by R.S. Grey
He shakes his head, determined. “I’m not going to give you time. Don’t think. Oreos or M&Ms?”
“Oreos!”
“Summer or fall?!”
“Fall!”
“Tator tots or French fries?!”
“Both!”
“Do you want to marry me, yes or no?”
“YES!”
Then I jump across the car and kiss him so hard he falls back and crashes against the window. The kids in the rap car holler at us to get a room.
18
S A M
An hour later, we walk into the county clerk’s office wearing plastic rings we traded two quarters for at the grocery store across the street from Sonic. I expect quite the hullabaloo once we’re inside—balloons, streamers, white drapery—but it feels a lot like we’re in line at the DMV when a no-nonsense broad by the name of Ethel calls our number.
We sit down in her cubicle and I’m hopped up on sugar and love. Ethel, on the other hand, clearly missed her afternoon cup of joe. She checks her watch twice before finally acknowledging us.
“State your names for the record.”
“Hi! Hello! I’m Sam—Samantha Abrams. This is my fiancé, Ian Fletcher. OH MY GOD MY LAST NAME IS GOING TO BE FLETCHER! I’M NOT GOING TO BE FIRST IN ROLL CALL ANYMORE!”
Everything is hitting me all at once.
I’M GETTING MARRIED!
I AM GOING TO BE IAN’S WIFE!
I’m jittery and smiling so hard my cheeks ache. Ian laughs and takes my hand in his. He’s not shaking like I am, much closer to Ethel’s energy level than mine.
“A-b-r-a-m-s?” Ethel asks, aiming her coke-bottle glasses at her computer screen.
I lean forward and nearly shout, “Yes!”
Everything I say is capped with a smile and an explanation mark. She could ask me if my great-grandparents are dead and I’d grin from ear to ear and exclaim, YOU BETCHA, DEAD AS A DOORNAIL!
“F-l-e-t-c-h-e-r?”
Ian nods. “Yes ma’am.”
Ma’am! My fiancé is so respectful!
I stare at him with misty eyes and he squeezes my hand.
Ethel keeps on typing, pounding keys like she’s banging on drums. She doesn’t seem very enthusiastic. Can she tell we only got engaged an hour ago? Is it obvious that this is spontaneous and stupid?
What if she asks us questions to verify we’re in love and we say different answers?
Ian, does Sam prefer man on top or woman on top during coitus?
HE DOESN’T KNOW!
Suddenly, I feel hot and sweaty. I’m panicking like this is a green card wedding.
In reality, Ethel only asks questions about whether or not we’re in any way related or if either of us is overdue on child support payments, but that doesn’t stop me from telling her lies about our relationship, just in case.
“He did this huge, over-the-top proposal, helicopters and everything. Bill Murray was there!”
She grunts as she continues to type.
“We’ve actually been dating three years today,” I brag. “That’s why I’m so emotional.”
Ethel looks at me over the rims of her glasses. “Congrats.” She doesn’t sound congratulatory. “Are either of you already married?”
I blink, confused. “I just told you we’ve been dating for three years.”
She sighs and glances at her watch for a third time. “I have to ask every question on the prompt. Yes or no?”
“No,” we answer in unison.
So much for romance. Ethel prints forms, slaps stamps, and pushes us out the door as quickly as possible. We have a manila-colored marriage license in hand and strict orders to wait 72 hours before tying the knot.
This is news to me. I sort of thought we’d get the license, hop over to the courthouse, and have this all finished by dinner time.
72 hours feels like a lifetime—certainly enough time for this sugar high to wear off and for us to realize how utterly irrational this all is. I don’t want to think. I want to keep playing Ian’s game. I want to be married right now!
I think Ian can sense this because he stays quiet as we head back to his car. He opens my door, and once we’re both seated, I reach for his hand again. He has a hard time navigating out of the parking lot and back onto the road while I have ahold of him, but I can’t let go. It’s the only thing keeping me on earth.
