She spends the first chunk of the time in a broody silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap. But as the drive drags on and the engine lulls us into a sense of calm, she eventually leans her head against the window and lets out a weary sigh.
Ten minutes later, I’m parked in front of my house with a sleeping Cora in the passenger seat.
“I have no clue what to do with you,” I mutter.
Fake or not, I must be out of my f*****g mind to think this was the best course of action. I don’t know how to be married. I don’t want to be married.
I look over at Cora—my fake wife. Her dark hair is painted mahogany in the light streaming through the window, her pale skin dappled in mid-morning sun. Being with her feels more right than it should. Especially since I still don’t know why she was at my pa
