her welling tears. She lowered her lids and waited for the words: to break up. She’d been foolish, so foolish to believe she could walk away unscathed.

      “Maddie,” she heard him say. “Will you marry me?”

      Once the question fully soaked in, her eyes shot open.

      “What?”

      He smiled. “Marry me.”

      She couldn’t answer. Her thoughts were a jumble of fragments. An orchestra of musicians, each playing a different piece.

      Lane brushed the strands from her face and tucked them behind her ear. He tipped his chin down, peering into her eyes. “The only way they’ll ever accept us is to not give them an option. Maddie, I love you. I want to see you every morning when I wake up, and fall asleep every night next to you. I want us to raise a family and spend our whole lives together. And if you feel the same”—he tenderly tightened his grasp on her hand—“then marry me.”

      Logic. She grappled for any shred of logic. “We can’t though. It’s—not even legal here.” A fact she’d known yet never liked to dwell upon.

      “Just the wedding isn’t. The marriage would be perfectly valid. A college friend of mine is from Seattle. He says interracial couples get married there every day.”

      “Seattle?”

      “That’s right,” he said. Then his smile faded into something tentative. “But sweetheart … we have to do it next weekend.”

      Next weekend? Next weekend?

      The very idea was rash, and insane. She tried to protest, yet her sentence amounted to a whisper. “That’s so soon.”

      “There’s no other choice. They plan to bring the girl’s family here before New Year’s. I don’t СКАЧАТЬ