“Should we drive to Vegas? There’s no waiting period.”
“It would take us 72 hours to get there and back. Let’s just wait here.”
“But I feel like we have to keep moving! Is this actually happening?”
He nods and turns right at the light.
“This isn’t some elaborate prank on your part? Because really, you could do much better than me.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re beautiful and funny.”
“WHAT?!”
It’s one thing to propose marriage and another thing entirely to call me beautiful and funny. I’m not sure which one is more important.
“Ian Fletcher thinks I’m beautiful,” I say to no one in particular. “Wowee.”
“Uh huh. Try not to look so stunned. Do you want me to drop back by Oak Hill so we can grab your bike?”
“Yes please.”
“What should we do for dinner? Want Chinese to celebrate?”
“Yes! Sesame chicken. Wait, shit—I have to go to over to my parents’ house. They got back from their cruise this morning, and I promised I’d eat dinner with them so they could show me pictures.” Dang it. “I could cancel?”
“No. You hardly see them.”
Such an understanding hubs.
“Why don’t you come and we can share the news with them together?” I ask, hopeful that he won’t leave me to fend for myself.
He shrugs. “I guess that’s not a bad idea. How do you think they’ll take it?”
“If the past few days have taught me anything, it’s that it is completely useless trying to predict the future. Let’s just roll with it.”
I was intentionally ignoring the obvious outcome. My parents, Genine and Thomas, are deeply boring and old-fashioned. My mom didn’t let me cut my hair until I was 7. I couldn’t wear makeup until I was old enough to buy it for myself. They don’t drink alcohol. They’re judgmental, and I generally try to avoid them while at the same time not cutting them out of my life completely.
When I show up for dinner with Ian unexpectedly in tow, they act deeply put out.
“It’s just that I only set the table for three,” my mother says, as if they only keep three plates in the entire house.
“And I only bought three steaks,” my father grumbles.
“If we all cut off one quarter, everyone will have ¾ of a steak!” I point out cheerfully.
“I like all my quarters,” continues the grumbler.
“Oh-kay, you can have all of mine.”
I’m too nervous to have any real appetite. Also, that milkshake was huge.
“I suppose that’s fine,” my mom says with a sneer.
After they’ve made it abundantly clear that he isn’t welcome, I expect Ian to make some kind of strained excuse (He left the oven on? Has to wash his hair?) and then exit stage left. But, no, he stays right by my side, accepting of the fact that I still have a death grip on his hand. By now, our skin is fused. He’ll have to go in for surgery if he wants to remove me.
As if reading my thoughts, my mom glances down at our hands and her expression makes me look down as well. She looks so horrified I briefly think, Oh no, are we accidentally having sex or something?
No, just holding hands like the loose, immoral people we are.
“Samantha, would you like to use my bathroom to freshen up before dinner?” my mom asks, continuing her perusal of me and clearly finding my appearance lacking. “I think I have another dress you can put on if you’d like.”
I’m still wearing my blue dress from school. It’s fine. In fact, I felt kind of pretty in it before she said something.
Right. My mom turns to continue prepping dinner with pursed lips. For a few minutes, there’s no conversation while my dad fusses with the steaks at the stove and my mom hurries to add a fourth place setting at the table.
She mumbles under her breath the whole time, pleasantries like, “Would it have been too much to call ahead of time?”
I don’t engage her. If she’s this upset about an extra dinner guest, how is she going to take an extra member of the family?
When my dad declares the steaks ready to eat, my mom directs us to the table and tells us to take a seat. I begrudgingly let go of Ian’s hand.
“Can I help with anything? Get drinks?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No, no, we have everything taken care of. Would you like still or sparkling water?”
What I wouldn’t give for a whole trough of wine.
“Still is fine. Thank you,” Ian replies, and I agree.
