The Vow (13 page)

“Don’t be an idiot,” she says, opens her door, and climbs out.

“Seriously. Why?”

“Because I can’t let bad things happen to you, Mo. Now quit being such a pantywaist and marry me.”

She opens my door, and I look down in time to see her rolling her eyes. I’m so relieved. She isn’t cowering. She won’t break.

“Pantywaist?” I ask. “What are you, seventy?”

“Stop stalling.”

“I feel like I might throw up,” I say as I get out.

“Would this be a good time to tell you I’m not a virgin?”

“Would this be a good time to tell you I’m in love with Maya?”

“Finally!” she says, and grabs my arm, pulling me toward the building. “Only took you four years to admit it. So prewedding confessions are out of the way. Let’s do this.”

“I really think I might be getting the stomach flu.”

She ignores me. “This is weird, but right at this second, I feel . . .” She pauses, squinting at me through the blinding sun. “I feel like this is right. You know?”

“No. Not at all. I’m about to piss my pants. I believe you remember the last time that happened, and they may or may not have black sweatpants in my size at the lost and found here.”

We’re almost there. Mom’s holding the door open for us, and Annie still has her arm linked through mine. At the last second I feel her fingers tighten around my biceps, like she’s finally afraid of whatever we’re getting ourselves into. Or maybe she’s just excited. Maybe both.

Chapter 15

Annie

N
either,” I say.

The registrar gives me a pained look, probably the seventh since we walked in the door. “Sugar, are you sure? You don’t want your mother or your father here?”

“We’re not close,” I say. “And I’m eighteen.”

“So I see.” She pulls my birth certificate toward her and inspects the date again.

I take advantage of the moment to turn to Mo and mutter, “Stop fidgeting.”

It takes him a second to respond. His legs are bouncing up and down the same way they do before a math test, and he’s staring at the dust-ball-filled crack where the linoleum meets the wall like it might hold the secret to the meaning of life. “I’m not fidgeting,” he says finally, blinking a few too many times to look normal.

“Here,” I say, passing him my phone. Games calm him down, but his phone is old school.

I turn to where Mrs. Hussein is standing staring out the window. She won’t know. She’s already signed the consent forms for Mo and the witness line on our wedding certificate.

I turn back to the registrar.

She’s staring at me, concern wrinkling her face. “But are you
sure
?” she whispers. She reaches a freckled hand across the counter and puts it over mine. Her eyes trace a line back and forth between Mrs. Hussein and Mo. I glance at Mo. He’s engrossed in the game and looks far less queasy, but then out of the blue he growls, “Aaaccck,” shakes the phone, swears, then keeps on playing.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sure.”

I hold her gaze through the awkwardness. And there is awkwardness. Her eyes are so watery they’re one tear from spilling murky eye-fluid down her cheeks. Her hand is still pressing down on mine.

“All right, then,” she says with a somber nod and leans back in her chair. She goes back to filling out her forms, while I ignore the whole-body sighs of her disapproval. I pull my hands into my lap and stare at them.

“We’re pretty much done,” she says.

“Really?” Mo puts my phone down and looks around, dazed, like he just walked out of a movie theater into bright sunlight. “That only took, like, twenty minutes.”

“Do you have rings to exchange?” the registrar asks.

Rings. It didn’t even occur to me. I look at Mo. He furrows his brow, and the scar that cuts his left one in half dips down crookedly.

“Is it a problem if we don’t?” I ask.

She blinks, but the milky eye-juice doesn’t clear. “Well, no.” Another soul-searching look is flung at me, and I look away. She has to think I’m pregnant or brainwashed or on drugs or maybe all of the above, and that if she can just look at me like that enough times she’ll be able to save me from these bad bad people.

“I’m not much for jewelry, ma’am,” I try. But then I realize I’m wearing the silver bangles. “I mean rings. They bug me.”

She clicks her mouse a few times. Maybe I’ve convinced her I’m an idiot, and that’s good enough to absolve her of whatever guilt she’s feeling for having performed this marriage. “Well. I guess by the power invested in me by the state of Kentucky, I now pronounce you man and wife. Sit tight while I go grab that last form out of the printer.”

She wanders off, and I turn to Mo. The phone is balanced on his leg, and he’s staring at me. I guess her words brought him back out. Man and wife. For one second, all the smirk and sass that hold Mo together are gone. His eyes are wide with naked gratitude. Nobody else looks at me that way.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Here we go,” the registrar says, taking her seat across from us again and handing me the paperwork. I give it to Mo so I don’t lose it. “You’re legally married,” she says in the same kind of voice you might say
The eggplant is on sale
, then adds, “Congratulations,” and rubs her nose. She doesn’t add
Good riddance
to Mo, or
I’ll pray for you, child
to me, but it’s there anyway. She gives me one last woeful glance and refuses to look at Mo at all.

