Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Walt is dressed much more appropriately than me in his camel coat and black suit. A leather watch is barely visible on his left wrist. His shined shoes click ominously against the tile floor, much more refined than my clunky boots.
I’m not sure where he’s leading me. In fact, I’m not sure how any of this is supposed to go. I peer at him from the corner of my eye to see his gaze laser-focused ahead, down the hall. We keep walking, then he stops to call an elevator, and I have to awkwardly pivot my momentum to carry me sideways instead of forward. He doesn’t seem to notice my wobble. In fact, I don’t think he even notices me.
I’d ask him questions—I have a million of them—but I suddenly feel like the cat’s got my tongue. I try to figure out why he seems to have stolen my voice as we step onto the elevator together, side by side. It’s the height, I tell myself. He’s got a good foot on me. Maybe more. The width of him doesn’t help either. He’s hefty, which I realize isn’t a wonderful way to describe a human as it lends itself to both trash bags and general wideness in any direction, but he is hefty. Strong and broad-shouldered.
In contrast, I have the type of body that doesn’t quite know how to hang on to muscle. With my long legs, I could have been a ballerina if only I had grace and talent and dedication toward a skill outside of art. I am one of those people who promises to start taking care of myself tomorrow and—shockingly—tomorrow never comes. Gyms just don’t hold much appeal for me. I prefer hunching myself over my work table or easel, staining my fingers with pastels, letting the days blur together.
The elevator carries us up and I wonder, yet again, where we’re headed. I know we’re supposed to have a marriage certificate before we’re allowed to go through with the ceremony itself. I assume that’s what we’re doing today, maybe just completing the preliminary steps toward a wedding that will be at some ambiguous date in the future, but that hope starts to drain out of me as we step out of the elevator to find two people standing near a closed courtroom. An older woman in black judicial robes laughs beside a young man with round acrylic glasses and short blond hair. He’s carrying a black leather padfolio, a datebook, and a phone, all tucked neatly one on top of the other. When they catch sight of us, they pause their conversation.
“Judge Mathers,” Walt says with a tip of his head. “I appreciate the favor.”
Her smile is wide and genuine as she meets his gaze. “Of course. I cared a great deal for your grandfather, and call me crazy, but even in my old age, I’m a sucker for love.”
She meets my eyes as she finishes the last half of her sentence, and I catch genuine glee there. Oh dear. It’s obvious she thinks she’s marrying two lovebirds desperate to be together. I force a smile quickly, hoping I haven’t already ruined the façade.
“You must be Elizabeth Brighton,” she says. “I have to say, I love the dress.”
I glance down at the cheetah print and blush. “Oh, thank you.” And then I sense that Walt is watching me too, almost expectantly, so I quickly tack on an additional thank you to her for helping us out today.
“Like I said, it truly is my pleasure,” she assures us. “Now I don’t mean to rush you two along, but I only have a ten-minute window in my schedule. If we’re going to do this…” She nods her head back in the direction of the courtroom, and everyone gets the hint.
The blond man springs into action, tugging open the door for us. Judge Mathers strolls in first and then Walt waves for the man to go ahead so he can take the door from him. As I step past, Walt’s free hand hits my lower back for a moment to help usher me inside, and the contact is the start of a chain reaction in my body, one nerve firing to the next until I’m suddenly ablaze with anxiety.
I turn quickly, lowering my voice so only he can hear me. “I’m confused. Isn’t there some sort of waiting period? A few days between when we get a marriage license and when we can officially get married?”
“Not for people like us.”
His eyes are almost bored as he looks down on me. My panic is obviously not shared.
“Oh…okay.” I look into the courtroom, then back down the hall as if assessing my escape options.
“But if you’d like to back out, all you need to say—”
I straighten my spine and whip my gaze back into the courtroom. “No. Of course not. I just wasn’t sure of the procedures. Let’s…get married.”