Page 16 of Honeyed

“Jesus, Al.” Warren chuckles under his breath like he just can’t help himself since I’m so ridiculous.

“What? A woman has needs.” Ones that, as my husband, he might need to fulfill.

If we’re supposedly married and living under the same roof, it’d obviously be frowned upon to go trolling for dick.

“I’m pretty sure fully grown adults can take care of those things themselves.” His gray eyes turn a shade of black, and I swear they’re smoldering.

“But what if—”

“Alana.” Warren’s voice rings with finality and authority. “Do you want to do this or not?”

“How romantic,” I mumble, looking down at the cuticle beds I’ve practically gnawed off in recent days. “We need rules or something. A contract. Or an agreement. Things we can do and not do. How this works. What other things we might need to—”

A hand snakes around the back of my neck, gently squeezing. It’s always been his way of calming me down when I’m wound up, but the gesture seems to hold more meaning in light of his proposal.

“We don’t need rules or any of that shit. You’re my best friend. If we’re doing this, nothing changes. Sure, we might be living under the same roof and putting it on for the outside world, but I’ll never hurt you. I’ll always support you, and you’ve always done the same. We talk things out, share our highs and lows. We’ll figure it out together, just like we always have. This is me, Al.”

Our eyes hold, unspoken feelings and moments passing between us. As much as Warren wants to talk to death the idea that we’ll just be best friends living under the same roof to help August out, this will be so much more.

Neither of us could see just how deep it would become. Not yet.

And because of that, I finally said, “Okay. Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

* * *

A day, due to the weekend, and another twenty-four hours after awkwardly faking our way through the act of a happy couple applying to be wed, we have a marriage license to pick up. Warren holds the piece of paper in his hand as we walk through Truesdale City Hall. Just a piece of paper, and yet it holds the information needed to join our lives.

Butterflies zip through my gut in flight, making their way up my throat as I try to swallow the nerves.

“Should I have worn something different?” he asks, suddenly stopping in the municipal building hallway. The brown paneling and stench of a place that had been put here long before we were born invades my nose.

“I don’t know?” I shrug, not sure about anything right now.

Black jeans, a denim button-up with the sleeves rolled to reveal veins on his forearms, and white sneakers with scuff marks on the toes. That’s what he’s wearing. I’m not marrying Warren in a big white gown like I dreamed of so many times but in simple blue jeans and a white cardigan with pearl buttons. My hair is in its usual cascade of waves, and Warren picked me up from my house this morning with a grocery store bouquet in the passenger seat.

No other couple is waiting out in this small-town ceremony space, seeing as it’s a Tuesday morning, and we’re sneaking in here like spies waiting to get caught. My nerves feel too big for this building, yet a weird sense of calm also settles over me.

Fingers lace through the ones on my free hand, and I blink up at Warren. “It’s going to be okay. Stop overthinking. I know that sounds ridiculous of me to say, but we’re doing what is right.”

Are we? I can’t help but ask myself that. None of my family are here. Not his friends. This isn’t how I ever thought I’d be getting married.

“Ashton and Teal?” A man sticks his head out of the courtroom door.

Our eyes hold each other before we turn, hand in hand, and walk the rest of the way down the hall. Warren holds the door and rests his hand on the small of my back as he ushers me inside, then he picks up my hand again. The hand that holds my flowers is sweating.

The small-town courtroom is just a couple of wooden benches, the judge’s bench up front, and pictures of police heroes on the wall. An American flag stands next to where a judge in his mid-fifties sits in a black robe, and he smiles amiably at us as we make our way to the front.

The receptionist, who looked at our marriage license and informed the judge of our want to get married, walks to the front and hands him the paperwork, then takes a seat at the front bench on the righthand side. Warren and I stand there awkwardly until he smiles at us again and waves us to stand in front of him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of Alana and Warren in the bonds of matrimony.”

My stomach drops, and I grip Warren’s hand tighter. I can’t believe we’re doing this. Every limb feels like it’s both rooted heavily to the ground and floating above me somewhere, looking down at this scene.

“Marriage is a serious, honorable matter, and should not be entered into lightly. I trust the two of you have had enough time to think about what marriage means to you, and that you stand now, before this court, ready to offer each other a life-long commitment based on love, trust, and respect.”

Guilt suffuses me. This judge can’t know why we’re doing this because if he did, he’d never marry us. I swallow thickly, doing my best not to look at Warren. If I do, I know I won’t go through with it. But I do see him nod out of the corner of my eye and wonder if he’s doing so to pass this fallacy off or if he truly believes that’s what he’s doing here.

“Good. In that case, do you take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, to honor her, to comfort her, and to keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

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