The Undergrads: Student Union

Prologue Clover

PROLOGUE

Clover

I’m all dressed up and fully prepared to be left at the altar.

Well, technically the judge’s bench.

“Did he say he would be here?” asks Marianne. “He’s probably just running late.”

My stomach is swimming as I realize this isn’t going to work. Bennett is going to be a no-show, and this absolute Hail Mary is about to sail right past me.

I wipe my sweaty hands against my thighs as I look up to Marianne in her polka-dot wrap dress. My mouth opens to thank her for taking the morning off work even if it was for no reason, when I hear the clicking of shoes. Expensive shoes.

“I’ve got eyes on the groom,” whispers Marianne as she frantically smacks my shoulder.

I turn and there he is, briskly making his way down the hall toward me.

“Don’t call him that,” I tell her. Despite what we’re about to do, I refuse to think of Bennett as my savior.

He wears a fitted navy tux and polished leather dress shoes.

The black silk tie matches the lapels of his suit, and his crisp white shirt is simple and makes my mouth dry for reasons I have no plans to explore.

My gaze lingers for a moment on his gold bumblebee tie pin.

Leave it to Bennett to show me up on my own damn wedding day.

I traded in three of my old Reformation dresses over the weekend at Revived Threads, the secondhand store downtown.

The dress I walked away with is a white raw silk shift with a boat neck and little white bows stitched all over in a scattered pattern.

The back scoops down a little lower than I’m comfortable with.

I also picked up organza wrist gloves and wore my hair in waves, half pulled back with a long, light pink tulle bow that Marianne’s daughter wore when she was in The Nutcracker last December.

I feel silly for dressing up, but he’s practically peacocking down the main corridor of city hall, so I guess this is better than underdressing.

He strides toward where I sit in front of the courtroom. A soft smile—the one that always has people forgiving him before they even know what he’s done wrong—reveals his dimples as he tucks his sunglasses into his breast pocket.

“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” I tell him.

“Weddings never start on time,” he says.

Obviously one of us hasn’t spent the last two years getting paid hourly.

“Well, maybe this one could if the groom were on time.” I wave at his flashy suit. “And this is just the Cannon Beach courthouse. You didn’t have to come dressed as an Armani ad.”

“Tom Ford, actually.” He holds a hand out for me even though I have no intention of taking it. “I’m here now, Clo. You needed me and I’m here, aren’t I?”

I stand up. God, I hate the way he says needed. It sounds so pathetic. “My name is Clover.”

“Well, Clo is your nickname.”

“Nicknames are reserved for close friends and loved ones.”

He winces slightly but says nothing.

“The flowers are a nice touch,” Marianne tells him, and I’m annoyed with her for even trying to cut the tension. I give her a whose-side-are-you-on-anyway look, but it’s lost on her because she has been infected by Bennett’s charm and dimples.

“For you,” he says, presenting me with the bouquet of light green hydrangeas framed by eucalyptus leaves, with bright red berries and large peonies scattered throughout. Then I notice the small clusters of green peeking through. “Clover.”

He clears his throat into his fist. “And, uh, those are rowanberries.”

It’s … kind, which feels suspicious. And it makes the fact that this day is probably nothing either of us expected when we imagined our future weddings that much worse.

I’m frustrated with him for trying to make this anything more than what it is: a means to an end.

“Thank you, Bennett. This—you didn’t have to do this. ”

“It’s nothing.” He brushes the palm of his hand up the back of his head, and my fingers tingle a little at the thought of what the short, prickly hairs might feel like against my fingertips.

What the hell is wrong with me? He walks in here with a suit and flowers and suddenly I’m thinking about touching his hair full of overpriced products.

The three of us wait in the courtroom, watching a few other couples in front of us take the plunge. It’s impossible to ignore the bouncing of Bennett’s leg, and I think for far too long about whether I should reach over to still it. By the time I decide that I should, the clerk calls our names.

The judge is all smiles, with ruddy cheeks and thick white hair. “Marcy,” he says, speaking to the clerk. “I think these two are the youngest I’ve had this month.”

