I shouldn't have married so young. But I'd been desperate to get away from the run-down part of the suburbs. Away from my overprotective parents. Ben and I had met at the Starbucks I worked at.  

* * * 

"Caramel Macchiato, sir." I placed the nearly overflowing mug in front of him. He smiled. Small wrinkles appeared around his eyes. 

As I turned to go, two things happened at once. He touched my arm. A customer bumped into me. 

I lost my balance and fell into him. In the shuffle, his coffee was knocked over. Syrup and froth spilled onto the table.                        

I had practically fallen into his lap. His eyes were a bright green. I leaped up quickly. "God, I'm sorry!" 

"Not your fault, love." He had an attractive face and a crisp British accent. What was a British man doing in Glassboro, New Jersey? 

As I cleaned the mess up, I stammered, "I-I'll get you a new one." 

 He smiled slowly. "Take your time. I'm in no hurry." 

 Two hours later, when my shift was over, he was still seated at one of the tables. 

"So, so sorry, again." I placed another macchiato safely onto the table. 

He put down the copy of the New York Times he'd been reading. I turned to go. It was too easy to stare at his eyes. 

"Done working?" He sipped the drink, not spilling a drop. His hands were long and elegant. 

I stepped closer to avoid a passing coworker. "How did you know?" 

"You're not wearing that stained, green apron." He smiled and I felt foolish—how obvious! 

To my surprise, he introduced himself and offered to buy me dinner. I said yes, ignoring the “on your way home?” text from my mom. We went to the Olive Garden across the street. 

"We don't have this restaurant chain in Britain," he told me over his chicken marsala dish. 

Chewing a bite of lasagna, I nodded. My cell vibrated. I knew it would be Mom again, so I ignored it. 

He glanced at my bag. "You've never been, have you?" 

"I haven't ever left Glassboro," I confessed. 

"Are you still at university?" he asked. 

I shook my head. "I graduated high school a week ago." 

"Really?" He studied me carefully. "You seem older." 

I'd gotten that before. That's why mom never let me do anything. She was always afraid I'd be corrupted by older men. But Ben seemed to be a gentleman; he'd even pulled out my chair for me.  

I shifted in my seat. "Nope. I'm just eighteen." 

He sipped his glass of red wine and looked at me thoughtfully. "You'd like to leave, wouldn't you?" 

My phone buzzed again. I still didn't check it. "Is it that obvious?" 

He smiled, revealing neat white teeth. "You've got curious eyes. I understand curiosity. That's why I became a surgeon." 

I blushed under his stare. My brown eyes were nothing special, but that's not what his eyes said. Yet again, my phone vibrated. 

"You're rather popular. Go ahead, answer it," he said. 

"I'm sorry." I quickly checked my phone. "Where on earth are you? Meatloaf's getting cold!" my mother’s texts read. 

I made a face. "It's my mom. My parents are always on my case. It's so annoying." I quickly texted back: "I'm stuck in traffic." 

"Suffocating, isn't it?" he asked softly. 

"Yeah. I'm the only child," I said. 

"If you'd like, I could help with that. Of course, we've just met, but I have a business proposal." His British accent made everything sound exciting. 

"A business proposal?" I raised my eyebrows. "But I don't know anything about surgery. I only took one anatomy class in school." 

He pushed aside his chicken marsala and leaned across the table. His green eyes held my attention. I couldn't have looked away if I wanted to.  

"Actually, you're just the lady I've been looking for..." 

By the end of the summer, Ben had even won my parents over. My parents loved his charm. They ignored his age when they learned how wealthy he was. 

"He owns a cottage worth seven million dollars?!" Mom had said. 

Ben was successful. A simple Google search proved that. But you could also tell just by looking at him.  

He was tall and thin, and he always dressed in suits. They were expensive, tailor-made. He was thirty-eight. There were grey strands in his short black hair. Still, Ben seemed ten years younger.  

When he spoke, however, his intelligence and all-knowing voice gave him away. In these times, Ben seemed older than thirty-eight. So worldly. And when those green eyes focused on you...he could make you believe anything. 

So my parents let me marry him. At eighteen years old, I was to manage his Cotswold estate. To be his wife. In England. Away from my parents. No more boredom, no more poverty. I'd have a future with possibilities.  

My best friend, Tessa, was the only skeptic. We met up the night before I departed for England. We had been sitting in the Starbucks I'd just quit working for.  

Tessa was on her ten-minute break. "You sure about this? I still can't believe you married him. You've only known him for three months! How much do you really know about him? You can't be so trusting!" 

 I smiled, thinking of his eyes. "I'm sure. I love him. He's a surgeon. I trust him. He cares about me like no one has." 

 “But does he love you? What about your parents?" Tessa asked, raising her eyebrows.  

 I shrugged. "Mom said he'll learn to love me. Ben bought them a house! They moved out of that shack." 

 "A house?" Tessa asked loudly. Customers looked in our direction. "He bribed your parents." 

 "Lower your voice," I said. 

 "A house," Tessa repeated. "That's crazy. And isn't he twenty years older than you?" 

 "He's generous. And age doesn't matter," I said.  

 Tessa scowled. "What, so you're his American charity case? Poor little girl?" 

 "Of course not. I'm helping him with his cottage. He's really busy at the hospital," I explained. 

 Tessa shook her head. "It's not too late to back out. You can get a divorce. Go to college." 

 "No. I can't. I don't have options like you, Tessa. I'm not smart enough for the scholarship you got." 

 Tessa narrowed her eyes. "You're not stupid. You just rely on being pretty. Stop hiding behind your looks!" 

 "I'm not," I whispered heatedly, leaning forward in my chair. Even the manager was looking at us. 

