"What the hell do you think your plan is, then? It's a thousand times worse. She's definitely going to cry, and she'll probably hit you."
"Happy tears," I said. "Happy punches."
"You idiot." Daniel looked at me with a sour expression on his face. "You really don't get it, do you?"
"Feel free to enlighten me." I sat there, head in my hands, staring at the insides of my eyelids.
"No." He was using the kind of tone that a less authoritative person would bow down to, and that irritated me more than anything. "You'll just argue with me, and we'll both waste our time, and in the end you'll be even more convinced that you're right."
"I won't say a word," I promised him, looking up to meet his irritated gaze. "Just tell me what you're thinking, because I have no idea what I'm doing."
A smile was slowly forming on his face. "You have no idea how long I've waited to her you say that."
"Oh, my God." I let my head thump down into my hands again. "Shut up."
"I thought you wanted to hear what I was thinking."
"I'm going to kill you," I said. "Slowly. I know where you sleep."
There was a moment of silence.
"You're afraid," he said, simply. "You see her taking the same path Daria did, and you think she'll eventually go somewhere you won't be able to follow. Your conscious mind is resisting the comparison to your ex-wife because they're really nothing alike, the circumstances couldn't be more different, but the fight-or-flight part of your brain can feel it. That's why you panic. You're afraid to have her, because you're afraid to lose her."
"I didn't lose Daria," I protested. "She walked away."
"Then what are you afraid of?" He cocked an infuriating eyebrow at me. "Don't tell me you're not. I know it when I see it."
"That's because you're always scared, Chicken Little," I griped. "So you smell it everywhere. You're just projecting."
He was making a lot of sense, but I really didn't want to admit it. My only excuse for my fear was the fear of losing my company - but I couldn't tell him about the settlement, he'd never let me hear the end of it.
"Right. I'm the one who's scared," he grumbled. "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean the sky's not falling, you know."
Jenna must already know. She had to. How could she have possibly missed it? The paper-thin justification of our fake marriage hardly explained anything we'd said or done in the past few months.
And if she didn't, well, the honeymoon would be an even bigger surprise than I'd planned. That wasn't a bad thing.
Was it?
Chapter Thirty
Jenna
As the wedding insanity began to ramp up, with more and more last-minute emails from the planner making sure I was okay with this type or flower or this minor color variation, I made more of an effort than usual to stick to a routine. I had to retain some semblance of sanity, and caffeine was always the first step.
So that's how I found myself in my favorite coffee shop, ordering my usual, on a morning like any other. With the minor exception that it was the day before my wedding.
It still didn't feel real. Not even close. I knew the venue - a beautifully remodeled vintage movie theater, complete with the lush red and gold accents - and I'd signed off on the invitations, the cake flavors, the damn place card designs. But all the time, it felt like I was sleepwalking through someone else's life.
And things were about to get a lot more surreal.
"Excuse me," said a voice from behind me, as I sat down at my table. I looked up. There was a woman standing there, her gaze fixed on me, like she could read my life story off of my face. "Are you Jenna Hadley?"
I cleared my throat. "Can I ask who you are?"
"I'm Daria."
For a moment, it seemed like the whole world fell silent.
I don't know what I expected. She was tall and beautiful, curvy, with the smoky eyes of a French movie star. I could see how Ben would fall for someone like that.
"Daria," I echoed. "Do I know you?"
She smirked. It was almost a mirror of Ben's, but not quite. "Don't play dumb. It's a bad look on you." She sat down, gracefully. "I have to admit, especially considering the timing, I was suspicious. But I'm not anymore."
I cleared my throat. "Suspicious?"
She smiled at me, sympathetically. "Did he really not tell you? Well, that I can believe. He certainly doesn't like to talk about things that don't paint him in a flattering light." With a single gesture, she beckoned the server, and he came. "One cup of chamomile tea, please."
I watched her, trying to understand. Was this all a test? Did she really believe a word I was saying? Did I seem nervous?
Hopefully, no more nervous than was appropriate for the situation.
"I'm Ben's ex-wife," she said, finally, frowning a little. "Jesus - really? How much hasn't he told you?"
I swallowed hard. "I know everything I need to know."
"Oh, honey." She reached across the table and patted my hand; I withdrew like a snake had bitten me. "You think that now. Someday you're going to regret trusting him. Believe me. Why do you think he didn't mention me?"
"Maybe you don't matter to him anymore." I felt bad, saying it. But it was the only way to convince her that I really didn't know who she was. "He's moved on. It must have been a long time."
"Oh." She smiled down at the table. "Did he tell you that you were the first woman he ever loved? He told me the same thing. Of course, when I met him, he was nineteen. So it was probably true."
Nineteen. He was practically a kid. They both were.
"Did he tell you about the Huntington's?" she asked me, her eyes suddenly piercing.
My heart plummeted.
"He told me about his mother," I lied. "That's all." I prayed that wouldn't be a fatal miscalculation.
Daria's mouth thinned. "But he didn't tell you about himself?"
"No," I admitted. Something about her expression told me that she'd been in the dark, too - at least for a while. "But he said he'll tell me when he's ready. I can understand if he doesn't want to take the test..."
"He got the test," she said, simply. "When he was ten years old. His father gave him the choice, which is borderline criminal, if you ask me."
My heart thudded audibly in my chest. "Was it...?"
She shook her head. "He wouldn't tell me," she said, with a bitter smile. "How's that for fucked-up?"