Chapter 12 #2
“Even if she does, I’m not calling her,” I interrupted. “I don’t have anyone. If we need to wait so I can find a lawyer, we’ll wait.” I motioned to the long checklist at my right. “You know where to find me.”
He glanced at the list and then at me, his gaze shifting from my eyes to the crab earrings.
An inkling of a smile pressed at his lips.
“I cannot be objective or impartial, and I’d be lying if I said I could be, though you should know it’s a fair agreement.
Anything I added beyond the standard language is intended to protect and benefit you.
But I won’t fault you if you want to wait. ”
I noticed for the first time the sun-kissed highlights in his dark hair. Another thing hidden under those hats. “Do you think I need to wait?”
“No.”
I flipped through the pages, reading each line and comprehending a decent amount of it. When I came to the end, I asked, “Should I sign this one? Or your copy?”
He pulled a pen from inside his suit coat, handed it to me. “Yours. You first. I’ll take care of everything else.”
I could not be the only one hearing this.
Then, “Nice earrings.”
“Don’t make fun,” I replied.
“Give me some credit.” He futzed with his cuffs. “I’m not about to insult my wife on our wedding day.”
As impossible as it should’ve been, that was the first time someone had referred to me as their wife and that knowledge blindsided me.
The ex never used that word. It was always girlfriend or fiancée, and I should’ve noticed that red flag a long, long time ago.
Though in this moment, I hated the amount of mental energy I’d spent on the ex today.
He didn’t need it and he didn’t deserve it from me.
When I didn’t respond because I was busy rewinding the game tape on the past year of my life, Noah added, “I’m truly not teasing you. They’re cute. They’re”—he skimmed a gaze over my romper—“not what I would’ve expected.” He cleared his throat. “But they’re you.”
We stared at each other for a moment, me with his pen clutched in my hand and him with that loosened tie I itched to straighten for him.
Then, the bubble burst.
Noah pointed at the document. “If you want to sign that today, do it now. We need to get there before they close for the lunch hour.”
I uncapped the pen. Time to hurry up and get married. “Right.”
* * *
The drive to Providence didn’t take long and I appreciated the hell out of that.
Neither of us knew what to say and I couldn’t be the only one with the same questions playing on a loop in their head: What the hell am I doing?
Why the hell am I doing this? What if it’s the worst decision I’ve ever made and I screw up everything with Twin Tulip?
What if it’s not the worst decision? What happens if this works out?
Hope was such a sticky thing. And it was sneaky too. Always showing up in the moments it was least welcome.
Noah parked in an underground garage. Without looking at me, he asked, “You’re sure you want to do this?”
What the hell am I doing? Why the hell am I doing this? “Are you?”
He closed his fingers around the keys, nodded. “Fair enough.”
We walked out of the garage and up to the street where the sun was blinding, and thick, oppressive heat seemed trapped between the buildings without anywhere to go. Thank god I’d opted for a short romper with an air vent. I would’ve wilted otherwise.
Noah brought his hand to my back, steering me away from the curb. “It’s up here,” he said, the words tight. He must’ve been sweltering in that suit.
He led me down the street, that hand never far from my back, and into an old building with a gray granite facade.
It was blessedly cool in here, and quiet too.
As if we were the only people in the world who could think of marriage on a day like today.
He pointed me toward a door at the end of a long hallway and my sandals snapped against the stone floors, fracturing the air-conditioned stillness.
Noah held the door open for me, saying, “Last chance to change your mind.”
“Hardly. There are at least ten more opportunities to run out of here like my pants are on fire. This is just the first of the final chances.”
“Not sure if that’s supposed to reassure me”—he shifted his hand to the exposed skin where the romper cut out, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric—“or make me hold on tighter.”
This guy really needed to stop with all these comments.
I was not built to withstand such things, especially not while our marriage was very fake and my attraction to him was becoming very real.
Not that I would ever act on that attraction.
There was no way we could complicate our lives any further.
“Reassure.” I said this but I didn’t step away from his touch.
“I swear, I won’t run off. First, it’s too hot to run and I wouldn’t get far in these shoes, but also, I’d never do that to someone.
I don’t believe in walking away and leaving without an explanation.
I’d have the most awful, uncomfortable conversation of my life before doing that. ”
“Good to know.” He glanced inside the office. “Shall we?”
