Chapter 13
Phoenix
Our photographer is short, burgundy-haired, and more enthusiastic than I’m comfortable with.
“Ugh, this is gorgeous ,” she says as she snaps photo after photo of Holland. “Arm down a little—perfect, yes, love it. Love. You’re fierce”— click! —“you’re a goddess”— click! —“tilt the chin a little bit, down to the left, perfect”— click! —“I hate that you guys booked a mini session. I could shoot you all day.”
I guess I have to thank my lucky stars that she’s doing bridal portraits before I’m required to join in; I didn’t realize that was part of the process, but I’m glad it is. I’ve parked myself and our bags on a smooth stone bench along the garden path while Holland poses awkwardly next to a tree further down, showing off the back of her dress.
And she looks beautiful. I hate that I have to admit it, but I do. She’s so gorgeous, so sexy, that my brain keeps trying to forget what a pest she is, irritating and annoying. All I seem capable of processing is that bare expanse of skin—smooth gold against the white of the dress, the curved wings of her shoulder blades. If she were any other woman, I would be imagining trailing one finger down the delicate crease of her spine, just to see how she reacted? —
But she isn’t, and I’m not.
I will, however, need a minute before I have to go stand next to her and pretend to be in love.
“Oh,” Holland says, speaking for the first time in over a minute, and I look up to see her craning her head toward me. “My jewelry!”
I look blankly at her.
“My jewelry,” she says, rolling her eyes but not moving otherwise; her body is still in its look-over-the-shoulder pose. “In the paper bag. Can you reach in and grab it for me? It’s a biggish velvet box.”
I exhale and lean sideways, digging through the bag until I find the box, soft red velvet and the size of a large calculator. “This is giant,” I say, holding it up.
“It’s nice jewelry,” she says. “Can you open it and bring me the stuff? It should just be a necklace and earrings?—”
But she breaks off when I open the box and something flutters to the ground. “What’s that—” she begins, letting go of her pose and turning to face me, frowning.
I lean down and pick it up. It’s pure white, lacy, and at first I think it’s a handkerchief—until I look closer.
Lingerie. This little scrap of fabric is unmistakably lingerie. In fact—I put the box down next to me on the bench—it’s a set of lingerie, two little scraps of fabric, and I cannot touch these or look at them or even think about them. I turn my head pointedly, swallow, and set the clothes blindly to the side.
Seventeen times two is thirty-four. Seventeen times three is fifty-one. Seventeen times four is sixty-eight ? —
“Maggie,” Holland groans, hurrying toward me, heels click-clacking against the paved stone path. “I’m going to kill her.”
I keep my head turned the opposite direction until Holland reaches the bench, her cheeks pinker than they were thirty seconds ago. She mutters murderously under her breath as she leans down and fumbles with the jewelry case and the undergarments; I hear her shove them back in the large paper bag, at which point I finally deem it safe enough to look.
I recite the seventeen times tables until the photographer is ready for me, and by that time I’m calm, collected, and not thinking about lacy undergarments.
“Okay, groom, come stand next to your bride-to-be,” she says with a smile once we’ve relocated to a different part of the garden. It’s pretty, but flowers all pretty much look the same to me. “You guys are going to hold hands and look at each other. Both of you face forward.”
I glance at Holland just as she glances at me, and I see the faintest grimace of distaste flash over her features before she smooths her expression. I shouldn’t be annoyed, because I feel the same way, but I am; I roll my eyes and then hold out my hand to her.
She stares at it for a second, the midmorning sun turning her curls from blonde to fiery gold. I don’t know anything about makeup, but I can tell her lashes are darker and longer, fluttering as her gaze flits from my face to my hand and then back again. I wiggle my hand impatiently, until finally she takes it.
She slides her hand into mine, her touch hesitant, her skin soft. It doesn’t feel like her at all; she’s never soft or hesitant with me.
“Good,” the photographer says, practically bouncing with energy now. “Good, good. This is great. These are going to be so great. I know we’re only doing two couple poses, but they’re going to be amazing, all right? They’re going to be so good.”
“Are we only doing two poses?” Holland says to me out of the corner of her mouth. Relief seeps from her words, the same relief I feel when I remember that I booked a mini session for this exact reason.
“Yes,” I say. “Two poses and then we’re done.”
Her shoulders relax slightly. “Perfect.” It would seem I’m not the only one reluctant to put on a loving act for a camera. “In that case…” Her grip on my hand tightens. “Let’s get this over with.”