He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring at the stack of papers, gripping it in two tense hands like he’s afraid someone will rip it away if he relaxes a single cell. Together we follow Mrs. Hussein out the door.

“The sun,” I say as we walk into the blinding light. Twenty minutes inside the courthouse, the morning has thickened from warm to blazing.

“Brace for the sneeze,” Mo says.

“I’m—” A wave of color pulses through me and I sneeze.

“Bless you. I think it’s a good omen.”

“If I didn’t do it every time I walk outside, then yeah, I’d agree with you.”

Mrs. Hussein gets in the car, but Mo and I hesitate outside our doors.

“We did it,” Mo says softly. He’s not quite smiling, but staring at me with this dazed-but-hopeful look on his face. Whatever nervous tizzy he was in is over.

“We
did
do it.” I grin and punch him in the shoulder as hard as I can.

He doesn’t flinch. “Is that seriously the best you can do?”

“That killed my hand.”

“We’ve got to work on that, Annie. An eighty-year-old woman could punch harder.”

“You insult your bride like that?”

“Only when she physically abuses me. Hey, what was your deal last night, anyway?”

Last night. Reed. My spine tingles at just the thought of his name, and I can suddenly almost feel his lips on mine and the pressure and warmth of his hands on my hips. “Nothing.”

Mo snorts. “You’re such a liar. You were totally—”

He’s interrupted by the window rolling down, followed by Mrs. Hussein’s voice. “Mo, I have a hair appointment, and Annie has to work, right?”

Mo smirks at me and gets into the car.

I breathe a sigh of relief and climb in too.

I’m going to be late. I get home exactly sixteen minutes before my shift starts, which only gives me six minutes to get it together and get out the door. By get it together I mean calm the freak down, because I’m jittery and spastic and acting, as Mo would say, like a squirrel on crack.

No time for food, but I’m suddenly so famished I feel like I might faint before I even get to work, so I grab a few random lunch-type items from the kitchen—a pear, a bag of walnuts, a sourdough roll—throw them all in a plastic bag, then run to the laundry room, strip out of my sundress, and dig through the warm clothes in the dryer for something to wear.

A weird, sour excitement gnaws at my insides and makes me nervous and happy and almost sick. I’m afraid to really think about it. I pull a white T-shirt over my head, inhaling that artificial wildflower scent of fabric softener. No. I’m not thinking about how I feel, or about why I’m smiling like an idiot. I pull on a denim skirt. Because if I think about it, if I let my mind wade through the euphoria that feels like the color gold and smells like oranges and rainwater, I’ll have to admit to myself that I don’t know who the thrill is for. If it’s what I’m coming from or what I’m going to.

Mo and I just got married. Mo. Me. Matrimony. Of course it means nothing, but still. Legally wed to each other until death do us part, or until the minute we can get a divorce.
Married.
MARRIED. To think that I just did something so incredibly stupid and brave makes me shiver with pride. Nobody would believe I had it in me.

He’s staying.

But now I’m going to work, and the giddiness, this rolling sensation in my stomach that’s making me feel like I’m on a boat—it’s not for Mo.

In ten minutes I’ll be with Reed again.

I don’t have time to stare at my face in the mirror, so I assume everything is the same as it was this morning.

I wonder what Reed thinks when he looks at me. I know I look unusual. I’ve heard it all—ghostly, doll-like, eerie, pixieish, cute—and I have no idea which is right, because sometimes I see myself in the mirror and know that I’m beautiful, and other times my reflection is too creepy to stare into for more than a second. My eyes are lighter blue than anyone else’s I know, which I like, but my elf-shaped ears border on freakish. Has he noticed them? The pointy chin and skin the color of paper, well, they are what they are. They can go either way—weird or interesting.

Today, though, I’m gorgeous. It doesn’t make sense, rushing around like a psycho, no mirror in sight, but I know it. I think I’ve been beautiful since the moment Reed kissed me.

I grab lip gloss and a hair clip to mess with in the car and slam the front door shut hard behind me. I never do that. It drives my dad nuts, but he’s tripped out on DayQuil, and today I am all-powerful. I am defiant. I am beautiful. I am myself and someone completely different at the same time. So this is love.

* * *

“
You’re late,” Flora says. “Not that I’m keeping track, but I might have to leave a half hour early as payback.”

I finish tying my apron and glance at the clock. 12:06. “Thirty minutes?”

