Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Arthur
I've walked into ERS in marriage mode.
There are staff strategically placed around the office, making sure everyone knows where to be and what comes next.
I arrive early.
The usual calm has been sharpened into something procedural. A polished conference space. Neutral walls. Soft overhead lighting better suited to mediation than a life-altering commitment.
A long table has been pushed aside to make room, like someone remembered this was supposed to be ceremonial about five minutes ago. A door at the far end of the room clearly functions as the threshold between single and married.
I note the door automatically, filing it as an exit, an entry point, a control variable.
Then I realize—too late—that it’s neither.
There is no returning through it as the same person.
An ERS staffer greets me by name and confirms my placement on the schedule. Second. Efficient. Predictable.
I appreciate that.
Lindsay arrives while I'm still observing the room.
What draws my eye, unavoidably, is her handbag.
Large. Full. Aggressively sparkly. Studded with what I assume are fake rhinestones. It clashes with the clean, understated aesthetic of the room.
Gaudy, probably overpriced, I think automatically.
Then I stop myself.
That judgment is reflexive. Old. The kind of assessment I've made my entire career without second thought.
She catches me looking and lifts a brow slightly, unapologetic.
The bag remains exactly where it is—looped over her arm like a refusal to blend in.
She's handed a copy of the prenup, NDA, and marriage license. She clutches them to her chest like they're textbooks on the first day of school.
We stand near each other by the back wall, not touching.
No greetings beyond a nod.
ERS calls the first couple forward.
As they stand, I recognize the man immediately.
Large frame. Familiar face. I've seen him on screens, in stadiums, in headlines. A professional football player. High profile. High value. High risk.
There's a security guy standing off to the left. Several ERS staff members act as witnesses.
So this is what today is.
Not an anomaly. Not a special accommodation.
This is ERS doing exactly what it was designed to do—pairing volatile visibility with structure and containment.
The vows are brief. Practical. No flourish.
Watching them, I recognize the efficiency. The way emotion has been negotiated down until nothing volatile remains.
This is what happens when risk outweighs romance.
I tell myself that makes us similar.
The thought doesn’t sit right.
I can't decide whether it's comforting or alarming.
The judge—an older woman with sharp eyes and no patience for theatrics—guides them through with clinical efficiency.
"Do you take this woman—"
"I do."
"Do you take this man—"
"I do."
They say it without hesitation. Without romance. Like signing contracts they've already negotiated.
The football player glances our way as they step aside, expression unreadable. Recognition passes between us—not personal, just awareness. Two men in similar circumstances.
Then they're gone, already being ushered toward the next phase.
Lindsay shifts slightly beside me.
Close enough now that I'm aware of her presence in a way I wasn't before. The scent of her perfume—subtle, but distinct. Something floral without being cloying.
The weight of that handbag still hanging from her arm like a challenge.
There's another couple in the corner of the room. A man standing several feet away from a petite woman clutching a notebook of some kind. They don't look at each other. Already slotted into the process.
I shift uncomfortably.
I know exactly how that arrangement will function.
I could diagram it. Predict its lifespan. Identify the failure points.
That knowledge should reassure me.
Instead, it makes one thing uncomfortably clear. Whatever Lindsay and I are about to agree to can’t rely on that system alone.
ERS staff approach, confirming names, documents, sequence.
Lindsay responds easily. Confident.
I register that without comment.
I think of Henry at home.
I chose not to bring him. This is infrastructure. A legal shift. Something best handled cleanly before it becomes visible.
That logic holds—for now.
But something about the absence feels wrong suddenly. Like I've miscalculated.
I tell myself it’s protection, not avoidance.
The judge looks up from her paperwork, adjusting her glasses.
Lindsay adjusts her grip on the documents, the sparkly bag slipping slightly down her arm before she rights it.
The movement is small. Human.
I realize, with a clarity that arrives too late to matter, that this is the first irreversible decision I’ve made that doesn’t improve my leverage.
"All right," she says. "Next couple."
ERS staff gesture us forward.