I just roll my eyes, because that’s what I’ve been saying all along.
The photographer snaps photo after photo as Holland and I look at each other, fake smiles on our faces. I’m not sure anyone would be able to tell, or at least anyone who didn’t know us well—but then, one thing I can say about Amsterdam is that I know her.
There are no lines at the corners of her eyes, no dimples in her cheeks. That smile is fake, fake, fake.
Will she ever give me one of her real smiles? It might be nice to see one, just once. This baring of the teeth is painful to look at.
“Your eye is twitching,” she mutters as the sun rises higher in the sky and the photographer continues to call directions at us.
“No it isn’t,” I say immediately—but I think she’s probably right. I can’t keep this facial expression much longer. “And if it is, it’s just because your hand is gross and sweaty, Spinster Ham.”
“ Spinster Ham? ” she says under her breath, her smile fermenting into something sour. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I know,” I say. “But you inspired me to step up my game when you called me Flamingo the other day, and I liked how it sounded.” My fake pleasant expression transforms into something slightly more real.
“ Amsterdam, Spinster Ham, Dumpster Ma’am, Gangster Glam— you have too much time on your hands, Titmouse.”
“Don’t forget Hamster Slam ,” I say.
“All right, couple, these are looking amazing,” the photographer calls, and I blink, looking at her.
I forgot she was there.
“You guys look so good. So, so good,” she gushes, looking down at her camera screen. “Ugh. So good.”
I don’t see how those photos could possibly look good; the realization makes me wince. We got carried away, but we need to stay focused and make these convincing. “My family needs to buy this,” I say to Holland, my jaw tight.
“I know,” she says, her voice grudging. “They will.”
Some of the tension leaks out of my shoulders.
“Let’s move on to pose number two,” the photographer says. “We’re going to do a really adorable cheek-kiss shot. So groom, I want you to stand behind the bride—let’s move over here, actually, because I want to get this sun coming through, good, perfect—stand behind the bride, groom, and then you’re going to wrap your arms around her waist from behind and kiss her on the cheek.”
Kiss her on the cheek?
I clear my throat. “Fine,” I say with a nod. I move toward Holland, approaching her from behind; she watches me over her shoulder, her expression blank.
“Closer,” the photographer calls, and I inch forward. She waves her hand for me to keep going; I grit my teeth and take another step. It’s only when I feel the heat of Holland’s bare back seeping through my shirt that the photographer deems us close enough.
It’s too close. I can smell the hairspray in her loose curls and the faint sweet peppermint of whatever soap or perfume she always uses; I can feel her curves pressed up against me.
“Now wrap your arms around her waist, husband,” the photographer says, “and then wife, you’re going to hold your hands over his.”
I comply, moving my arms mechanically around her, and just as stiffly, Holland rests her hands over mine.
“You better not take any liberties,” she mutters over her shoulder, and I scoff.
“Did I or did I not tell you that I’m not interested in anything you have?” I say in a low voice, so the photographer won’t hear.
“You did,” Holland says, “but I look hot in this dress, Canary, and we’re getting very cozy here.” Her hands over mine soften, and I startle when I feel her tracing slow, lazy patterns over my skin. “So make sure nothing distracts you,” she goes on. She pinches the back of my hand suddenly, and I hiss.
I free my pinched hand and angle my body slightly, leaning my head closer to speak in her ear. “Don’t start games like this,” I breathe—and then, finally, I give in to the impulse that’s been riding me for the last hour. I lift my hand and slowly, carefully, touch one finger to the back of her neck; when she doesn’t stop me, I trail that finger down, down, down her spine. “Because you won’t win, darling wife. ”
Her breath hitches at the words, and they surprise me too.
“Tilt your body just a bit, groom, and bride, give me a nice smile. Then groom, you’re going to lean forward and give her a sweet kiss on the cheek,” the photographer calls, blissfully unaware of our heated conversation. I let my hand fall away from the base of Holland’s spine and then wrap my arm around her waist again .
“You’re the mud caked beneath the hooves of a warthog,” Holland murmurs through a blinding smile.
I curl my fingers around her wrist until they find her pulse. “And your heart is beating too fast,” I breathe against her skin as I lean forward and touch my lips to her cheek.
Her hand twitches, and I laugh softly.
