Page 44 of A Storybook Wedding

He meets me at the Little Neck train station of the Long Island Rail Road. I live right on the train; it’s one of the things I like most about my apartment. Some people would hate all the noise of a rumbling commuter train rolling past your house dozens of times a day, but I just find it to be so convenient that the noise actually comforts me. It’s like an old grandfather clock that chimes every time it’s a new hour, only instead of a soothing bell sound, the whole house shakes with the violence of an earthquake every thirty minutes.

It’s early, and the station is bustling with exhausted post-Thanksgiving-weekend worker bees headed into the city. I’ve taken a rare personal day off work in order to accommodate this trip to the courthouse, and I’m secretly a little bit grateful that instead of going to work, I am going on an adventure today.

I’m getting married.

When he gets off the North Shore Long Island–bound train, I see him right away. He’s dressed in khaki pants and brown shoes with what appears to be a shirt and tie on under his olive-green jacket. There’s definitely some kind of product in his hair, and he’s got that fresh-out-of-the-shower morning look about him. He seems so nervous though. This is a different kind of nervous than he wore at the Book Club Bar before his reading. It’s also not the same as the anxiety he experienced when he was stressing out about his seminar when we were infirmed together.

Nate Ellis has several types of apprehension, and I am becoming an expert at recognizing and classifying them.

We walk toward each other on the train platform, and I give him a hug, because he needs it—and because I want him to know this is all going to be just fine. When his arms wrap around me, there’s trepidation at first, but then I tightly squeeze his rib cage, and he starts to laugh. “Shit. And I thought your handshake was bad. You’re going to squeeze the life out of me.”

“Death by hug,” I joke. “I’m sure there are worse ways to go.”

Once we’re in my car, the first stop is 7-Eleven for coffee. It’s cold outside; with Thanksgiving a thing of the past, it’s officially the Christmas season, and I can feel it on my steering wheel. “Sorry I don’t have heated seats or anything,” I say when I hear his teeth chatter. “It’ll warm up soon though.”

“I’m fine,” he assures me.

We make small talk for most of the drive. I tell him that the only time I’ve ever been to the city clerk’s office was to fight a ticket in traffic court, but while I was inside the office (after being informed I had come to the wrong location), I came back out to find I had a fresh new fluorescent-orange parking ticket on my windshield.

I am hopeful that today’s events will go more smoothly than that.

I find a legal parking spot by the city clerk’s office and turn off the car, sliding the key out of the ignition and into my lap.

“You’re wearing a dress,” Nate says to me, as if he’s just realized this.

“Yeah. It’s no big deal,” I reply. It kind of is though. I’m not much of a dress person, so the only dresses I own are sundresses—and this is now winter. So on Black Friday, after the Zoom session, I went to the mall and bought a dress off the clearance rack at David’s Bridal. They suckered me into buying shoes to match, even though I hate heels, and this will be the only time I ever need white ones. Anyway, I waited until just this morning to try the whole getup on. I put on pantyhose, and the knee-length A-line dress fits me, thank goodness. It has long lace sleeves and a lace overlay, and it looks halfway decent. I blew out my hair and used my curling iron to make ringlets that fall down my back. I also put on makeup for a change, and I’m wearing a long black peacoat that I typically save for funerals. After getting dressed, I checked myself in the mirror and said, “Eh. Good enough.” You know. Typical bride stuff.

Because the dress was on clearance, I couldn’t wear it with the tags on for the hour or two today that I needed it and then return it tomorrow, unfortunately. But I figure I can probably turn it into a Bride of Frankenstein costume next Halloween, so at least that’s a win.

So now, in the car, Nate asks, “Is it a wedding dress?” and I’m not sure I can fully detect the tone in his voice.

“I mean, it’s all white, and I got it at David’s Bridal, so yeah, I think it is.”

“Wait—you bought it special for this?” he asks.

I nod. “Indeed I did,” I reply. “I’m all in, like I said. Ready to earn myself an award for best actress.”

“Shit, Cecily. That must have cost you a decent amount of money.”

“It wasn’t that bad. It was only a few hundred bucks.”

“I feel bad. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, Pen, I’d say our entire relationship is just a laundry list of things I shouldn’t have done, so what’s one more?” At this, he smiles, but it’s wistful, and I know he’s grappling with something. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It’s just—I don’t know. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“A hundred percent,” I say. “You make the mess, you clean the mess. At least that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“And none of this is bothering you—like, at all? You’re perfectly fine with us just marrying each other, no strings attached?”

I take his hand in mine. His fingers are long, warm, and thick. I’ve never realized what lovely hands he has until this moment. I can feel his touch run up my arm, down my chest, and straight into my lap, but I make a conscious effort to ignore it. “I promise you. This is totally fine with me. I’m not your typical sentimental girl. I would be way more upset if you lost your job than I am over having to fake-marry you, believe me. I need you at the residency. Who else is going to cover for me when I erase the whiteboard with my backpack?” At this, he smiles. I give his hand a gentle squeeze and continue. “Now come on. Let’s go.”

Nate nods. We step out of the car and walk down the block toward our fate, our hands entwined for dramatic effect. Just before we step inside the building, he says, “You look beautiful, by the way.”

I shove my glasses up on the bridge of my nose with my pointer finger. It’s been awhile since someone’s complimented me like that, and I’m surprised at how welcome the words are. “Thank you,” I say, but my voice sounds distant and unrecognizable.

“No, thank you—for doing all this,” he replies.

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