She Married Me to Make My Best Friend Jealous

1: 1

Before he left the country, my best friend told me Valerie Fox was a bad woman.

I didn't just refuse to believe him. I threw away my career and married into her family.

The day Patrick Henson came home, Valerie got to the airport before I did.

I watched her fling away the flowers, hysterical as she demanded, "You said I don't know how to love. But I picked some piece of trash at random, and I've loved him for three years! Tell me I'm not capable of loving someone. Patrick Henson, how cold can your heart be?"

Patrick took a step back. "He's not trash. He's my brother."

I watched my wife lean in and kiss my brother's mouth, full of feeling.

In that moment, I understood. She was someone capable of love.

It just wasn't me she loved.

1

The rain in New York was heavy. I stood under my black umbrella, and I'd come at the wrong time.

"How many more years do I have to keep acting this out with him before you believe I'm not a bad woman?"

Valerie's words wound around my ears with the rolling thunder.

My brother's eyes found me.

He lifted his chin at me, a kind of greeting.

Then he looked down at the woman in front of him and warned her, meaning well, "Your husband's here."

Valerie didn't believe him. "What's the point in saying that now? Even if he showed up, it wouldn't change—"

I cut in, to keep what was left of the dignity between husband and wife.

"Valerie."

She flinched all over and turned, a little startled. "You, weren't you at home fixing that broken bike?"

"It's raining. I came to pick you two up."

She started to say something else. I stopped her. "Get in the car first."

Before coming, she'd already booked the best hotel.

"Just now, what did you hear?"

"Thunder. Couldn't make anything out."

After that the car went silent, and not another word passed between us.

At the hotel's private room, Valerie's friends had all arrived.

The moment we walked in, I heard them teasing.

"Valerie's here. Where's that highly educated, live-in bootlicker of a husband? How come he didn't come?"

I came in behind her and didn't make a sound.

The eyes at the table moved back and forth over the three of us.

"Time flies. Valerie's married now. Three years ago she was still trailing after Pat—"

Someone nearby saw it going wrong and cut in quickly, "What are you talking about? That's all in the past. Let me introduce everyone. This is Valerie's husband, Albert Chavez. A finance PhD. He had a shot at staying on to become a fellow, and gave it all up for Valerie."

One of Valerie's girlfriends scoffed. "Finance PhD, sure. Still just married into our Valerie's family as a live-in husband, didn't he? Albert, you've been with Valerie a few years now. PhD or not, a man can't just coast along waiting to die like this. A grown man with two good hands and feet, living off a woman. Aren't you afraid people will laugh?"

Patrick stood up first. "Willow Barrett, that's too ugly. Say one more thing like that about my brother and we're done."

And my wife, as if none of it had anything to do with her, kept her head down peeling shrimp.

It came naturally: she was about to hand it to Patrick.

Then she caught his look, came to her senses, and fed that shrimp to me.

Before Patrick came home, Valerie's acting had been superb.

So good that even she believed it herself.

Last night in bed, hooking a finger in my belt, she'd been all sweetness and charm.

The second Patrick came back, she forgot the act.

She even forgot I was allergic to seafood.

As I reached for the shrimp, Patrick lifted my plate away first.

Everyone watched, expecting some dramatic tug-of-war.

But Patrick only said mildly, "My brother's allergic to seafood. I'll eat it."

My brother looked at me and smiled. "Bro, this wife of yours isn't doing her job. You need to keep her in line."

Before I could say anything, Valerie beside me jerked her head up.

Her eyes went straight to Patrick.

She wrapped herself around my arm and cooed.

The whole thing looked more like a performance for him.

There was no feeling in her eyes, only panic.

She clung to my arm and shook it, like a dog wagging its tail to beg.

As if to say: See? I'm not a bad woman.