Roomies by Christina Lauren
nine
The coldest day of January also happens to be my wedding day.
What a strange, strange sentence.
It’s one thing to say, Oh hey, I should totally marry this guy so I can save the day. It’s quite another to make it happen. Despite what I told Calvin—a few forms, an interview—Google happily informed me that this process is arduous. There are a million forms. There are a million requirements. And although there are visas specifically for this situation—where someone in the arts wants to hire a foreigner and an American citizen can’t fill the role—Calvin having lived here illegally makes that option unlikely. Which is why just yesterday we were here, getting our marriage license.
Marriage license. Holy hell, this is happening.
“I know I’m always encouraging you to get a life,” Lulu says, sliding her hand into mine, “but this is like me suggesting you eat something and you go and scarf down three dozen donuts.”
My heart is in my throat as we climb the stairs in front of City Hall, and I grip Lulu as if she’s keeping me above water. I am so grateful that she’s here: she got a great deal on simple gold bands from her shady uncle and came over early this morning to do my hair.
“You did say it would make a great story for my biography one day.”
Her dark hair—blown out and curled for the occasion—falls in a polished wave over one shoulder. “I said my biography,” she says.
Tipping her head back, she takes a final draw on her cigarette before snuffing it out. Her exhale plumes into a dense cloud in front of her, and I let go of her hand and subtly step away. Lulu quit smoking twice this year—going from Marlboros to vaping, to nothing, and back to Marlboros again. According to her, it’s not so much that she’s addicted as that auditions make her nervous, the wait after the audition makes her nervous, working in a restaurant in Manhattan and dealing with people’s shit makes her nervous.
“Just giving you a final chance to back out.” She fishes in her small bag for a box of orange Tic Tacs. “We don’t have to go in there.”
Her suggestion would be the easy choice, and certainly the smart one, but I can’t back out now. For as nervous and as terrified as I am, there’s another side that’s secretly, shamelessly giddy.
Self-consciously, I smooth the front of the pleated chiffon skirt I’m wearing as we pass through the glass doors. I’m still not sure it was the right choice. Trying too hard? Not trying hard enough? What does one wear to a fake wedding, anyway?
“You look good, kid.” Lulu pauses to spare me a glance. “What underwear are you wearing?”
“Lulu.” Seriously, how is it possible she is both the good and the bad angel on my shoulders?
“It’s an important question. Wedding night, Appalland.”
I’ve already explained to her a thousand times that it’s not going to be that kind of marriage (I mentally pour one out at the sorrow of this truth). We step just inside and I point in the direction of the Marriage Bureau, leading us down the corridor.
“I admire you for this decision, so don’t take what I’m going to say the wrong way.” Her shoes click on the tile floors. “But I can’t believe you didn’t at least tell Jeff. I plan on lying like a politician if either of your uncles ever asks me whether I was here.”
“I’ll tell them both everything as soon as it’s done. It’ll be like a little surprise party. ‘Hey, look! You get your star and oh, by the way, we’re married.’ ”
She loops a sympathetic arm around my shoulder and gives me a little squeeze. “I do not envy you that conversation.”
A hint of movement catches my eye, and I see my groom at the end of the hall. His light brown hair is neatly combed and he’s wearing a blue suit with a purple gingham shirt and blue bow tie. With my blue skirt and pink silk top, we match.
“Jesus,” Lulu stage-whispers.
My pulse takes off like a rocket.
His stride is long and purposeful, and in just a few steps, he’s standing in front of me. My eyes move from Calvin’s freshly shaved jaw to the tan column of his throat. I imagine him with his guitar in the park in the summer, the dappled shade in his hair and blades of grass clinging to his shoes and the bottoms of his pants.
“You look nice,” I say, in dramatic understatement.
“You look . . .” His green eyes take a casual stroll down the length of my body. I feel the attention as surely as if it were hands moving on my skin. “Stunning.”
A throat clears at his side.
