Chapter Twenty-one
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Will nothing concerning Malcolm Swallow ever be predictable?
Azalea
He won’t go through with it.
He’d be insane to go through with it.
There’s no way…he’d go through with it.
I cannot believe he’s going through with it.
I…
“You went through with it,” I say, stricken, seated in the front seat of Malcolm’s car and staring at a copy of my very own marriage license. Our signatures beam up at me. Mine’s a bit crooked because I kept eyeing my…almost-but-now-completely husband…and waiting for him to stop me.
He did not stop me.
In fact, he scribbled his name so fast it looks like a doctor’s signature. It’s as though he was worried I’d stop him. But I didn’t.
So.
Now I’m married.
To Malcolm Swallow.
My legal name is Azalea Swallow.
And I didn’t even sign a prenup.
Why in the world did I think gambling with Malcolm was a good idea? I thought I was calling a bluff, but now I’m married. This is the sort of thing that’s only supposed to happen in Vegas.
…
Never send me to Vegas.
“I can’t believe you went through with it,” I say, flabbergasted for lack of a more accurate word.
Dreamily, Malcolm single-handles the wheel as he guides his vehicle toward the office, because we’re both supposed to be at work right now, not getting married.
“Should we exchange rings? Plan a honeymoon? We’ll have to wait for after Ivy’s wedding.
And he deserves no less than a month-long honeymoon, but once he’s back in July, we can take August.”
Malcolm has just provided me with a lot of words to process. The only response I manage is, “I hate rings. They feel so…dirty.”
“Scarification, perhaps?”
“What?”
“It’s like a tattoo, but instead of ink, you use scars. We could get rings cut into our flesh as an eternal and irreversible symbol of our love.”
I stare at his profile, slackjawed, and finally whisper, “I’m just going to wait for you to compute the words that just came out of your mouth.”
Blissful, he grins, and I’m not certain, but I don’t think he’s doing much computing at all. Delirious with joy, he says, “I’d like to honor our union in some way, with a symbol of some kind. If you could think on it, I’d love to circle back later.”
Circle back. Like we’re discussing a merger. Which I guess, in some ways, is exactly what marriage is.
Sinking, I touch my fingers to my forehead and whisper, “I think I’m stunned.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“You’re still not funny, crow.”
His eyes sparkle. “Our very first lover’s tiff as husband and wife. What fun.”
Before I can inform him that this isn’t fun at all, and we might be married but we are absolutely not lovers, his phone buzzes in the center console. I glance over to find a text from an unknown number. The preview mentions Perfectly Painted Pottery.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Disassociating, I drawl, “I think our pottery is ready for pick up.”
“Is it?” He changes lanes. “Perfect timing.”
?
I am actually never going to ever again in my life say things. Just. I’m not. I cannot be trusted to my own devices. I agree to murder. I agree to marry. I get myself in all sorts of trouble. And for what?
I have absolutely no idea.
“Do you, Azalea Swallow,” Malcolm says the moment we’re back in his SUV with our glazed and fired pieces, “accept this crow as your lawfully wedded wedding bird?” Wistful, he presents the little black creature touched up here and there on its features with purples, blues, and greens.
It’s lovely.
Even though it’s mostly black.
Cradling my own bird against my waist, I fix my wary attention on the clinically unwell man beside me. “Malcolm?”
“Yes, my darling dove?”
I exhale. “I’m afraid I don’t really understand what’s happened today.”
“Ah.” Sagely, he nods. “Allow me to recap: We got married. We picked up our pottery. We’ll head to work soon. We’ll have dinner together.”
“Dinner…together?” I don’t have enough dinner for two.
I’m very specific in my meal prepping. I weigh everything to make sure the servings are exactly proportionate, because I have to eat all of it.
Even if it’s hard. Even if it feels impossible.
I refuse to go back to the days when I was so underweight my body ached.
“I could make tonight’s and tomorrow’s meals…
but…then I wouldn’t have dinner for tomorrow.
” And he’s too big for my portion size to be enough for him anyway.
Dinner together would mean using up my dinners for the whole week.
And today isn’t meal-prep day. I don’t have time to shop and meal prep again until meal-prep day.
He softens, and it’s visceral. The way every part of him settles, peaceful and fixated, captivates me. “Oh love,” he murmurs. “What I’m saying is that I’d like to make you dinner.”
My stomach knots. “No…I don’t…want that.”
“How about you make yourself your dinner, and I’ll make myself my dinner, and we share a few bites?”
Eyeing him, I angle my body as far away from him as I can. “I don’t think I’ve liked a single thing you’ve said today.” Or yesterday. Or ever, actually.
He pets the little head of his crow. “But I said I do today.”
“Yes. Precisely. Not a single likeable word has exited your person within roughly the past twenty-four hours.” Give or take two years.
Laughing, he cages his mouth in his hand, and I swear his eyes are twinkling. “What an unkind thing to say to your husband.”
