Rearranging You

ANGELA

In just four weeks, I’ll be a married woman. I’ll be strolling down an aisle in a white gown, no doubt chosen by my mother, and given away without my father by my side.

I could break down in tears, and honestly, I’ve shed quite a few since our meeting the other day. But what can I do? Risk getting arrested?

There must be a statute of limitations on this kind of thing, right? Once that’s over, maybe I can make a break for it? Divorce has to be an option, doesn’t it?

The moment I stepped out of her office, my phone was bombarded with calendar invites for pre-wedding appointments. My big day was already being planned out.

I wonder how long she’s been plotting this, but I’m pretty sure the answer will just leave a sour taste in my mouth.

I don’t know how she did it, but I haven’t been able to decline a single invite. It’s driving me to the brink of insanity.

She’s cramming my schedule with trivial things like photoshoots, dinner dates, and dress fittings. Who gives a damn about any of this when the marriage isn’t even real?

The first appointment is this morning in Central Park. It’s the first time I’ll meet my future husband. I’d feel bad for the guy if I wasn’t so angry at my mother, and his agreement to this sham doesn’t help.

As I walk over, I try to picture him. I’m imagining bald, overweight, and corporate. Just my mother’s type, and I wouldn’t put it past her to have slept with him to ensure his loyalty.

No, that’s too far… She wouldn’t risk a scandal, which is why she gets so annoyed when I have a little fun. God, I hate her.

I arrive at the meeting spot to find a small trailer and a spread of breakfast foods.

My mother is, of course, at the center of it all, looking as chipper as ever. But next to her is a man who could easily be a model.

Did my day just improve?

He has long dark hair, tanned skin, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass—everything I want in a man and more. But why is he here?

He can’t be the photographer, can he? Because I could totally get behind that. It could be my last fling before this fake marriage. But there’s no way I’m going to stop sleeping around because of this sham. Now, that would be crazy.

Deciding to solve this mystery myself, I saunter over to them, subtly pushing out my chest, and give him a sultry look before we’re even introduced.

Normally, I’d feel embarrassed for being so forward, or at least pretend to be, but it doesn’t matter because it’s working.

“Angela, meet Xavier. Xavier, meet your fiancée Angela.”

The smug grin on her face instantly kills my mood, and this guy goes from hot to not in a matter of seconds.

So this is the puppet she’s chosen to marry me? What’s in it for him—taking over the business maybe? Pathetic.

I’ll have him running for the hills before the countdown is even over; I’d stake my best apartment on it.

What a waste of a perfectly good strut.

“My pleasure.” The frost in my voice clearly surprises him when I shake his extended hand. Before he can question my attitude, I turn sharply toward the rock they want us to pose on.

This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, unless she’s blackmailing him too. Otherwise, there’s no reason for him to be here.

Is he going to spy on me? I can’t have that. I’d rather go to jail.

As the camera warms up, the real photographer comes over to position us. It’s awkward, and he pushes us so close together that I can almost smell his toothpaste.

That’s when I notice his natural scent—sandalwood and tea tree. It’s not bad, but I usually prefer something more masculine, like sea salt.

None of this feels right. Marriage should be serious, not a puppet show for my mother to direct.

This whole thing is a mockery of what she once had with my father. My resentment toward her only grows the longer we’re here.

I’m moved from his side to his lap, then behind him, then above him… It’s exhausting. I’m not some mindless doll to be ordered around, but for this wedding, I guess I am, aren’t I?

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it, dear?” my mother says in a patronizing tone, handing me a latte.

Of course, it’s the wrong order—I needed that coffee before the shoot. You’d think a mother would know her own daughter doesn’t drink cow’s milk by now, wouldn’t you?

“Are we done?” I ask, because I’d rather be anywhere else.

“Don’t you want to get to know your groom?” She smiles, waving him over as if it’s not a question.

“That’s what the bedroom is for,” I snap and leave, but not before catching the shocked expression on his face.

Good, there's plenty more where that came from.