“Hello.” A man with acres of black hair and pale blue eyes steps in front of him, taking my hand. “I’m Mark. The better man.”
“Is that right?” I say with a laugh.
“Witness,” Calvin clarifies, and sidesteps him. “This is Mark Verma. A friend.”
I smile up at him. “It’s nice to meet you, friend.”
He aims a set of dark, raised brows in Calvin’s direction. “I like her.”
I can feel Lulu hovering just behind me and pull her forward. “This is my best friend, Lulu.”
“It’s nice to officially meet you,” she says to Calvin, stepping forward to take his hand.
They talk among themselves for a moment, and it’s only now, with Calvin standing just a few feet away, that I notice what he’s carrying.
He follows my attention down to the circle of pale purple blooms in his hands. “It’s an Irish tradition for brides to wear flowers in their hair—in my family, at least. I know we’re not . . . that this isn’t traditional in that sense. But Mam would be heartbroken if I didn’t at least ask.”
My brows go skyward. He’s going to tell his parents about this? My folks live in the same country and I’ve already concluded it will be easier to lie my face off than live with their inevitable disapproval and concern. His parents live on the other side of the world. A gesture like this feels like we’re doing Till Death Do Us Part, when really, it’s only Till the Fat Lady Sings. Why on earth would he tell them? My immediate reaction—and surely the most mature, here—is to want to press pause and talk about how we each see this going. In hindsight, we hardly talked about it at all, and telling our families makes this something much bulkier that we have to manage.
But he looks so earnest and uncharacteristically unsure, I decide to put him out of his misery quickly.
“Of course I’ll wear it. Thank you.”
It’s made of loosely braided lavender, and I take it from him, settling it carefully on top of my hair.
Lulu reaches out to adjust the silky purple spikes, tilting her head to inspect her handiwork. “There. Perfect.” She snaps a few photos. “Let’s get you two married.”
I’m overly aware of the way my palm fits against Calvin’s as he takes my hand and leads us through the crowd toward the clerks.
Sidestepping a woman in a jewel-toned sari, I smile at a passing man wearing a yarmulke. There are couples of every composition and age. Some wear traditional dresses and suits, others are in jeans and T-shirts.
“Busier than I expected,” I say softly.
Calvin exhales a little laugh. “Yeah. You’d be surprised how many wedding dresses I see at the station.”
The room is long and narrow, with a row of sleek green couches on one side and marble counters and swiveling stools on the other. The ceilings are white-paneled with gold filigree detail. A marquee suspended from two chains shows the number now being served and at what station, and a ticket machine sits on the counter below. There’s even a small gift shop that sells last-minute items like flowers and emergency bow ties.
Calvin pulls a number from the machine and shows me: C922. A flash goes off and we both startle.
“That’s going to be good,” Lulu says, looking down at the screen of her tiny camera. She catches my bewildered expression. “What? The candids are always the best ones. A wedding is something you want to remember.” She looks at me pointedly. “Any couple would want photos to commemorate that.”
“Right.” This needs to be official. I’ve put so little thought into the logistics of this. Man, when I try to be spontaneous, I steal a lighter and throw it blindly into a pool of gasoline. “Good thinking.”
Calvin and I sit on one of the narrow couches, waiting and trying to ignore the click of the camera every three seconds. We make polite small talk:
“Did you have a good morning?”
“Yeah, didn’t sleep, though.”
“Me either.”
“It’s so cold outside.”
“I know. I nearly forgot my coat.”
Awkward laugh. “That would have been . . . bad.”
And on, and on, for a half hour, about what we ate last night and how we weren’t sure what to wear today. The only time either of us seems to relax and fall into easy conversation is when Calvin mentions he almost brought his guitar with him.
“It seemed oddly fitting,” he admits, “but then I worried it would be a hassle, or seem odd.”
“I wish you had.”
I really do. His music magically loosens that knotted ribbon inside me; I already miss hearing him play in the subway.