Flora does this one-eye-half-closed look she uses to call people on crap. “You’re saying you don’t want an extra half hour alone with Reed?”

I shake my head at her, even though I know he can’t hear us from the front window where he’s adjusting the blinds to let the sunlight in. He glances up, but in the other direction, out the window at the customers approaching. He hasn’t noticed I’m here yet.

“Where did you two disappear to last night, anyway?”

I can feel my cheeks turning red as I stammer around an answer. “What . . . I don’t . . . nowhere.”

“Sure. Nowhere doing nothing, right?”

“Whatever.”

“So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.
Whatever.
I like that.”

“Did you have fun at the party last night?” I ask, hopeful she’ll latch on to something else.

“The part that I recall, yeah. It reminded me of why I made such a bad bartender all those years ago. You aren’t supposed to make yourself a drink every time you make one for someone else.”

“I didn’t know you used to bartend,” I say. “I thought you’ve worked here since—”

“Since dinosaurs roamed the earth?” she interrupts. “Not quite. Remember that bar that used be on the corner of Main and Perry? Never mind. You’re too young, but there used to be this little bar called Ranchers, right where Payson’s Sporting Goods is. You know, across from the post office.”

Flora prattles on, but my mind is already at the corner table where Reed is bent over a mound of pink, yellow, blue, and white sweetener packets. He looks adorably awkward, his hands too big to be sorting pastel confetti one piece at a time.

At the end of yesterday’s shift, Flora discovered that someone (probably Soup) mixed them all in a huge container instead of keeping them in their separate bulk boxes. It didn’t seem like the end of the world to me, but Flora insisted the fake sugars and the real sugars be separated first thing in the morning. Reed and I did not disagree, as this seems to be how Mr. Twister operates best: Soup is the boss, but Flora runs the show.

Maybe I should go help him.

Except with his head bent and his hair falling over his glasses, he looks like he did when I first met him, and I’m suddenly sure he’s reverted back to that same shy Reed who could barely look me in the eye.

Like Chris Dorsey. I can’t not remember, and my cheeks are suddenly on fire. He’d wanted nothing to do with me after. Reed and I only kissed, but if he’s embarrassed around me now, or if he acts like nothing happened at all, I may have to lie down and die. Or at least quit my job.

He looks like he’s focusing on the sweetener, but he could very well be wondering what the hell he was thinking last night and trying to figure out how he’s going to brush me off now.

Without warning, he lifts his head. His hair falls back, and our eyes connect. I’m dying to look away or smile or turn around and go home, but I don’t do any of those things. I hold his gaze, even though I feel like my heart is being emptied.

Until he smiles. Then it’s like a tidal wave of color in my brain.

“Great,” Flora mutters, and I remember she’s talking, but not what she’s talking about. “You kids are going to be annoying, aren’t you?”

“Uh, we’re almost out of butter pecan,” I say, finally pulling my eyes away, as if I’m not so flustered my knees may give out. “I’m going to get another bucket.”

I pretend not to see her smirk as I spin around and escape to the safety of the walk-in freezer. The door swings shut behind me with a soft
thud
and a sweet chill runs through me. I can breathe. I’m not sure how long I’ve been holding the shiver in, but long enough to make me shaky.

I make my way down the length of the freezer slowly, soothed by the hum of the machinery. It’s a long, skinny room, lined with metal shelving from floor to ceiling. And thanks to Flora, it’s perfectly organized. Frozen fruit, blocks of juice concentrate, buckets of custard, all neat and labeled. I wasn’t lying—we actually are out of butter pecan in the case up front—so I scan the towers of pails for their brown-and-white labels as I walk.

It’s easy to find, but nearly impossible to retrieve. I have to move the peach, triple fudge, and mint chip buckets to get to it, then shove them all back in again. It’s heavy, so instead of carrying it by the skinny metal wire that digs into my palm, I hug the bucket and hook my fingers under the bottom edge.

When I turn around, chin resting on the lid, body thoroughly chilled, Reed is standing back by the door.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Not scared. Maybe a little startled.” My heart is banging against the massive bucket between us. I wonder how long he’s been here watching me play custard Jenga. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the mint chip, because it’s no longer reachable.” I gesture with my chin to the rearranged shelf. Mint chip isn’t even visible.

“No, I just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh. Hi.” I wait. The thudding. Hard to believe he can’t hear it too, because it feels like my heart is about to pound its way out of my rib cage. “How are you?”

“Good,” he says. “Tired, actually. I spent the morning moving furniture from room to room. How about you?”

“Good.” I don’t volunteer any information about my morning.
I got married
can’t be good for things at this point in our relationship, or at any point in our relationship. I’m not even sure if relationship is the right word.