“We’re, ah, looking for our license,” I say.
Elvis slides his glasses back down his nose. “Then you want Connie over at reception. Obviously,” the guy finishes, muttering under his breath.
Elvis is a bitch.
“We’re getting married!” the sniffly guy yells. He looks so proud. Aw, sweetie.
“Yay!” I cry out, giving them an enthusiastic thumbs up. They beam at me.
“Mazel Tov,” Nate mutters, and we shut the doors, turning away from the chapel and back to the front desk. “You handle weird situations a lot better than me,” he says.
I do believe he may be impressed.
“That’ll be a good quality to have when we move into your condo,” I say. Then I hold up my hands when he blanches a little bit. “Kidding. We really should pick our honeymoon destination, though. I’m thinking Cabo or Venice. One is more beach, but the other is more pasta. Can’t decide.”
Nate laughs at that, and rings the desk bell. He waits, then does it again thirty seconds later. Again, a man who knows how to get what he wants.
I lean on the counter next to him, our arms against each other. A whisper of electricity brushes up my skin; I’m getting goosebumps just from his presence. Or maybe that’s the air conditioning.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks, coming up to the counter from the back room. She’s snapping gum, and has her hair poofed up in June Carter-style fabulousness. “Would you like our premium or deluxe package? Deluxe means you get to keep the rings. Here.” She reaches under the counter and pulls out a black velvet tray with rhinestone sparklers in it. “Personally, I like the one with the swan-shaped diamond. It screams eternal bliss.” She blows a bubble; the bags under her eyes tell me she might be pulling a double shift.
“We need to check our license. We might have gotten married here last night,” Nate says, all business. The woman snorts.
“Might have? How blitzed were you, sweetie?”
Nate grumbles and takes my phone, showing her the picture.
She nods. “Yep. You had Daryl, our midnight Elvis. Good job, too. He’s way more fun than Kyle. You know, the one officiating right now?” She sighs and picks at a scab on her finger. “Kyle drops character all the time. Daryl even takes his lunch break like Elvis. Peanut butter banana sandwiches and everything.”
“That’s . . . committed,” Nate says at last.
“Yep. It’ll kill him someday. Just like how Elvis died, trying to take a shit.” She shakes her head. “It’s what Daryl wants. Anyway, let me get the license.” She turns around and goes in the back.
I start nervously rapping my fingers on the counter. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? My leg starts jittering, and Nate lays his hand on top of mine.
“Whatever happens . . . we’ll be okay,” he says, squeezing my fingers.
I’m sure he means it in the “we’ll be able to get a quickie divorce” sense, but maybe not. Maybe we could try it out for a while, see if the shoe fits. After all, I’m still reveling in memories of our lovemaking last night, and my toes curl even thinking about it.
I smile up at him, wanting to run my fingers across the fine stubbled line of his jaw.
He looks down at me, too. “Julia,” he says. “I want—”
“Found it,” Connie says, shoving back in through the door and slapping a piece of paper on the counter. “Congratulations. You are married in the great state of Nevada. Hope you have a long and happy life together.”
She’s still chomping on that gum, looking from Nate to me like she’s anticipating three months before the divorce, tops.
I think my entire body’s gone numb. I’m . . . married. Again.
“Wow,” Nate says. It sounds like the wind’s been taken out of him. He clears his throat, puts his hand on the wedding license.
My heart is pounding a mile a minute. Okay. So we’re married. This can be dealt with if we need to, you know, get a divorce. I don’t think Nate would try to pull anything with my money like Drew did, and I think he knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t do anything like that to him.
But what if . . . what if he wants to give our marriage a shot?
Because I’ve been thinking about it on the taxi ride over here, thinking about the knot in my stomach. Now I realize I wasn’t worried because I was afraid we were married; I was a little nervous to think that we weren’t.
Not to say that this is the way I really wanted or pictured anything, but we do well together, Nate and I. Don’t we?
Look, maybe we can agree to play it by ear for a month or two. If in eight weeks we know it’s a bust, we just go to the courthouse and file and boom, we’re done. Not married.
But if eight weeks go by, and we like it, maybe we try eight more weeks. And then eight weeks after that. And then . . . .