Page 45 of A Storybook Wedding

I squeeze his fingers, and he gently squeezes mine in return.

We look at the signage on the wall and walk down the hallway to room G-100. Just outside the room, Nate whispers, “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

Less than thirty minutes later, we are man and wife.

When we’re asked for rings to exchange, Nate procures his grandfather’s wedding band and a promise ring Bryce gave me in college from his pocket, like we discussed. When we’re asked if we have anything we’d like to read or share before we exchange our vows, I unfold a piece of paper with a reading by Mark Twain on it, titled “A Marriage.” It’s an excerpt from a letter he wrote to his wife shortly before the pair wed. It is succinct but genuine, and I read it aloud, like we discussed. When Nate is told that he may kiss his bride, he gives me a chaste peck that we hold in place until the count of three Mississippi, like we discussed.

If only all weddings were this easy.

We head back to the car, and our collective vibe is momentarily lighter. I try not to notice the fact that our fingers are still interlaced as we barrel through the chilly air, swinging our arms in time with one another. I try to ignore the way my heart is racing. I try not to taste the remnants of Nate Ellis on my lips, try not to memorize the feel of his face against mine or the way his hand felt on my lower back when he pulled me close to him for our intentional matrimonial kiss.

Like we discussed.

“I feel like we should celebrate,” he says.

“No time,” I respond. “We need to get back for the Zoom at noon. But after, if you want, I’d be happy to have you stick around for lunch.”

“Definitely. My treat,” he adds.

By the time we’re back at my place and I park the car in the driveway, Nate’s all stiff again. He notices that my multifamily living situation is directly adjacent to the train he took here this morning. “Welcome to my glorious basement apartment,” I announce. “Don’t judge me,” I go on, smirking.

My rental apartment is approximately 450 square feet, comprised of a kitchen with the basics (fridge, apartment-size oven, microwave, and sink), a small dining area in which I have shoved a table for four against the wall so that it can only seat three, a bedroom, a little bathroom with a stand-up shower, and a living room. In the living room, I have a couch, an upcycled coffee table, a big bookcase overflowing with well-loved books, and a television on an old garage-sale nightstand. The living room boasts a sliding glass door out to a small cement patio with eight steps up to the backyard, but the backyard is not more than a small patch of grass overlooking—that’s right—the train tracks.

I live like a bookworm-y college student, and I know it. I don’t care, typically, except right now I am perhaps the tiniest bit embarrassed, seeing as how this man probably lives like an actual grown-up in his posh New York City high-rise building.

But that’s fine. We’re friends.

And, um, spouses.

It’s fine.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee?” I ask, taking off my coat and hanging it in the front hall closet, like the adult that I am.

Nate drapes his jacket over the back of one of my dining room chairs, and I extend my hand to take it from him. “Coffee would be great, actually.”

“No sweat,” I say. “Make yourself at home.”

I gratefully kick off my fancy white high heels, which were killing my ankles. I pad around on my vinyl sticky-tile floor in my stockings, putting together a fresh pot of coffee for my husband, who is milling about my living room looking at pictures in frames that are scattered about with no real rhyme or reason. He points to one of me and my sisters when we were in elementary school, taken on the first day of my second-grade year. Both of my front teeth are missing. “You were adorable when you were little,” he comments.

“Thanks,” I reply, adding the water to the coffee maker and hitting the Start button. “Seriously, make yourself comfy. Feel free to take off your shoes if you want. We have to make it look like you live here too. I don’t know if Dillon Norway would think you’d be all shirt-and-tie in the middle of the day when you don’t have a regular job, you know what I mean?”

“That’s true,” he agrees. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’ve got you covered,” I say. “Hang on. Just let me change first.” I go into my bedroom and close the door. I extract a pair of worn-out jeans from the closet, along with a T-shirt and my favorite snuggly hoodie sweatshirt, a relic from my Bryce days that ironically boasts the New Hampshire Fisher Cats across the front. I dig through my bottom drawer and find an old Bryant Baseball T-shirt in a men’s XL. I walk it out to the living room and hand it to Nate. “Here you go; I think this should fit,” I say.

“Bryant, huh? Is that where you went for undergrad?”

I shake my head. “My ex went there.”

He points at my shirt. “Is this the team he went to? This New Hampshire… What’s a Fisher Cat?” he wonders aloud.

“It’s like a cross between a squirrel and a cat, I think. And yes, this is his team too.”

“So you’ve got a wardrobe shrine to your ex, and you think these are the clothes that will convince Dillon Norway we are a lawfully wedded couple?”

“Dillon Norway isn’t going to be reading our shirts,” I reply.

“Didn’t you just write an entire novel about this guy?” he reminds me. “And as your mentor of choice, didn’t he read the whole thing?”

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