She doesn’t look up from her desk but smiles all the same. “I think you’re right, Judge Morris.”

We turn to face each other, like two kids playing pretend, and it reminds me too much of when we were little and imagining scenarios that we were much too young for.

“I’ll just go through the vows with you,” Judge Morris says. “Then if you’re planning on it, you’ll exchange rings, and Mateo, our courthouse photographer—”

“Rings!” I gasp.

“Don’t worry, baby.” The pet name rolls off his tongue and the arch of his brow is entirely too smug. “I remembered them both.”

“Oh.” I turn to the judge. “Okay, sorry.”

Judge Morris chuckles. “Just goes to show what a good match you both are. My Delilah was always trailing behind me, remembering all the things that would fall out of my head.”

As the judge reminisces, the silence between us grows deep enough to fill a chasm.

With glasses sitting on the tip of his nose, Judge Morris begins. “People of the court, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of two souls in the bonds of matrimony. Bennett Andrew Graves—” He glances down at Bennett. “Of the Graves family?”

“That’s the one,” Bennett says.

The judge chuckles again and winks at me. “Lucky girl.”

Bennett’s dimples deepen as he takes my hands in his. “Oh, sir, it’s me who’s the lucky one.”

“Of course, of course,” Judge Morris says with a grin.

“Let’s see here … ah, yes. Bennett Andrew Graves and Clover Rowan Walsh.

Marriage is a serious, honorable matter.

It should not be entered into lightly.” He peers down at the two of us standing as far apart as possible while still holding hands.

“I trust the two of you have taken the time to determine what marriage means to you, and that you stand before this court ready to offer each other a lifelong commitment based on love, trust, and respect?”

Bennett’s throat works up and down as he gives one assured nod.

“Yes,” I whisper, despite the distinct feeling that I am in danger of being sent to the principal’s office or combusting into flames from lying in a courtroom.

What the hell are we even doing? I’m eighteen years old.

Bennett is nineteen, turning twenty in just a few weeks.

We have no business getting married. I don’t even know what all the dials on the washing machine do.

I count two Uncrustables as a balanced meal.

I get nervous walking into a bank by myself.

I hardly comprehend the rest of the brief ceremony.

Faintly, I hear Bennett clear his throat and say, “I do.”

“Clo?” he asks.

Then Marianne chimes in. “Clover? Sweetie?”

I blink. Once. Twice. And then look up from my black patent- leather platform Mary Janes and the sheer white socks I paired them with.

“Your turn,” Bennett says with an unsteady smile.

“Right.” A nervous laugh bubbles up like a spate of hiccups. “I do.”

“And the rings?” Judge Morris asks.

Why do I feel like I’m lying to my sweet old grandpa right now? I don’t even have a sweet old grandpa. Mom’s dad is dead, and my dad’s … well, he’s even more of a mystery than my father himself.

From his slacks pocket, Bennett takes a smooth gold ring that is as thick as the band on a cigar.

I can hear myself saying the words, repeating after Judge Morris.

My hands holding Bennett’s, his long fingers smooth and manicured, the wedding ring on his left and his family ring on his right, a G in an ornate script intertwined with a smaller B and A.

Then, he pulls my left hand closer and slides a slightly too-big ring on my finger, but that’s not what I’m concerned with. What concerns me is the oval diamond framed in gold on a thin, delicate band.

Instinctively, I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned, but Bennett doesn’t give me any space and instead leans toward me and whispers into my ear, “Calm down. It isn’t real.”

I nod and give him a weary smile. It’s fake. Just like this whole marriage, but that’s fine because this unholy union is about to provide me with some very real on-campus housing.

With a chuckle, Judge Morris says twelve words I’ll remember forever. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Bennett leans in for the kiss and I tilt my head just in time so that he only gets the corner of my lips.

But I’m guessing Judge Morris has seen plenty of awkward kisses, because he’s unfazed as he beckons us and Marianne, our witness, to sign the papers that legally bind me to the one person I swore I’d never speak to again.