“Gorgeous!” the photographer calls as her camera erupts in a flurry of clicks and snaps. “Perfect! You guys are the cutest —these are going to turn out so good. A few more, just a few more and then—” She breaks off, glancing at her watch. “And then it looks like we’re done for this session, but honestly, please book me again any time, because you guys are totally smokin’.” She brings the camera back up to her face. “Okay, one last kiss to her cheek, groom, good, good, and…that’s a wrap!”
We separate so immediately that the photographer looks startled; she glances back and forth between us for a second and then laughs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know it’s hard to stand in the same position for a long time. But I got some great photos!”
“Thank you,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice pleasant. “I’ll look forward to seeing what you’ve got.” Then, once she’s busy gathering her photography gear, I turn to Holland. “We’re going to obtain a marriage license now, once you’ve changed back into your street clothes. After that you’re free to go home.”
I don’t see or hear from Holland for the rest of the weekend; not even when I text her and tell her that half a dozen new outfits chosen by Wyatt are in the mail to her, all of them clothes my family should approve of. Normally that’s something she would respond to, but all I get is silence.
She’s ignoring me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have touched her like that.
When I text her Sunday night to tell her we need to meet at Town Hall to get married Tuesday morning at nine, she doesn’t say anything either. It’s only when I tell her to answer me or I’ll drag her there myself that I hear back—a single thumbs up.
The day of our wedding dawns bright and early, and the weather is mockingly perfect. There’s a pleasant breeze that will heat up as the sun climbs higher, which would probably render my all-black ensemble too warm, but we should be done before the hottest part of the day arrives.
I reach the steps of Town Hall at nine on the dot, Wyatt by my side. Holland isn’t here yet, as far as I can see, but that’s not surprising. Given her radio silence, I can assume she’s still not thrilled about our arrangement.
She can feel how she wants, I tell myself, straightening my tie out of habit more than need. No one made her sign the contract.
When she arrives five minutes later, she’s coming from the direction of the town square; something anxious and queasy bubbles in my stomach, because there’s no way she didn’t draw attention on her way.
She’s dressed in all black. Black, long-sleeved shirt despite the summertime; long, black skirt; I even see black tennis shoes peeking out as she walks. She looks like a wraith. Even her long, blonde ponytail seems more subdued than normal, hanging solemnly instead of swinging this way and that.
Her shuffling steps bring her closer and closer until finally she stops in front of me, and I raise one eyebrow.
“All black, I see. ”
“I’m in mourning,” she says flatly. She jerks her chin at my clothes. “You did the same.”
“Yes,” I say, irritated. “Because I look excellent in black. Not because I believe my life is ending.” My jaw clenches without my permission; I force myself to relax. “And what about the dark circles?” I say, pointing to the shadows beneath her eyes. “Are those for mourning too?”
She doesn’t respond; she just glares.
But something slips into my mind then, a suspicion, and my lips tug into a frown. “You don’t—” I break off and then go on. “Do you still have nightmares?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “None of your business,” she says stiffly, turning away from me and starting up the steps to Town Hall.
That’s a resounding yes, then.
I climb quickly after her, reaching out and grabbing the soft sleeve of her shirt. I turn her to face me. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I say.
What an idiotic thing to ask.
She thinks so too. “Why would I tell you?” she says, yanking her arm out of my grasp. “What are you going to do? Ride in on your white horse and save me?” She turns away and climbs faster, hurrying ahead of me, favoring her sore knee just slightly.
“This was your choice, Amsterdam,” I call. I take the steps two at a time to catch up. “I offered you work in my office.”
“I needed your insurance,” she says once we reach the top of the stairs.
“I would’ve given you employee benefits.” Ironically enough, if she’d come to me and asked for money to get health care, I would have given it to her .
But she would never. She’s too proud, and she would never accept something for nothing.
Her gaze darts away from mine, and that muscle in her jaw is twitching. “You should inherit Butterfield,” she finally says, her words short, terse.
I stare at her. “What?”
“Butterfield,” she says impatiently, and she still won’t look at me. “You should inherit. You’d be a good—” She breaks off and starts again. “Your cousin is a jerk. You should inherit.”
Something stirs in my chest, warm and surprisingly gentle.
But she pours icy water on that feeling the second she opens her mouth again. “Now stop talking to me, and let’s just do this.”
I sigh and nod, and together we make our way into Town Hall. The clerk’s office is on the second floor; we climb the stairs in our funeral clothes, attracting stares from the few people we see, until we reach the little door with the clerk’s sign.