While we trip our way through the Holy Shit We Are About to Be Married awkward dance, Lulu and Mark chat unobtrusively to the side, having no apparent problem making entertaining conversation. Mark—like most people—seems completely charmed by Lulu, but every time Lulu snorts and loses it over one of his jokes, the more anxious I feel.
From this moment forward, no matter what happens after, I am combining my life with Calvin’s.
Finally, our number is called. We step up to the counter and I watch Calvin fill out the last bit of paperwork. Alongside our witnesses, we sign our names—mine is a lot less legible than everyone else’s, thanks to the cast—and after another small wait, it’s time. The New York City Marriage Bureau is very efficient.
We’re led into a small room with peach walls and pastel watercolors. Our officiant is a smiling woman with dark hair and rosy cheeks who greets us with a friendly welcome. There’s no music or fanfare, but she gently instructs us to stand opposite each other, while everyone else can stand or sit where they’d like. Calvin takes both my hands.
“Calvin and Holland,” she begins, “today you celebrate one of life’s greatest moments, and give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, as you join together in the vow of marriage.”
I look up at his face; his eyes are crinkled in amusement that is oddly masked as joy. I bite my lip, grinning back despite myself.
“Calvin,” she continues, “do you take Holland Lina Bakker to be your wife?”
His voice comes out hoarse at first, and he clears his throat. “I do.”
I love the way his accent curls the words.
She turns to me, and he squeezes my hands in his. “Holland, do you take Calvin Aedan McLoughlin to be your husband?”
I nod. My breath is tight in my chest, and for the first time since the ceremony began, I feel a pang of loss that Jeff and Robert and the rest of my family aren’t here. “I do.”
We promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect each other—forsaking all others.
We promise to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.
My stomach drops, and Calvin twists our fingers together—a tiny loophole on these promises.
With a shaking hand, I slide the simple band on his finger, and he returns the action on mine. At the bases of our fingers, the rings are so unblemished and innocent, gleaming proudly. I have the hysterical thought that I wouldn’t have the heart to tell these shiny, happy rings that they’re just props.
The ceremony is over with a flash of the camera as the officiant pronounces us husband and wife.
“Calvin, you may kiss your bride.”
I do a double take toward the officiant before I can help it. It never occurred to me that he would. That we would.
Calvin laughs a little at my wide eyes. “I promise to make it nice.”
It takes every bit of focus I have to remain upright. “I . . . believe you.”
A tiny cocky grin curves his mouth. “If you can’t be good, at least be good at it.” His hand comes to rest at the back of my neck; his fingers thread into my hair. “So come here,” he whispers, licking his lower lip. As he leans in, I have to tip my head back to see him. His eyes are closed, his breathing even, and there’s a moment of hesitation where I know we’re both thinking, This is it. We’re really doing this.
I bring my hand to rest on his chest and it’s that solidness that spurs me on, has me closing the last bit of distance between us. His lips are warm, smoother than I imagined, and tiny explosions travel along my body like a rush of caffeine filling my veins. It’s a perfect kiss, not too wet, not too soft, and I count to two before he pulls away, his forehead resting against mine. And just as I’m wondering whether he’ll ever kiss me again—unprompted—he whispers a sweet, nearly imperceptible “Thank you.”
A flash goes off to the sound of cheering and applause. More couples wait their turn, so we’re rushed out the door and down the hall to a small backdrop of the historic building. We pose for photos, of me and Calvin, Mark and Calvin, me and Lulu (she threatens dismemberment should I let Jeff or Robert find them), and all of us together.
“You did it,” she says into my ear, hugging me tight. Holy shit, she’s right. I got married. Me. I’ve never even considered marriage before and the word sounds so foreign I can barely wrap my brain around it. She hands me a small bag. “Your first wedding present!”
Inside and buried beneath what has to be an entire package of tissue paper is a red magnet with a white heart that reads:
Married in New York City.
