Not So Nice Guy
Page 33

“Your mother’s right,” my father’s voice booms. “You two need to slow down. We have premarital counseling at the church. It’s a six-week course.”
They’re confused. “We don’t want to wait. We want your support.”
“Well you don’t have it. Please, be rational.”
What she means to say is, Please, do it the exact way your father and I did it. Come in for premarital counseling, don a poofy white dress, and walk down the aisle not too slow but not too fast, all so I can prove to all of our family and friends that I’ve raised a classy young woman, not a heathen who elopes.
“We’ve already made up our minds,” Ian insists with a strong, non-nonsense tone. “We’re going to elope, and we’d love for you two to be there if you’d like. Once we know the time and place, we’ll pass it along.”
“The time and place?!” Her lips tremble. Her hands are shaking. My mom is having a mental breakdown before our very eyes. “You don’t even know that yet?! Good heavens.”
She storms off and starts weeping near the extra salad on the island in the kitchen. My father hurries over to comfort her. I honestly think they’re taking it worse than if I’d told them I had cancer.
“Look what you’re doing to your mother, Samantha,” my dad chides.
All of sudden, I’ve had enough. They’re being ridiculous. I understand needing a few minutes to adjust, but this is taking it to a whole new level. I jerk to stand, causing my chair to tip back and crash to the floor.
“Ian, let’s go. Grab your plate. Yes, take it—and your glass! Here, I’ll help you.”
My arms are loaded up with stolen cutlery and dinnerware as we bolt from the house. My parents are crying as if they’ve lost me forever.
“Sam, are you sure you don’t want to go back in there?” Ian asks after we’ve buckled up.
I shake my head and utter one word.
“Drive.”
Our stolen dinner sits untouched on my coffee table. Ian sits beside me on the couch, and the aftermath of our afternoon and evening has struck us both silent. I was riding a high, running from Principal Pruitt’s office to Sonic to the grocery store to the county clerk’s office. It was the most exciting few hours of my life. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, and then my parents had to ruin it.
Are they right?
Are we being irrational?
I shift my gaze to Ian and see him staring at the ceiling with his brows furrowed. I think he’s having the same second thoughts I am. Any moment, he’s going to turn, look me square in the eyes, and tell me he doesn’t want to marry me after all. The thought sends a worried tear down my cheek. I swipe it away quickly.
“Do you want kids, Ian?”
He frowns. “You know I do.”
“Do you want them with me?”
“Sam.”
I shake my head and nibble on my bottom lip. “Maybe my parents are right. Maybe this is crazy. I’ve put more thought into the placement of a tattoo I’ll never get than this marriage. This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about.”
“Just because it’s spontaneous doesn’t mean it’s wrong.” He sounds confident. “What would make you feel better?”
“Let’s have sex.”
“Sam, you’re crying.”
“Then overload my brain with your mouth.”
“No. Not tonight.”
He sounds mad.
I sit up and turn to him. “Why?”
His hand finds mine on the couch and he squeezes. “It feels old-fashioned to wait until after we elope. I like it. Also, no offense, but I’m not exactly in the mood. It feels like I’d be taking advantage of you.”
“Great.” I toss up my hands. “I’m marrying a prude.”
“Shove over and hand me the remote. I know what will make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to watch HBO porn.”
He pulls up season 2 episode 12 of The Office, the one where Michael grills his foot on his George Foreman Grill. This episode has pulled me out of an end-of-summer funk, a bad-relationship-turned-into-bad-breakup slump, and that one time I got strep throat right after the flu. Ian was there for all of that and he’s here now, watching the episode beside me on my couch. My future husband. Mr. Samantha Abrams.
I’ll find his short brown hair on my pillow. On Saturdays, he’ll insist on making a big breakfast and I’ll eat it even though I really just want a slice of peanut butter toast.
Michael Scott wraps his foot in bubble wrap on screen and I start to remove the bubble wrap around my heart. I’ve kept it there from the beginning of my friendship with Ian. No girl befriends a guy as handsome and charming as him without some kind of safeguard. My heart beats faster as if it’s aware of its newfound freedom. I’ve been holding it back, but now it’s beating at its full potential, thumping and demanding the love I’ve deprived it of. He’s beautiful and he’s going to be mine. I can hardly believe it. I want to lift my hand and feel the contours of his face, his nose, his chin, just to prove to myself he really exists. This isn’t just another dream.
“Are you watching?” Ian asks, aware of my gaze on his profile.
“No.”
“You’re missing your favorite part.”
It’s when Michael asks Pam to rub Country Crock on his foot to help it heal.
“How do you think we’ll watch TV when we’re married?”
“Probably like this.”
“Oh.”
“Except we’ll obviously be nude.”
My jaw drops. He sighs and turns my way, reaching out to close my open trap.
“I’m kidding, Sam. Stop thinking. You’ll spin yourself out of control.”
“I can’t turn my brain off. That dinner was intense. My parents are going to disown me. They’re probably spending my dowry on replacement dinnerware.”
He feigns disappointment. “Really? That was the only reason I proposed.”
“You can back out if you want. There’s still time.”
His gaze falls to my mouth and he reaches out to yank my lip free from my teeth. I didn’t realize I was nibbling on it.
“I should be saying the same thing to you. You’re the one who’s rebelling against her parents. My parents love you. When I call them later to tell them about this, my mom will probably lose her voice from screaming so loud.”
I grin. “That’s because I’m loveable.”
His finger traces my knuckles. His touch is feather light. “I know.”
POP. POP. POP. My bubble wrap keeps deflating.
“What time did we get our marriage license?” he asks, changing the subject like a pro.
“I don’t know…4:50? The courthouse closed at five o’clock and we were the last ones in line.”
“So then at 4:50 on Friday, we will have waited the required 72 hours.”
That’s soon—three sleeps soon.
“I think it’s a good idea if we don’t see each other until then,” he continues.
“But tomorrow is West Wing Wednesday.”
We’ve never missed one, not even for illness. Once, Ian watched in his bedroom while he had a stomach bug and I watched in the living room. We shouted to each other through the door.
“I know, but I think it’s important to give you time to really consider what we’re about to do.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay.” He does have a way of overloading my brain. “Do you need time too?”
“No.”
That word was locked and loaded in his chamber. He says it so quickly, without a blink, and it hits me like a bullet.
Ian’s in love with me.
POP. POP. POP.
Our gazes lock and my apartment becomes a furnace. My sofa seems even smaller than usual and Ian takes up so much of it. I’d only have to scooch over a little bit to reach his lap. I could crawl on top and hook one knee on either side of his hips. He’d be trapped there, completely at my mercy.
“What on earth are you thinking about?” he asks huskily.
“Taking advantage of you. Remember how we were sitting in your car on Saturday? With me on your lap?”