I shudder at the very thought, then fight down nausea when I recall it’s not merely a thought but rather the unfortunate reality. “I think,” I whisper, “that I’d like to wake up now. This nightmare is bad for my mental health.”
“Should we share a bed tonight?”
My stomach riles, and I try to escape the car.
Fluidly, he locks the door on me, and I can’t figure out how to manually unlock it again before he says, “Not like that, dove dear. I’m not an animal with only one thing on his mind… I’m a sophisticated human being. With thoughts of torture titillating my psyche.”
“Let me out.” I whimper. “I want off the ride.”
His fingers flutter through my hair, sending shivers coursing down my spine. “You’re really cute when you’re grappling with the consequences of your own actions.”
Sniffling, I shoot a disapproving look at him over my shoulder, lip jutted.
In case anyone didn’t know, this is why we don’t twirl our hair and delude ourselves into thinking we can play on a level field with monsters.
After all, what are a few little failed murder attempts compared to whatever this is?
We are not the same. We have never been the same.
I’m an inept amateur, and he’s an expert.
In fact, if he’s an example of a regular human being, someone should saint me.
“When are you going to file for divorce?” I ask.
Humming, he offers me the little black bird once again. “Never.”
“But—”
“I love you.” He carefully slips my white bird free, replacing it with the dark one.
“I love you to the point of madness. I wasn’t expecting you to marry me so soon, but I’d even considered a possibility that, if Ivy were willing to share his Flag Day ball, I might be able to give you the ultimatum that you could wear white, so long as you were marrying me.
I believe I did tell you in our first relationship discussion that I wanted to marry you.
Marrying you has been in the plans for quite some time, Azalea. ”
The plans? What, pray tell, is he even talking about?
My nose wrinkles. “Ultimatums. Blackmail. Coercion. How exactly is the way you treat me anything like love?”
Tenderly, he peers at the little ceramic dove in his palms. “Would you prefer me on my knees?” He blinks.
“Oh wait.” His attention hits me. “I am on my knees for you. Regularly.” He settles the little bird in his lap and shifts the SUV into reverse so he can pull out of the parking space in front of the mall.
“Face it, dove, I love you like a villain. If you want a hero, kindly reassess your tastes.”
“I don’t want a hero,” I state. “I want…” My mind blanks, because I’ve never actually given it any thought before. If I’ve ever wanted anything, I’ve quickly abandoned it. Because. How would I make it work? When I’m…
Dropping my gaze, I look at the dark bird in my lap, pillowed in the sea of my white skirt, pressed against my bleached gloves.
…like this.
Why want what I know I can’t have, right?
My little dating sims are the closest I’ve ever let myself get to the illusion of being loved.
Maybe it’s safe to say I don’t actually know a thing about it. Maybe it can look different for different people. And maybe all that matters is whether or not it feels like enough for the people involved.
“You want…?” Malcolm prompts, tone open and suggestive in a way that implies he’s ready and willing to give me anything at all.
“I don’t…know.” I hug the little crow. “Someone I can trust. At the very least.”
“Okay. How can I earn your trust?”
I frown at him. “By being predictable, I think.”
“That might be hard for me.”
“By being honest, then. Keeping your word. Talking to me about expectations and emotions. Not leaving me stranded or confused. Stop dancing with me on the edge of a cliff and start leading me to solid ground.”
He ponders my words as we merge into the traffic and navigate toward the office once again. Finally, he says, “I think I can do that. Most of the time.”
“All of the time.”
“Why are you so insistent on murdering the fun?”
My eyes roll, and I look out the window. “’Cause apparently I suck at murdering people.”
He laughs, and heat settles low in my belly.
“Dove?”
“What?”
“There’s something I need to tell you, in the spirit of being honest, but I don’t really want to tell you right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because. I think I’d like to give you a moment to process being my legal wife first. Only once you start to enjoy it will I thicken the plot.”
I grimace. “I’m supposed to seriously process this nonsense? I’m not supposed to expect divorce papers delivered in an envelope signed lol to be issued in a matter of days?”
“Please process it. Please don’t expect divorce papers. They will not be sent.”
I make a face.
“Don’t pout.”
“I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”
“Don’t pretend to be my father.”
Slouching, I mutter, “I’ve barely even met your father. What’s he going to think about his son getting married on an impulse like this?”
“Probably nothing, since I told him I was going to marry you minutes after you two first met when he came by the office after you’d started working for us.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Want to call and ask him?”
Firmly, I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’ve learned my lesson about attempting to call your bluffs. I will never again suspect you aren’t being wholly forthright, no matter how stupid whatever you’re saying sounds.”
“Unfaltering belief in my word? What a dangerous thing to gift me. I’m certain I won’t abuse it.”
Pulling my legs up, I adjust my skirt to make sure I’m maintaining modesty, then I hug them. Because here we go again… Twirling, twirling, twirling…
On the edge of a cliff.