Not So Nice Guy(48)
“I don’t know.” I shake my head and try to pull my hands back, but he doesn’t let go. “I haven’t had time to have a real freak-out.”
He shakes his head, determined. “I’m not going to give you time. Don’t think. Oreos or M&Ms?”
“Oreos!”
“Summer or fall?!”
“Fall!”
“Tator tots or French fries?!”
“Both!”
“Do you want to marry me, yes or no?”
“YES!”
Then I jump across the car and kiss him so hard he falls back and crashes against the window. The kids in the rap car holler at us to get a room.
18
S A M
An hour later, we walk into the county clerk’s office wearing plastic rings we traded two quarters for at the grocery store across the street from Sonic. I expect quite the hullabaloo once we’re inside—balloons, streamers, white drapery—but it feels a lot like we’re in line at the DMV when a no-nonsense broad by the name of Ethel calls our number.
We sit down in her cubicle and I’m hopped up on sugar and love. Ethel, on the other hand, clearly missed her afternoon cup of joe. She checks her watch twice before finally acknowledging us.
“State your names for the record.”
“Hi! Hello! I’m Sam—Samantha Abrams. This is my fiancé, Ian Fletcher. OH MY GOD MY LAST NAME IS GOING TO BE FLETCHER! I’M NOT GOING TO BE FIRST IN ROLL CALL ANYMORE!”
Everything is hitting me all at once.
I’M GETTING MARRIED!
I AM GOING TO BE IAN’S WIFE!
I’m jittery and smiling so hard my cheeks ache. Ian laughs and takes my hand in his. He’s not shaking like I am, much closer to Ethel’s energy level than mine.
“A-b-r-a-m-s?” Ethel asks, aiming her coke-bottle glasses at her computer screen.
I lean forward and nearly shout, “Yes!”
Everything I say is capped with a smile and an explanation mark. She could ask me if my great-grandparents are dead and I’d grin from ear to ear and exclaim, YOU BETCHA, DEAD AS A DOORNAIL!
“F-l-e-t-c-h-e-r?”
Ian nods. “Yes ma’am.”
Ma’am! My fiancé is so respectful!
I stare at him with misty eyes and he squeezes my hand.
Ethel keeps on typing, pounding keys like she’s banging on drums. She doesn’t seem very enthusiastic. Can she tell we only got engaged an hour ago? Is it obvious that this is spontaneous and stupid?
What if she asks us questions to verify we’re in love and we say different answers?
Ian, does Sam prefer man on top or woman on top during coitus?
HE DOESN’T KNOW!
Suddenly, I feel hot and sweaty. I’m panicking like this is a green card wedding.
In reality, Ethel only asks questions about whether or not we’re in any way related or if either of us is overdue on child support payments, but that doesn’t stop me from telling her lies about our relationship, just in case.
“He did this huge, over-the-top proposal, helicopters and everything. Bill Murray was there!”
She grunts as she continues to type.
“We’ve actually been dating three years today,” I brag. “That’s why I’m so emotional.”
Ethel looks at me over the rims of her glasses. “Congrats.” She doesn’t sound congratulatory. “Are either of you already married?”
I blink, confused. “I just told you we’ve been dating for three years.”
She sighs and glances at her watch for a third time. “I have to ask every question on the prompt. Yes or no?”
“No,” we answer in unison.
So much for romance. Ethel prints forms, slaps stamps, and pushes us out the door as quickly as possible. We have a manila-colored marriage license in hand and strict orders to wait 72 hours before tying the knot.
This is news to me. I sort of thought we’d get the license, hop over to the courthouse, and have this all finished by dinner time.
72 hours feels like a lifetime—certainly enough time for this sugar high to wear off and for us to realize how utterly irrational this all is. I don’t want to think. I want to keep playing Ian’s game. I want to be married right now!
I think Ian can sense this because he stays quiet as we head back to his car. He opens my door, and once we’re both seated, I reach for his hand again. He has a hard time navigating out of the parking lot and back onto the road while I have ahold of him, but I can’t let go. It’s the only thing keeping me on earth.
“Should we drive to Vegas? There’s no waiting period.”
“It would take us 72 hours to get there and back. Let’s just wait here.”
“But I feel like we have to keep moving! Is this actually happening?”
He nods and turns right at the light.
“This isn’t some elaborate prank on your part? Because really, you could do much better than me.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re beautiful and funny.”
“WHAT?!”
It’s one thing to propose marriage and another thing entirely to call me beautiful and funny. I’m not sure which one is more important.
“Ian Fletcher thinks I’m beautiful,” I say to no one in particular. “Wowee.”