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words. Nathan had insisted, in an attempt to cover up my past, that I change my name. That process has been a nightmare, form after form, office after office, affidavits, fingerprints, and nine forms of ID required — all which, creepily enough, Nathan already had copies of. “What’s wrong with my identification? We just went through all this.”
    His dark look silences me, and I bite my bottom lip and look out the window, squeezing my hands so tightly they hurt. I want nothing more than to rip off this man’s head with my next words. Instead I swallow, smooth my face into a pleasant smile. “Nathan, I didn’t bring any of my identification.”
    “Drew has all of that. You just need to smile for the photos.”
    You just need to smile for the photos. The statement is so comically accurate that I want to cry.

    We leave the courthouse two hours later; my name officially changed again — this time to Jennifer Ann Dumont. Nathan picked my middle name and I, for the pure reason of stubbornness, hate it. Ann. A boring, old lady middle name. Drew seems to pick up on my irritability, glancing in the rearview mirror as he drives. I can feel another adolescent incident, like my pool strip down, pushing at my psyche; a devil stripper perched on my shoulder, whispering scandalous ideas into my ear.
    Scream. Just scream, ‘FUCK YOU,’ as loudly as you dare.
    Look, the car is slowing. You could step out onto the street. Kick off those overpriced heels and take off running. There was a Krispy Kreme one block back. You could sink your teeth into a hot & fresh glazed donut and tell Beth to fuck off.
    Look at your husband. He’s smug, he’s happy. Jennifer the Wife has behaved — danced as ordered, changed her name to a tasteless one of his choosing.
    “What’s next?” I say brightly, holding up an imaginary middle finger to the stripper slut who seems intent on sending me straight to Crazy Town.
    “I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, and then Drew can drop me at the office and take you home.”
    Like a date? My naively romantic self wonders. “Lunch sounds good.”
    In the mirror, Drew’s eyebrows knit in something that looks like worry.

CHAPTER 11
    N athan is in the best mood I have seen him in. And unlike the forced happy that we adopt in front of the cameras, his exuberance seems genuine, his kind looks and loving smile painless in their delivery. We sit outside; he orders margaritas and beams at me across the table, his smile infectious, my own mouth curving in a bewildered response.
    “Jennifer Dumont,” he says the name in wonder, leaning forward and gripping my hand, staring at the stone there. “We should go somewhere and celebrate. Take the honeymoon we never took.”
    The honeymoon we never took? Similar to the wedding we never had? I had assumed the limo ride from the courtroom marriage ceremony was all the honeymoon we would ever have. I take a sip of water, hoping that the alcohol is on its way, wondering who this man is and what he has done with my serious, all-business husband. “A honeymoon?” I can’t think of a more creative response.
    His grin weakens a little, and he shrugs. “The press would enjoy a honeymoon. Plus, I have business in the Caribbean. You’re coming.”
    I am able to mask my irritation with the arrival of our drinks. I sip the margarita, and glance around the restaurant. I shouldn’t be irritated. I should be grateful for the trip, for an opportunity to go somewhere with this beautiful man. The mention of press means photos. Photos mean charismatic Nathan, loving smiles, and soft caresses. Photos mean a weekend like Napa — a weekend that will break my heart in its perfection. “When will we go?”
    “Next month. I have a land deal that I need to close first. Once that’s taken care of, I will be able to take a couple of days off. Plus, it will take some time to get you a passport.” He picks up the menu. “I’ll have Drew make the flight arrangements. I don’t