“I need to get a drink,” Holland says under her breath. “I’ll be back.”
“What—now?”
“I said I’ll be back! Just stop talking to me.” She doesn’t wait for my answer; she just storms away.
So I step inside without her.
The man at the counter is short and balding with a pleasant-but-harried smile on his face; I give him a little nod and try not to picture how his expression will change when Holland comes in looking like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
“You’re the nine-thirty civil ceremony?” he says .
“Correct,” I say. I gesture to Wyatt, who’s been following us silently this whole time. “And I brought a witness.”
“Good, good,” the man says, shuffling around behind the counter. “Well, take a seat. You’re a bit early.”
I sit down in one of the nondescript brown chairs, and Wyatt sits next to me. He passes me a water bottle, opening one for himself as well, and together the two of us drink filtered water in what might be the most boring bachelor party known to man. Then I look at the clock on the wall.
It ticks…
…and tocks…
…and ticks…
…and tocks…
…and fifteen minutes later, Holland still hasn’t returned.
“All right,” the bald man finally says. He smiles at me. “Where’s the bride-to-be, eh?”
“No idea,” I say. I take a swig from my water bottle, and then another, and then one more. “We’re not currently on speaking terms.”
“You’re not currently—you’re not—what?” He dabs nervously at his brow, hurrying around the counter. “You’re—I mean to say—” He clears his throat and leans closer. “You’re supposed to get married in three minutes,” he says under his breath.
“Correct,” I say, shotgunning the rest of my water in one gulp.
I’m about to pull out my phone and call her, but just as I’m reaching for it, the handle to the office turns.
And there she is: my bride.
The nervous little man jumps, just like I knew he would when he saw her—a grim reaper, silhouetted in the doorway, cloaked in billowing black, gathering those doomed to die.
“A short, legally binding ceremony is our preference,” I tell him, standing up and straightening my suit jacket. “I’m sure you understand.”
His gaze jumps back and forth between Holland and me, and he bobs his head. “Of—of course,” he says quickly. “You have the marriage certificate?”
Wyatt produces it from seemingly out of nowhere; he passes it to the man, who nods again.
“Come on,” I say to Holland. She steps in and closes the door behind her; our officiant’s face pales noticeably.
“Right,” he says with a nervous little laugh. “Right—here, then? Is anyone else joining you?”
“It’s just us,” I say. “And here is perfect. Proceed, please.”
I just need this part of the process to be over and done.
Holland comes to a stop at my side; she doesn’t look at me. We both stare at the man as he glances at our marriage certificate and then begins to speak, his eyes jumping between us as though he expects us to stop him at any time.
“We gather here today to celebrate the joining of Phoenix Park and Holland Blakely in holy matrimony,” he says.
And his words—they’re just words, but somehow the already-quiet office falls completely silent; the clock ceases to tick, the paper in his hands ceases to crinkle or rustle. My whooshing pulse and the words coming out of his mouth; those are the only things I hear. A vague sense of foreboding fills me, fog creeping into my chest cavity, ghosting around my ribs and clouding around my heart. That fog thickens when the man glances up at me, questioning, but I just nod.
“Do you, Phoenix Park, take Holland Blakely to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
I clear my throat as my pulse pounds behind my eyes, against my sternum.
“Yes,” I say.
The man nods and then looks at Holland .
“And do you, Holland Blakely, take Phoenix Park to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
My gaze flies to her, my shoulders tense.
Because in this moment, I truly don’t know what she’s going to say. Up until thirty seconds ago I would have said she would go through with this, but the feeling in this room—it’s heavy. Significant.
I didn’t think it would be like this.
“Yes,” Holland says quietly, and relief, sweet and potent, floods through me. “I do.”
The man stands up a little straighter; he seems just as relieved as I am. My heart beats faster still as he goes on, but it’s no longer frantic or anxious; that pulse feels strong, healthy, full of life.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Florida,” he says, and I could swear his words are louder, “I now pronounce you married.”
Just like that, Holland Blakely becomes Holland Park.
I look at her; she looks at me. We both swallow, and I see the same weight settling on her shoulders that I feel on mine; it’s something indefinable, intangible, but undeniably present. A shiver runs down my spine, goosebumps on the back of my neck; then we break eye contact, and the moment is gone.
Three hours later, she officially moves into my house.