Fake It All the Way

Chapter 6 - Wifeland

We sat in silence for a few minutes while Maxwell fired up his phone.

"They couldn't back up your phone with your iCloud," I said, reciting what Joey told me. "You're just going to have to start fresh. I guess the Apple folks didn't know what to do when your old phone was shattered into a thousand pieces, and the only one who knew the password to unlock it is suffering from traumatic brain injury."

"It's all right," Maxwell said, as agreeable as a puppy. "I'm just glad you're here. You're the only memory I need. Speaking of which, I really should have shared my passwords with my spouse. It would have been useful at a time like this." He winked at me. "From now on, I will."

I wanted to roll my eyes. Then again, it might not be that bad. Maybe he could share his Swiss bank account numbers, too.

"Hey, can you do me a favor?" Maxwell whispered and leaned in close. He had a dreamy way of looking at me that I'm sure worked on a lot of women. I expected some type of sexual request, but instead, he gestured to his broken leg. "I have a wicked itch around my ankle. Can you scratch it? I can't reach it, and I am too embarrassed to ask the nurses."

I got up and reached out with one finger. Wincing, I reached under the surface of the cast and scratched his hairy ankle. I couldn't believe I was here digging my nails into some strange man's smelly foot. To make it worse, he didn't even seem to take notice of it. Was this what marriage was? Having to put my hands on this big, muscle-bound beefcake all the time? He was too busy fiddling with his new cellphone to see the faces I was making.

"Is that better?" I asked finally.

"Yes, amazing, sweetheart."

I walked over to the Purell in the wall and lathered that stuff all over my hands before I went back to my chair.

"Okay, if that's it, I guess I'm going to go now. I'll put my number in your phone, and you call me if you need anything. I need to go back to work . . . at the diner."

"Oh, you work?" Maxwell asked, looking up in shock. "At a diner?"

"Yeah, I'm a waitress!" I snapped and stuck out my hip to show how much attitude I had. Hopefully, that would deter him from asking any more questions. I had worked at a coffee shop one summer in college because I thought it would be a fun, hipster thing to do. I barely remembered what went into it except that I hated it and quit after about a month. Then, I became a TA and found the job of sitting in an office surfing the internet to be more my speed. "What's wrong with that? No matter how many moneybags my husband has, I need my own thing, don't I?"

"No, of course," Maxwell said, backtracking immediately. "Can't you call in sick, just for today? Tell them your other half nearly left his brains on the pavement of the West Side Highway last night?"

"No, I can't. They would fire me."

"It's not like we need the money," Maxwell muttered. "What kind of restaurant does Mrs. Weston work for? Le Bernardin?"

"Are you making fun of me?" I asked. "You rich guys, I really don't get it. You go around looking for women to buy with your money, and then you make fun of them for not having anything. It's like a catch-22 of assholes."

"Listen, I'm sorry. I'm not completely myself right now. Please don't be mad at me," Maxwell said in a way that made me soften up immediately. He had those startling, gorgeous eyes and those thick, distinguished eyebrows.

 He reminded me of a sun-kissed, laid-back Henry Cavill. Except I'm pretty sure Henry Cavill would never be caught dead in a hospital gown and what looked to be yellow plaid boxer briefs. Maxwell didn't make any move to cover himself even though his hospital gown hung open, and I could see the bulge in his flimsy underpants with more clarity than I ever wanted to. He didn't even seem to care about how exposed he was. It was like; this was perfectly natural.

It dawned on me that because we were married, and that meant he could go around with his boy parts hanging out around me.

I supposed I was his wife. I had to pretend like there was nothing under his clothes that I hadn't seen before. I reached over and placed the stiff hospital blanket over his lap. I made a show of it being a caring gesture. The truth was, I just didn't want to see his junk.

"I'm not mad, I just have to go," I told him and patted his shoulder in a platonic way.

"All right, go to work," Maxwell said, finally giving in. "I'll wait here for you. When you finish your shift, can you bring me something, even if it's just something from work? Anything? I'm so sick of this hospital food."

"My shift ends in twelve hours, that's a long time to wait. Why don't you just order something off of that nice shiny new phone?"

"I like it better when it's from you, even if it's just diner food."

I sighed. His expectant eyes said that as his wife, he expected me to feed him. I reached into my work bag and pulled out a Tupperware that I had packed myself that morning. It was just a whole-wheat sandwich with some cream cheese and strawberry jelly. I tossed it at him.

"Here, it's not much, but this way, you won't starve to death while I'm away."

I could barely believe my eyes. Maxwell Weston took out my mangled, misshapen sandwich and ate it, thumbprints and all. I had many talents, but anything to do with food preparation was not one of them. This man sitting in front of me must really have brain damage if he thought this was high cuisine.

"This is great," he told me between bites. Maxwell made a show of flattening the sandwich between his large hands and shoving it in his mouth. He ate it in three large bites. It was as though he wanted me to see he could beat the sandwich into submission before he scarfed it down his throat. Men, they were hilarious. Maybe, instinctively, he wanted to show me that even though he was sitting in a hospital gown and had his leg in a cast, if a saber-toothed tiger were to attack us, he could protect me by devouring it in a jiffy. "You should make this for me every day."

I rolled my eyes. Oh, goodness gracious, was he crazy? Didn't he have a professional cook at home or something?

"I'll bring you a loaf of bread and a jar of jam tomorrow," I promised him. Oh, Maxwell, you might not believe this, but even you, the .0001%, can eat a jelly sandwich every day!