Not So Nice Guy
Page 31
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S A M
I sit perfectly frozen, almost as if he just turned me to stone. Day turns to night turns to day turns to night and I’m still staring at him, unblinking. Years pass. My hair turns gray and my hands are wrinkled and feeble when I finally realize he’s kidding.
I bark out a laugh and bat his arm. “Oh my god, Ian, I thought you were serious there for a second!”
So much silence fills his car, the windshield splinters down the middle, trying to alleviate some of the pressure. My smile fades slowly.
He’s not kidding.
He tips his head to the side and studies me.
Slow as molasses, his mouth spreads into a smile and my stomach drops.
“You’re not serious!” I insist. “C’mon, we need to focus. What are we actually going to do? Hack Mrs. O’Doyle into little pieces and ship her to different corners of the United States?”
“We can do that, too, but first let’s get married. They might send us to the same prison.”
He’s not dropping this joke. It’s getting old.
I roll my eyes. “Right, okay. We’ll get married. Ha. Mar-ried,” I sing-song. “Glad that’s settled.”
His smile fades and he turns to glance out the window. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I offended him.
I frown and reach over, taking his bicep in my palm. I squeeze it twice, trying to get him to meet my eyes. He won’t.
“Are you kidding?”
His brows furrow deeper. He looks so angry and so beautiful. “Nope.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
That answer hits me like a ton of bricks.
If he’s not kidding, then he’s on crack.
IAN IS ON CRACK! Somebody warn the anti-drug froyo guy.
My soothing, gentle voice is gone. In its place is a shrill, exasperated shout. “MARRIED?! Ian, YOU’RE CRAZY! I just gave in to dating you like a day ago, and now you want to propose marriage?!”
This makes no sense. Between the two of us, Ian is the logical one. He’s thoughtful about everything. I don’t think he’s been spontaneous even once in his life. He plans vacations two years in advance. He keeps the owner’s manual for every appliance he’s ever purchased, down to his can opener. Last year, when he helped me put together my new IKEA dresser, I ripped open every package, flinging parts across my living room. Meanwhile, Ian read the entire instruction booklet cover to cover (in English and in Swedish).
I open my mouth to argue some more, to throw reason at him, but I’m too dumbstruck to form words. I bob my mouth open and closed like a fish.
“Realistically, what would change?” he says, still staring ahead. “We already share a meal service subscription and a Netflix account. In fact, if you won’t marry me, I’m going to change my password.”
Well, he does have me there…
NO!
“We can’t get married!” I cry, tossing my hands in the air dramatically. “We haven’t even had sex!”
“Yeah, well, we can fix that,” he says, unveiling a hint of a smirk. “These windows are pretty tinted.”
Damn this delicious Sonic treat. Their ice cream is so thick I can’t even dump it out on his head.
He finally turns to face me and I’m hit with cobalt and powder blue and something else: LOVE. He reaches out for my hands and cradles them over the center console. This can’t be happening. I’m shaking. This feels like a real proposal…except the car next to ours is blaring rap music so loudly their bass is shaking our windows. Behind Ian, there’s a rusted dumpster and some tasteful graffiti telling me to $uk d!k. There’s not a single rose petal or lit candle in sight.
“Honestly though, is that your only reason against it?” he asks, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. My heart hammers in my chest. I feel like I could start sobbing uncontrollably at any second.
“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.
I sit perfectly frozen, almost as if he just turned me to stone. Day turns to night turns to day turns to night and I’m still staring at him, unblinking. Years pass. My hair turns gray and my hands are wrinkled and feeble when I finally realize he’s kidding.
I bark out a laugh and bat his arm. “Oh my god, Ian, I thought you were serious there for a second!”
So much silence fills his car, the windshield splinters down the middle, trying to alleviate some of the pressure. My smile fades slowly.
He’s not kidding.
He tips his head to the side and studies me.
Slow as molasses, his mouth spreads into a smile and my stomach drops.
“You’re not serious!” I insist. “C’mon, we need to focus. What are we actually going to do? Hack Mrs. O’Doyle into little pieces and ship her to different corners of the United States?”
“We can do that, too, but first let’s get married. They might send us to the same prison.”
He’s not dropping this joke. It’s getting old.
I roll my eyes. “Right, okay. We’ll get married. Ha. Mar-ried,” I sing-song. “Glad that’s settled.”
His smile fades and he turns to glance out the window. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I offended him.
I frown and reach over, taking his bicep in my palm. I squeeze it twice, trying to get him to meet my eyes. He won’t.
“Are you kidding?”
His brows furrow deeper. He looks so angry and so beautiful. “Nope.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
That answer hits me like a ton of bricks.
If he’s not kidding, then he’s on crack.
IAN IS ON CRACK! Somebody warn the anti-drug froyo guy.
My soothing, gentle voice is gone. In its place is a shrill, exasperated shout. “MARRIED?! Ian, YOU’RE CRAZY! I just gave in to dating you like a day ago, and now you want to propose marriage?!”
This makes no sense. Between the two of us, Ian is the logical one. He’s thoughtful about everything. I don’t think he’s been spontaneous even once in his life. He plans vacations two years in advance. He keeps the owner’s manual for every appliance he’s ever purchased, down to his can opener. Last year, when he helped me put together my new IKEA dresser, I ripped open every package, flinging parts across my living room. Meanwhile, Ian read the entire instruction booklet cover to cover (in English and in Swedish).
I open my mouth to argue some more, to throw reason at him, but I’m too dumbstruck to form words. I bob my mouth open and closed like a fish.
“Realistically, what would change?” he says, still staring ahead. “We already share a meal service subscription and a Netflix account. In fact, if you won’t marry me, I’m going to change my password.”
Well, he does have me there…
NO!
“We can’t get married!” I cry, tossing my hands in the air dramatically. “We haven’t even had sex!”
“Yeah, well, we can fix that,” he says, unveiling a hint of a smirk. “These windows are pretty tinted.”
Damn this delicious Sonic treat. Their ice cream is so thick I can’t even dump it out on his head.
He finally turns to face me and I’m hit with cobalt and powder blue and something else: LOVE. He reaches out for my hands and cradles them over the center console. This can’t be happening. I’m shaking. This feels like a real proposal…except the car next to ours is blaring rap music so loudly their bass is shaking our windows. Behind Ian, there’s a rusted dumpster and some tasteful graffiti telling me to $uk d!k. There’s not a single rose petal or lit candle in sight.
“Honestly though, is that your only reason against it?” he asks, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. My heart hammers in my chest. I feel like I could start sobbing uncontrollably at any second.
“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.