Then, the dinner from hell begins. My father sits at the head of the table. My mom sits across from him, and Ian and I are smashed in the middle. It’s not that the table is that small, but their judgement takes up a lot of space.
“So how long have you two been an item?” my mom asks with a snippy tone.
“Oh, um, just for a little while,” I say, sidestepping the truth with a generality.
“I wasn’t aware things had progressed. Weren’t you just friends before this?”
I nod and offer as few details as possible. “It’s new.”
“Ian, what is it that you do for work again?” my father asks, staring over at him from beneath his thick scraggly eyebrows.
“I teach at Oak Hill with Sam.”
“Oh yes.” He nods. “I remember now. And do you make good money there?”
My eyes bulge out of my head.
“Dad.”
Ian doesn’t care about the intrusion. “The pay is okay, but money has never been my motivation.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those hippies who thinks money isn’t important. Hate to break it to you, but peace and love don’t keep you warm in the winter.”
Ian keeps a straight face as he replies, “You’re right. Luckily, I worked in pharma for a while after college, saved up quite a bit, and I’ve invested it well over the years. It’s enough to keep the gas on, anyway.”
My dad’s brows rise in shock, mainly because Ian had the audacity to call him on his bullshit.
“But as a side note, peace and love get you pretty far in life. Sam and I don’t need much to be happy.” His gaze catches mine and I smile.
My dad grunts, and it’s clear he thinks Ian has a lot of growing up to do.
“Just wait until you have a family to feed. It’s expensive raising kids.”
KIDS.
Heat travels up my neck. We haven’t gotten that far. Ian might not even want kids. I look down at my 3/4 steak and know I won’t be able to force down even one bite.
“We’ll manage, I’m sure,” Ian replies with an amused tone. He hates this. He doesn’t understand why I bother with my parents at all. “I’m thinking if we have 9 or 10 kids we can put them to work as chimney sweeps—”
“Oh, have you two already discussed the future?” my mom interrupts with a high-pitched lilt.
Ian and I lock gazes again and his brows rise. His point is clear: Take the opportunity. It’s now or never.
I set down my fork, take a deep breath, and then proclaim simply, “Ian and I are engaged.”
Cutlery falls to the table dramatically. I glance over and my mom has her hand pressed over her heart in shock. “Engaged?!”
She exclaims the word as if she’s performing for a packed Broadway theatre.
I smile, easy and simple. “Yes. We’re getting married in 72 hours.”
“72? Hours?! What—”
My dad’s question gets cut off by an errant sob from my mom.
“Samantha Grace, what are you talking about? 72 hours?! This is nonsense.” She stands and slams her linen napkin down on the table. “Is this a joke?”
Ian and I both shake our heads.
“We’ve put a lot of thought into this.” All of twenty minutes.
“This is extremely sudden,” she says, pacing and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “You two weren’t even dating the last time I checked!”
“Your mother’s right,” my father’s voice booms. “You two need to slow down. We have premarital counseling at the church. It’s a six-week course.”
They’re confused. “We don’t want to wait. We want your support.”
“Well you don’t have it. Please, be rational.”
What she means to say is, Please, do it the exact way your father and I did it. Come in for premarital counseling, don a poofy white dress, and walk down the aisle not too slow but not too fast, all so I can prove to all of our family and friends that I’ve raised a classy young woman, not a heathen who elopes.
“We’ve already made up our minds,” Ian insists with a strong, non-nonsense tone. “We’re going to elope, and we’d love for you two to be there if you’d like. Once we know the time and place, we’ll pass it along.”
“The time and place?!” Her lips tremble. Her hands are shaking. My mom is having a mental breakdown before our very eyes. “You don’t even know that yet?! Good heavens.”
She storms off and starts weeping near the extra salad on the island in the kitchen. My father hurries over to comfort her. I honestly think they’re taking it worse than if I’d told them I had cancer.
“Look what you’re doing to your mother, Samantha,” my dad chides.
