Chapter 1: A Wife at the Door

I was making mac and cheese, just minding my own business, when—bam—Trevor burst through the door and blurted out, "You want a wife or not?"

The sharp cheddar smell filled my little kitchen, noodles bubbling over as I glanced up, spatula in hand, nearly dropping the pot. Trevor never knocked—he just barged in like he owned the place, but this time, his voice had a wild, breathless edge that made me freeze. What the hell? The TV was playing some late-night rerun in the background, and the old linoleum floor squeaked under his boots as he stomped across the threshold.

I shot him a look. "Quit messing around."

I tried to keep my voice steady, but the way he was grinning—it made me nervous. Trevor had that mischievous glint in his eyes, the same one he got back in high school right before a prank went sideways. My kitchen window rattled in the cold wind, and I could hear the neighbor's dog barking next door.

He grinned, all teeth. "No, really. Say the word and I’ll bring you a wife. I mean it. Tonight—you can even get ready for your wedding night."

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and for a split second, I wondered if he’d lost a bet or something. Still, I could hear the teasing in his voice, like he was daring me to call his bluff. The mac and cheese just kept bubbling, unfazed by our ridiculous conversation.

I rolled my eyes. "Alright, bring her over then," I said, not believing him for a second.

I shrugged, turned back to the stove, figuring he’d drop the joke and start talking about football or his old truck. The radiator in the corner clanked to life, and I tried to focus on stirring the noodles, not on Trevor’s nonsense.

To my shock, he actually did.

It didn’t take more than twenty minutes. I was still standing in the kitchen, pouring the neon-orange cheese powder into the pot, when Trevor came back, not alone this time. The door creaked open, and there she was—standing in the glow of my porch light, looking like she’d been dropped out of the sky.

The girl he brought was young, her hair dripping wet, skinny arms hugging herself. Her thin T-shirt and jeans clung to her, making her look even smaller.

She looked like she’d just stepped out of a rainstorm, water pooling around her battered sneakers. Her eyes darted around the room, trying to find a safe spot to land. The porch light flickered, casting long shadows, and her breath came in quick, nervous puffs. Even her shoelaces were soaked through, the laces trailing muddy water onto my welcome mat.

It was a chilly night. She shivered on my front porch, eyes darting between us, clearly scared.

Bone-deep cold—the kind that cuts through your clothes and makes your teeth chatter. My old flannel jacket was hanging by the door, and I almost offered it, but she seemed so unsure, I didn’t want to startle her. Trevor just stood there, looking proud of himself, oblivious to the tension in the air.

Trevor, way too excited, turned to her and said, "Hey, just... be his wife, alright? No big deal."

He said it like he was introducing a stray puppy, his voice light and joking, but the girl just stared at him, her eyes huge and wary. She looked at me, then back at Trevor, clutching her elbows like she was trying to hold herself together. The silence stretched out, awkward and heavy.

But she just stared, confused, like she barely understood a word he said.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. I could tell she was struggling to process what was happening, her gaze flickering between us, searching for some sign that this was all a joke or a misunderstanding. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic on the highway.

Trevor, desperate to get his point across, made a crude gesture with his hands. I smacked his arm to stop him before he could embarrass us any more.

He laughed it off, rubbing his arm where I hit him, but the girl’s cheeks flushed a deep red. I shot Trevor a glare, silently telling him to knock it off. The whole scene felt surreal, like we’d wandered onto the set of a bad sitcom.

But the girl got it. She blushed, nodded, and looked away.

Her cheeks turned rosy, and she ducked her head, her wet hair falling over her face. She didn’t say anything, just nodded once, quick and shy. The air between us felt charged, tense and uncertain.

Her shy expression made me freeze. She was pretty—the kind of girl I never thought I’d ever have a shot with.

Something about the way she looked down, hiding behind her hair, made my heart skip. She was beautiful in a way that made you want to protect her, like a lost kitten. I felt awkward, suddenly aware of my stained t-shirt and the mess in my kitchen.

I tried to pull Trevor aside to ask what the hell was really going on, but he wouldn’t budge. He pointed at the girl and said, "It was late, my dog started barking. I went outside and found her fighting the dog for food in his bowl. She was digging through my trash, eating old watermelon rinds."

He said it like it was nothing, but there was worry in his voice. The image of her wrestling with his old Labrador over scraps made my stomach twist. I looked at her again, really looked, and saw the hunger in her eyes, the way her hands trembled from more than just the cold.

Suddenly, it all made sense.

I remembered the rumors about folks crossing the river, risking everything for a shot at something better. My chest tightened, the pieces falling into place. The desperation, the silence, the way she flinched at every sudden move—it all fit.

Soaking wet, fighting a dog for scraps—there was only one explanation.

My voice dropped, barely more than a whisper. I glanced at Trevor, then at her, my mind racing. The border was less than a mile from my backyard, the river swollen from last week’s rain.

I asked quietly, "Did she swim across the river from Mexico?"

My words hung in the air, heavy as a stone. I felt like I was breaking some unspoken rule just by saying it out loud. Trevor nodded, eyes wide. He said he’d talked it over with his wife: if they turned her in, she’d probably be sent back and who knows what would happen. He felt bad for me being single, so he brought her here.

Trevor’s face was serious now, all the joking gone. He explained that his wife, Maria, had helped dry the girl off and given her some old clothes, but they were afraid to keep her. “We just… didn’t know what else to do,” he said, his voice low. “Figured maybe she could stay here. You’re good people, man.”

He told me to get food and drinks ready, treat tonight like my wedding, and call a few friends and family over for dinner.

He spoke quickly, his words tumbling over each other, like he was trying to convince both of us. "Make it look real, you know? Maybe if she stays with you, folks won’t ask questions."

I knew what he meant. Since she’d crossed the border illegally, we couldn’t have some big, fancy wedding.

In a town like ours, word traveled fast. A courthouse wedding would draw attention. Trevor was trying to protect her, but the whole thing felt like a crazy dream. I looked at the girl—at Bella—and wondered what she must be thinking.

But I was nervous too. We didn’t know each other at all, and suddenly I had a beautiful girl in my house, supposedly my wife.

My hands shook as I set the table, trying not to stare at her. I kept glancing at Trevor, hoping he’d say this was all some elaborate prank, but he just nodded, serious as I’d ever seen him. My heart pounded in my chest.

Who would’ve thought my parents would be so thrilled, calling the whole family in the middle of the night? Mom ran out to Walmart for groceries, and Dad pulled me aside, whispering that I should get her pregnant as soon as possible so she wouldn’t leave.

Mom came home with bags of groceries—milk, eggs, a store-bought pie, even some flowers for the table. She fussed over the girl, offering her a warm towel and a mug of cocoa, acting like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. Dad, meanwhile, gave me a rough pat on the back, his voice low and urgent: “Son, you gotta make sure she stays. You hear me?” It was the most he’d said to me in weeks.

At dinner, everyone stared at the girl, asking her name.

The kitchen was crowded, the table groaning under the weight of food. My aunts and uncles, cousins I hadn’t seen in months, all crammed into the house, their eyes flicking between me and the girl. The air was thick with curiosity and the smell of mashed potatoes.