 Tessa frowned. "You know what I think? That you're afraid. Your parents sheltered you. You're so inexperienced. Ben's the wrong choice. He's the easy way out. A fairy tale. Why don't you do something real?" 

 I stood up from my chair, furious. "I think you're just jealous. Enjoy studying at Princeton. I'm sure that'll be real enough for you!" And then I turned and left.  

 The next morning, when Ben and I were on the plane, I felt terrible. We were comfortably sitting in first class. It was my first time flying. I realized that Tessa hadn't been wrong.   And that I hadn't apologized to her. I'd ignored her phone calls. 

 I had to call her after settling into Ben's cottage. He wouldn't have to worry about the cost of an international phone call. 

 "My chauffeur will be waiting for us at Heathrow, love," Ben said, playing with the curl that'd escaped from my ponytail.  

 "Okay," I said weakly.  

 "What's wrong? Are you still upset because of Tessa? She'll come round." 

 I nodded but continued feeling guilty. 

 "You know, I adore your hair. It's so...yellow. My darling blonde doll," Ben whispered, kissing my forehead. 

 I looked into his piercing eyes. He looked so sincere. He was right. Everything would be fine. 

* * * 

The car ride took an hour and a half. But I never got bored. Ben was delightful. He explained all the London landmarks. He taught me some British-English. "Flat" instead of "apartment." "Biscuit" instead of "cookie." He mimicked my American accent. I laughed. 

Everything felt new and different. Ben's chauffeur sat on the right side of the car and drove on the left. I'd expected that, but it was still strange to see. The cars were smaller, the drivers polite. And then, so much green!                

When we turned onto the country road, Ben surprised me. Hugging me to him, Ben said, "You're my first American wife." 

 I pulled back to look at him. "You've been married before?" Tessa had been right. Now that I thought of it, he always talked about me. What I knew about him I could have counted on one hand. 

His name was Ben Holden. 

He was thirty-eight. 

He was a surgeon at Cheltenham General Hospital. 

He was wealthy. 

His north Cotswold estate was his main residence. 

He gently pulled one of my curls. "Three times." 

"I'm your fourth wife?" I fought not to drop my jaw. 

He chuckled. "You've nothing to worry about, love. They died before your time. I haven't remarried in years." Ben kissed me. "I was waiting for someone special." 

It didn't take me long to set a routine. Every weekday, Ben left at 7am to commute to the hospital. He'd kiss me goodbye. "Stay out of trouble," he'd say. 

I rose at 8am. At breakfast, my only company was the elderly Russian housekeeper. She watched me eat. Her small, dark eyes and silence took my hunger away. 

I quickly learned not to offer help. There were six bedrooms, three baths. And the maids and housekeeper didn't want me interfering.  

After making up with Tessa over the phone, we talked on a weekly basis. She suggested I explore the grounds of Ben's estate. "Jog around the cottage," she said. 

That's how jogging became a daily activity. And then one surprisingly sunny day, I changed my route. I was tired of the silence of the cottage. The staring staff. 

I jogged off the secluded estate. I knew our nearest neighbor was a mile-and-a-half away. The chauffeur instructed me to cut through the woods. So I did. It only took twenty minutes to get to the other side. A cottage the size of Ben's came into view. 

Then I heard gun shots. I ran toward the house, fearing the worst. The nearest hospital—Ben's—was forty minutes away.  

But when I approached the outskirts of the cottage, I noticed a line of targets. No one had been shot. Our neighbor had an outdoor-shooting range!                            

The man shooting had only two targets left, numbers nine and seven.  

I stopped outside the enclosed area. A sign was posted at the gate. "Private Property: Keep Out, Firearms in Use," it said. Beneath the words there was a silhouette of a man shooting a rifle. 

The man stopped shooting and took out his earplugs. I weakly waved. Would he be angry that I was on his property? 

He put down his rifle and opened the gate. "You're Mrs. Holden, the American?" 

I was speechless for a moment. "How do you know who I am?" 

The man motioned for me to step inside. I hesitated, studying him.  

He looked to be about Ben's age. Other than that, though, he didn't resemble my husband. This man's hair was blonde, his eyes blue. I could see faint laugh lines around his mouth. "There was an article in the paper," he explained. 

The man didn't look unkind. But then I imagined Tessa's voice: "You can't be so trusting!" 

So I didn't move. "Well that's not fair. Who are you?" 

Smiling, he stepped out of the enclosure, pulling the gate shut. "Nate Williams." He offered me his hand. 

I shook his hand and returned the smile. "Do you shoot for a living?" I joked. 

It began drizzling. "Why don't you come inside?" he asked. "I can tell you and we can keep dry." 

"How do I know you won't use me as target practice?" I asked, half-serious. 

"Your phone's in your jumper," he said. "My sister's home."  

"Jumper?" I asked, confused. 

"Sorry," Nate said. "What do you Americans call it? Your sweater." 

The drizzle turned to rain. "Alright, let's go inside," I said, following him to his front door. And that was how my friendship with Nate and his sister Lisa began. Nate and Lisa, it turned out, had been Olympic shooting champions.  

After winning many medals, the siblings had decided to retire. Lisa was thirty years old and married with children. Nate was thirty-five and single. He now taught people how to shoot. 

Ben, I knew, had a small collection of guns. I wanted to surprise him. He liked hunting. The next time he hunted, I planned on joining him. Besides, I was bored and in need of company. So every weekday, I spent half my day with Nate. 

He drove me around the countryside. We went to the movies. Or, as he called it, "the cinema." And he taught me how to shoot. Nate refused to charge me for lessons. "I'm not paying you to be my friend," he explained.  

It only took me a week to hit the center target. He believed I had a talent for shooting. I didn't know what to think. But I wasn't bored. So when Ben came home, I didn't cling to him or complain. My days were filled with friendship.