It’s made of loosely braided lavender, and I take it from him, settling it carefully on top of my hair.
Lulu reaches out to adjust the silky purple spikes, tilting her head to inspect her handiwork. “There. Perfect.” She snaps a few photos. “Let’s get you two married.”
I’m overly aware of the way my palm fits against Calvin’s as he takes my hand and leads us through the crowd toward the clerks.
Sidestepping a woman in a jewel-toned sari, I smile at a passing man wearing a yarmulke. There are couples of every composition and age. Some wear traditional dresses and suits, others are in jeans and T-shirts.
“Busier than I expected,” I say softly.
Calvin exhales a little laugh. “Yeah. You’d be surprised how many wedding dresses I see at the station.”
The room is long and narrow, with a row of sleek green couches on one side and marble counters and swiveling stools on the other. The ceilings are white-paneled with gold filigree detail. A marquee suspended from two chains shows the number now being served and at what station, and a ticket machine sits on the counter below. There’s even a small gift shop that sells last-minute items like flowers and emergency bow ties.
Calvin pulls a number from the machine and shows me: C922. A flash goes off and we both startle.
“That’s going to be good,” Lulu says, looking down at the screen of her tiny camera. She catches my bewildered expression. “What? The candids are always the best ones. A wedding is something you want to remember.” She looks at me pointedly. “Any couple would want photos to commemorate that.”
“Right.” This needs to be official. I’ve put so little thought into the logistics of this. Man, when I try to be spontaneous, I steal a lighter and throw it blindly into a pool of gasoline. “Good thinking.”
Calvin and I sit on one of the narrow couches, waiting and trying to ignore the click of the camera every three seconds. We make polite small talk:
“Did you have a good morning?”
“Yeah, didn’t sleep, though.”
“Me either.”
“It’s so cold outside.”
“I know. I nearly forgot my coat.”
Awkward laugh. “That would have been . . . bad.”
And on, and on, for a half hour, about what we ate last night and how we weren’t sure what to wear today. The only time either of us seems to relax and fall into easy conversation is when Calvin mentions he almost brought his guitar with him.
“It seemed oddly fitting,” he admits, “but then I worried it would be a hassle, or seem odd.”
“I wish you had.”
I really do. His music magically loosens that knotted ribbon inside me; I already miss hearing him play in the subway.
While we trip our way through the Holy Shit We Are About to Be Married awkward dance, Lulu and Mark chat unobtrusively to the side, having no apparent problem making entertaining conversation. Mark—like most people—seems completely charmed by Lulu, but every time Lulu snorts and loses it over one of his jokes, the more anxious I feel.
From this moment forward, no matter what happens after, I am combining my life with Calvin’s.
Finally, our number is called. We step up to the counter and I watch Calvin fill out the last bit of paperwork. Alongside our witnesses, we sign our names—mine is a lot less legible than everyone else’s, thanks to the cast—and after another small wait, it’s time. The New York City Marriage Bureau is very efficient.
We’re led into a small room with peach walls and pastel watercolors. Our officiant is a smiling woman with dark hair and rosy cheeks who greets us with a friendly welcome. There’s no music or fanfare, but she gently instructs us to stand opposite each other, while everyone else can stand or sit where they’d like. Calvin takes both my hands.
“Calvin and Holland,” she begins, “today you celebrate one of life’s greatest moments, and give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, as you join together in the vow of marriage.”
I look up at his face; his eyes are crinkled in amusement that is oddly masked as joy. I bite my lip, grinning back despite myself.
“Calvin,” she continues, “do you take Holland Lina Bakker to be your wife?”
His voice comes out hoarse at first, and he clears his throat. “I do.”
I love the way his accent curls the words.
She turns to me, and he squeezes my hands in his. “Holland, do you take Calvin Aedan McLoughlin to be your husband?”
I nod. My breath is tight in my chest, and for the first time since the ceremony began, I feel a pang of loss that Jeff and Robert and the rest of my family aren’t here. “I do.”
We promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect each other—forsaking all others.
We promise to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.
My stomach drops, and Calvin twists our fingers together—a tiny loophole on these promises.
With a shaking hand, I slide the simple band on his finger, and he returns the action on mine. At the bases of our fingers, the rings are so unblemished and innocent, gleaming proudly. I have the hysterical thought that I wouldn’t have the heart to tell these shiny, happy rings that they’re just props.