All of sudden, I’ve had enough. They’re being ridiculous. I understand needing a few minutes to adjust, but this is taking it to a whole new level. I jerk to stand, causing my chair to tip back and crash to the floor.
“Ian, let’s go. Grab your plate. Yes, take it—and your glass! Here, I’ll help you.”
My arms are loaded up with stolen cutlery and dinnerware as we bolt from the house. My parents are crying as if they’ve lost me forever.
“Sam, are you sure you don’t want to go back in there?” Ian asks after we’ve buckled up.
I shake my head and utter one word.
“Drive.”
Our stolen dinner sits untouched on my coffee table. Ian sits beside me on the couch, and the aftermath of our afternoon and evening has struck us both silent. I was riding a high, running from Principal Pruitt’s office to Sonic to the grocery store to the county clerk’s office. It was the most exciting few hours of my life. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, and then my parents had to ruin it.
Are they right?
Are we being irrational?
I shift my gaze to Ian and see him staring at the ceiling with his brows furrowed. I think he’s having the same second thoughts I am. Any moment, he’s going to turn, look me square in the eyes, and tell me he doesn’t want to marry me after all. The thought sends a worried tear down my cheek. I swipe it away quickly.
“Do you want kids, Ian?”
He frowns. “You know I do.”
“Do you want them with me?”
“Sam.”
I shake my head and nibble on my bottom lip. “Maybe my parents are right. Maybe this is crazy. I’ve put more thought into the placement of a tattoo I’ll never get than this marriage. This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about.”
“Just because it’s spontaneous doesn’t mean it’s wrong.” He sounds confident. “What would make you feel better?”
“Let’s have sex.”
“Sam, you’re crying.”
“Then overload my brain with your mouth.”
“No. Not tonight.”
He sounds mad.
I sit up and turn to him. “Why?”
His hand finds mine on the couch and he squeezes. “It feels old-fashioned t
o wait until after we elope. I like it. Also, no offense, but I’m not exactly in the mood. It feels like I’d be taking advantage of you.”
“Great.” I toss up my hands. “I’m marrying a prude.”
“Shove over and hand me the remote. I know what will make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to watch HBO porn.”
He pulls up season 2 episode 12 of The Office, the one where Michael grills his foot on his George Foreman Grill. This episode has pulled me out of an end-of-summer funk, a bad-relationship-turned-into-bad-breakup slump, and that one time I got strep throat right after the flu. Ian was there for all of that and he’s here now, watching the episode beside me on my couch. My future husband. Mr. Samantha Abrams.
I’ll find his short brown hair on my pillow. On Saturdays, he’ll insist on making a big breakfast and I’ll eat it even though I really just want a slice of peanut butter toast.
Michael Scott wraps his foot in bubble wrap on screen and I start to remove the bubble wrap around my heart. I’ve kept it there from the beginning of my friendship with Ian. No girl befriends a guy as handsome and charming as him without some kind of safeguard. My heart beats faster as if it’s aware of its newfound freedom. I’ve been holding it back, but now it’s beating at its full potential, thumping and demanding the love I’ve deprived it of. He’s beautiful and he’s going to be mine. I can hardly believe it. I want to lift my hand and feel the contours of his face, his nose, his chin, just to prove to myself he really exists. This isn’t just another dream.
“Are you watching?” Ian asks, aware of my gaze on his profile.
“No.”
“You’re missing your favorite part.”
It’s when Michael asks Pam to rub Country Crock on his foot to help it heal.
“How do you think we’ll watch TV when we’re married?”
“Probably like this.”
“Oh.”
“Except we’ll obviously be nude.”
My jaw drops. He sighs and turns my way, reaching out to close my open trap.
“I’m kidding, Sam. Stop thinking. You’ll spin yourself out of control.”
“I can’t turn my brain off. That dinner was intense. My parents are going to disown me. They’re probably spending my dowry on replacement dinnerware.”