Chapter 14
The next week passes in a blur of happiness despite the start of finals.
I tackle exam papers by day and revisions by night, often taking breaks to do secret wedding planning and talk endlessly with my fiancé.
I suggest Jordan throw me a graduation party. He could then 'propose' to me in front of my family. I thought it should soften the guilt of eloping the next day.
Jordan says he doesn't care about details. He'd throw a dozen parties as long as I married him the following day.
We've gone over our plan so many times now it's pretty much set in stone: graduate, elope, move to Houston, and convince the rest of the world we're nothing but engaged.
Dad seems distracted lately, but I chalk it up to work stress. Mom throws me strange looks, like she's trying to figure out a puzzle, but mostly just keeps inviting Jordan to dinner. Drew has gotten on my nerves with how obsessively he asks—almost daily—if Jordan and I are still together.
As if he expects—hopes—the answer would be different every time.
And Jordan is... Jordan. Steady. Protective. Mine.
Except for the times when he reminds me exactly who he is.
Like earlier today. I'd been studying for Monday's calculus exam—the biggest one—and needed a break from the swirling numbers. So I opened Jordan's spare laptop to work on my Yale financial aid application.
"Jordan?"
"Hmm?" He continues on his Mac.
"I just don't think my financial aid application is strong enough."
Jordan looks up. "What financial aid?"
I furrow my brow at him. "Yale, of course. The need-based one." I gesture at my screen. "I should be attaching more evidence—volunteer positions, humanitarian efforts, and the like. I might not get it—"
"Sabrina." He pushes his Mac aside. "You don't need financial aid."
I scoff. "Yeah, I do. Last time I checked, tuition was fifty thousand a year. That's—"
"Leave the student bursaries for those who actually need it."
I blink at him. "I DO need it."
"No, baby. You don't." He says it so gently, so matter-of-factly, like he's explaining that water is wet. "I'll pay for it."
My mouth falls open. "Like hell you will!"
"Why not?"
"Because—" I gesture helplessly. "It's my education. My responsibility."
"And you're going to be my wife," he points out.
"So?"
"Sabrina." He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes serious. "You're telling me that even after we're married, you won't let me pay for your college?"
"Correct. I don't want your money—"
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Suit yourself then, Mrs. Farrington." His voice drops, and there's something in the way he says it—firm but warm—that makes my breath catch. "If you're too proud to spend my money, you can spend yours."
"Spend mine?" I stare at him, confused. "Which money—"
He shoots me a pointed glance. And then it hits me.
Mrs. Farrington.
When I'm Mrs. Farrington, I'll have... money. Lots of it.
"Oh my God," I breathe.
Jordan's watching me carefully. "There. She gets it now."
"Jordan, how much is... mine?"
"Enough that a dozen Yales won't... be an issue."
My heart pounds painfully. "Give me a number."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know what I'm walking into!" My voice is rising now, panic creeping in. "What, seven zeros? Eight?"
His silence is answer enough. Neither.
"Oh my God." I stand up, pacing. "Oh my God. I can't—this is—"
"This is why I don't tell you some things," he says quietly.
I spin to face him. "What, why?"
"This." He gestures at me. "This reaction is exactly why I've been trying to ease you into—"
"Ease me into being a billionaire?"
"Into understanding what marriage to me would mean, yes."
"I—I didn't ask for all this money! I just need enough to be able to afford rent and groceries and a mortgage someday—" I'm flailing now. "Just normal couple stuff. Not—" I can't even process this.
"You have enough for everything you want and more. Does it matter how much more?"
"YES, IT MATTERS!" I leave the table and head for the hallway.
"Where are you going?"
"Bathroom."
He suddenly starts laughing. "What, to throw up?"
"Screw you, Jordan."
He catches me before I reach the door, spinning me around and pressing me against the wall. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
"I'm sorry, I laughed okay," he says quietly. "But can't you see I'm the same man you fell in love with? Who enjoys greasy food at dive bars. Who teases you at math yet can't boil water to save his life. Nothing's changed."
A grudging chuckle escapes me, then his forehead touches mine. "You're the same amazing woman too. The rest is just noise. Okay?"
"Okay," I whisper.
He kisses me until I forget what we were arguing about. Then he makes me forget my own name, right against the wall.
But the universe, in all its cruel glory, serves me a brutal reminder just two days later.