The ceremony is over with a flash of the camera as the officiant pronounces us husband and wife.
“Calvin, you may kiss your bride.”
I do a double take toward the officiant before I can help it. It never occurred to me that he would. That we would.
Calvin laughs a little at my wide eyes. “I promise to make it nice.”
It takes every bit of focus I have to remain upright. “I . . . believe you.”
A tiny cocky grin curves his mouth. “If you can’t be good, at least be good at it.” His hand comes to rest at the back of my neck; his fingers thread into my hair. “So come here,” he whispers, licking his lower lip. As he leans in, I have to tip my head back to see him. His eyes are closed, his breathing even, and there’s a moment of hesitation where I know we’re both thinking, This is it. We’re really doing this.
I bring my hand to rest on his chest and it’s that solidness that spurs me on, has me closing the last bit of distance between us. His lips are warm, smoother than I imagined, and tiny explosions travel along my body like a rush of caffeine filling my veins. It’s a perfect kiss, not too wet, not too soft, and I count to two before he pulls away, his forehead resting against mine. And just as I’m wondering whether he’ll ever kiss me again—unprompted—he whispers a sweet, nearly imperceptible “Thank you.”
A flash goes off to the sound of cheering and applause. More couples wait their turn, so we’re rushed out the door and down the hall to a small backdrop of the historic building. We pose for photos, of me and Calvin, Mark and Calvin, me and Lulu (she threatens dismemberment should I let Jeff or Robert find them), and all of us together.
“You did it,” she says into my ear, hugging me tight. Holy shit, she’s right. I got married. Me. I’ve never even considered marriage before and the word sounds so foreign I can barely wrap my brain around it. She hands me a small bag. “Your first wedding present!”
Inside and buried beneath what has to be an entire package of tissue paper is a red magnet with a white heart that reads:
Married in New York City.
ten
So what now?
Ahead of us, Lulu and Mark are trading small talk—about jobs, New York, weather.
Calvin and I are in a weird bubble right behind them. The wind is sharp and cold, and we’re bundled up, heading down the last block to Gallaghers Steakhouse, unspeaking. He’s a nice person, I’m a nice person. As our two dates have demonstrated, we get along just fine . . . but I’m sure we’re both reeling with the awareness that we’re married.
Married. Calvin is my husband. I am his wife.
I glance down to the ring on his left hand and, in response, the metal on my finger seems to grow bitingly cold.
“You all right?” he asks.
Startling at the sound of his voice, I shift my attention to his face. His nose is pink, and adorable. Ugh. I’ve married him, and he has no idea I’ve been writing Holland/Hot Busker fic in my head for months. How is this a good idea?
I go for breezy: “Yeah, of course—it’s my wedding day.”
When he turns his face forward again, I can barely see it peeking out from the hood of his black down jacket. But I do catch the smile. “You’re quiet. I haven’t known you that long, but what I do know isn’t quiet.”
Well. He spotted that quickly.
“You’re right, I’m not.” I smile faintly back. My face is numb, it’s so cold outside. “I’m just thinking about all of this.”
“Regrets?”
“No, more of the ‘What now?’ kind of thinking. I need to tell Robert.”
“Maybe we could talk out here, away from prying ears.”
I look over at him again. We’re less than half a block away from Gallaghers now, and he’s got a point. Once we get in there, everyone will be able to hear us, and will for sure see the awkward navigation through the What now? if we leave it until the end of the meal.
I stop, bending as if adjusting the strap on my shoe. Calvin calls out to Lulu and Mark. “Yeah, keep going,” he says. “We’ll catch you inside.”
And then he crouches, meeting my eyes. “This is big, what you’ve done.”
“Yeah.” I’m caught in the intensity of his expression.
“I can see why you’d be left a little speechless.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I could go with you when you talk to your uncles?”
“Okay.”
Use your words, Holland. Tell him it isn’t so much that you’re feeling regret as you’re feeling sheer panic at the prospect of sharing an apartment with a stranger who also happens to be the hottest man you’ve ever touched. What if you fart in your sleep?
“I want you to know,” he continues, “despite my misdemeanor candy theft, I’m not a creep. I would never hurt you. But if you would feel more comfortable staying separate places—”