The paperwork was quick. Noah insisted on paying the license fee. We waited, glancing between an old painting of Providence and notices about upcoming election deadlines.
Since I had no idea what to say, I asked, “Is it blueberry season now? Or has that passed?”
At the same moment, Noah asked, “How long will it take to get the classroom ready?”
We forced brittle laughs and motioned at each other to go ahead, which resulted in another forced laugh.
“Your classroom,” he said, ending this standoff.
“I’ll be busy for a few days,” I said. “But it will be okay. I’ll get it done.”
“I’d offer to send Gennie to help but I’m not sure I could talk her into going to school when it’s not required. Even if it means spending time with you.”
“Let’s not subject her to that.” I clasped my hands in front of me. “So, those blueberries?”
“Blueberry season is over for the year. We’re doing peaches, melons, and early season apples. And quince. Quince is big.”
“What…is quince, exactly?”
He dipped a hand into his pocket and gave a bashful grin. “It looks like a pear. Green skin, golden-yellow fruit, seeds on the inside. Tart. Super tart. No one eats it raw. Great for jams though. Exceptional for balancing sweetness and adding dimension.”
“Quince.” I said it slowly. “Sounds like a jam good time.”
Noah’s eyes creased as he chuckled. “Still want to marry me now that I’ve outed myself as a quince enthusiast?”
“Still want to marry me now that I’ve started with jam puns?”
Noah began to respond but a door opened, our names called. He gave me half a smile. “Another last chance.”
I didn’t have a single good reason as to why I was doing this. Loads of mediocre reasons, a few flat-out bad ones. Several unreasonable ones too. But I shook my head and motioned for him to follow me.
The ceremony was remarkably fast. Without the bells and whistles of a full wedding production, there wasn’t much to it. Flash some identification, answer some questions, say “I do” a few times, and that was it. That was the whole thing.
To think, I’d devoted months upon months to planning a wedding down to every picture-perfect minute and this one was said and done in fewer than five.
“Are you exchanging rings?” the alderman asked.
“Oh, I—” I grimaced up at Noah. Did fake marriages require rings? “No. I don’t know. I don’t think so?”
“Here.” Noah reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a brown string. “It’s twine,” he said as if he was apologizing. He took my hand. “We tie it around our jam jars. I had an extra piece and”—he kept his gaze low as he looped it around my fourth finger, tied a bow—“you don’t have to keep it.”
“I didn’t think,” I started, shaking my head as if that would explain all the reasons I hadn’t thought to bring something for him. “I’m sorry.”
“No need,” he said, still occupied with the twine.
The alderman glanced between us several times before continuing. “By the power vested in me by the state of Rhode Island, I am pleased to be the first to announce you as husband and wife. Congratulations.”
Noah tore his gaze away from my hand and up to my face, his expression as cool and stony as the front side of this building. I would’ve given anything to know what he was thinking.
Instead, I pulled my hand from his hold and held it up in the universal high five position.
As one did upon getting fake married.
After a pause where he only blinked at my hand, Noah slapped his palm to mine. I threaded my fingers between his and pumped our joined hands like we’d just won a cutthroat game of doubles ping-pong.
Noah laughed quietly. “Come on, wife. Let’s get you some lunch.”
* * *
“This is really good,” I said, jabbing my fork in the direction of my plate.
“Is it good or is it that your frame of reference is limited to pudding cups and popcorn?”
I took another bite of the summer tomato salad and considered Noah’s question as I chewed. “It’s really good. And I don’t just eat pudding and popcorn.”
“Oh, right. Can’t forget about the Cheez-Its.”
“And rice,” I said between bites. “I reheat a lot of rice.”
Noah glanced out the window at the foot traffic on North Main Street while he drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “Don’t tell me that,” he murmured.
I rustled in the bread basket. “Why not? It’s the truth. I don’t see any reason to shelter you.”
He turned back to me and drew his fingers into a fist. It struck me then how right he looked in this upscale restaurant.
The plaid shirts and worn jeans were deceptive but this boy knew how to order wine by the bottle and fit right in with the weekday power lunch crew.
My view from this side of the table was immaculate.
“Manhattan must’ve loved you,” I said.
He arched a brow. “In what way?”