Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
My head jerks back. “Shane Faris?” My past and present come together slowly in my mind and are quickly followed by images from high school peppering my memories, flashes of flirting, and the kiss we once shared.
Out of all the people in California, how did I end up married to someone I went to high school with? This isn’t feeling so random after all. “Are you sure?”
As if his eyes still deceive him, he squints. Turning the monitor toward me, he draws a line across the screen. “That’s what it says right here.”
“I know him.” I stare at his name, disbelieving what I’m seeing with my own eyes. My chest squeezes as I try to riddle through how this could have happened. “We went to high school together.”
“That’s interesting,” He leans back, rocking in his chair. “If you’re going to be mistakenly married to someone, it could be worse than someone rich and famous. Am I right?”
I can’t even force a laugh, still stuck on marriage and Shane Faris being said in the same sentence as my name. I catch up quickly, Ross’s words hitting me on the head. “What in the world?” I whisper, still staring at the name on the screen. “Shane Faris is my husband?”
“I saw his band Faris Wheel play last summer. . .” His words blur as my mind tumbles through what this means.
What does it mean? “I’m married to Shane Faris.”
“Incredible drummer. Top five of all time . . .”
Oh.
My.
God.
According to the state of California . . . I’m married to a rock star.
2
Cate
“Sixty-six?”
I snap my compact closed, feeling better now that I’ve touched up my makeup and straightened my hair. The lighter strands of highlights against my medium brown make me look fresher. I stand, push my hair over my shoulders, and cross the dim, fluorescently lit room, every clack of my hard heels echoing across the linoleum.
“Sixty-six,” the lady behind the counter yells even louder this time.
“Hi, I’m here. I’m here.” I hustle quicker and note her name on the tag pinned to her green blouse. “Hi, how are you?”
I’m not welcomed with a smile, but I can almost understand. The lobby is depressing, and despite couples being here to get married, a cloud hangs over her tight gray curls. Her icy-blue eyes shift beside me like she’s expecting someone else. “Only you?”
“It’s just me,” I say, keeping my voice low to not make a scene that there’s been a massive error.
“What can I do for you?”
Without background to fill her in, I land the punchline of the scenario, “I don’t have a husband—”
“Sorry to hear that. Better you find out now instead of on the wedding day.”
“Huh?” I finally realize she thinks I’ve been stood up. “No. No. He’s not a no-show to marry me. He doesn’t exist. Not in my world—”
“Oh,” she says, covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” The hand falls away as quickly as the surface-level concern from her expression did. “Death certificates are on the third floor. Take the elevator at the other end of the lobby.” Her eyes dart past me, and she calls out, “Sixty-seven.”
“No. No. No. Wait, Roberta.” I throw my hands up, ready to plead my case. “There’s been a mistake. Catalina Farin. You can look it up in the system. It says I’m married, but I never have been. The state of California has a man listed as my husband, though.”
I feel someone hovering behind me. Dealing with this nonsense, I won’t be pressured out of line prematurely. I turn around with my hands up between us. “She’ll be with you in a minute, Sixty-seven.” I nod toward the chairs, short of telling him to scram.
He grumbles but backs up, giving us space.
When I turn back to Roberta, she says, “Mrs. Farin—”
“Ms.”
“Ms. Farin,” she starts again, resting her hands on top of one another in front of her keyboard. “If he’s listed legally as your husband, you’ll have to divorce him. We can’t just click a button to remove him. If only we could be so lucky to rid a loser out of our lives by pushing a button.” Her laughter slips in the lobby and echoes. “You’ll need to file through the courts.” She waves Sixty-seven back up. “Approach.”
Whipping my head to the side, I give him the evil eye. “Don’t approach. I’m going to need a minute.”
“Roberta,” I say in a syrupy-sweet tone when I turn back. “There must be something you can do to help me. It’s not my mistake.” I know those are the wrong words the moment they leave my mouth.
Her eyes ice over and narrow, making me feel like the bull’s-eye she’s aiming for. “It’s not mine either,” she protests, crossing her arms over her large chest.
We stare at each other, but I know I’m the one who will lose in the end.