Page 11 of Downfall

“No need,” I chirp, fishing my phone out of my purse. “Lucky for us, Emberfield County recently rolled out a new online marriage license program. Apparently they’re trying to be ‘hip’ like Vegas.” As I pull up the website that’s still bookmarked in my browser from the late-night research sessions I chose over sleep, I expect to see Declan’s face fall, but it doesn’t. His gaze is steadfast, unrelenting. So much so that I have to look away. I find the online application and bypass the five pages of warnings that completing this process will result in a legally binding marriage.

It won’t get that far, but he doesn’t know that. I need him to think that I’m not backing down. He wants to play games? Fine. But I refuse to be blindsided this time. No, this time, I’m going to have the last word.

Swiping over to the Spouse Number One section, I input all of my information, peeking over at Declan when I get to the part where I have to take a picture of my license. Still nothing. So I type my e-signature, scroll down to the Spouse Number Two section, and hand the phone to him.

“Your move,” I say.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers along mine as he takes the phone from me. There’s no stalling. No hesitation as his thumbs fly over the phone screen, typing his information. When he gets to the driver’s license part, he pins me with a smug look as he takes his wallet out of his jacket pocket. The same jacket I was wearing earlier. The capture sound from him taking a picture of his license startles me, and then he’s placing the phone back in my hand. “We need an officiant and two witnesses.”

Okay, I didn’t think we would get this far, but I’m not backing down now. He wants to keep playing this game? I’ll play.

“No problem,” I say, turning my back to walk toward the restaurant door. Glancing over my shoulder, I don’t miss the way he watches me.

It only takes me two minutes to spot Dan talking to a couple of interns inside. Thankfully, Emory invited the entire staff of the Lantern. Along with being our senior editor, Daniel Parker is also a world traveler, former minor league baseball player, and, most importantly, an ordained officiant in the state of Connecticut. I’m not sure why or how that came up during his interview at the Lantern that I sat in on, but I’m glad it did.

After a little convincing and the promise of reinstating pizza Fridays at the paper, I’m leading Dan and the interns he was talking to out to the back patio.

Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover the mood that lingers in the air while we say our “vows” as Chase and Devon look on uneasily. I’m sure they’re just happy to be at a party with free booze, and now they’ve been roped into a game of marriage chicken. Clearly, these college interns can see right through the charade.

“Are there, um, rings?” Dan asks sheepishly.

I open my mouth to say “no” just as Declan clears his throat, shoving his hand into his pocket and producing a ring—no, not a ring—it looks like it’s the wire from the top of a champagne bottle. What do they call those things? Anyway, it’s been fashioned into a, yeah, I guess, a ring.

“Where did you get that?” I blurt, my confidence slipping.

“I made it.”

“You made it? When?”

“When you were looking for witnesses.”

I have to cover my mouth to keep from showcasing the smile that’s spreading across my lips because Declan Astor made me a wedding ring with his bare hands. The gold wire has been bent and twisted into a circle to form the band, and at the top, it’s curled into a small spiral, like a knot. It’s…beautiful. How did he even do that in the ten minutes it took me to coerce my office staff into performing a wedding ceremony?

Shaking the thought out of my head, I get back to the task at hand. I don’t know what Declan’s got up his sleeve, but I am seeing this through to the bitter end.

“You don’t have a ring,” I point out.

“Don’t need one.” He brings his right palm up to the left side of his chest, tapping it a couple of times, and I desperately want to know why, but at the same time I know it’s probably better if I don’t.

After we finish our “I do’s,” Dan pronounces us married (not until I hit the final submit button, Danny boy, don’t get ahead of yourself), and it comes out as more of a question when he looks at Declan and says that he can now kiss the bride. I immediately wave him off, citing a nonexistent lack of time, and hand my phone over to Dan so he can go through the same process as Declan and me, inputting his info, e-signing, and uploading a picture of his license. Under my watchful eye, Chase and Devon do the same.

I thank all three of them, and they file into the restaurant before I even finish speaking.

“Well, husband. It’s official. We’re hitched. Should we live at your house or mine? That is, if you’re not still living with your parents. That could get awkward,” I taunt.

“I have my own place here in Emberfield,” he says, stepping dangerously close. “But we can live wherever you want.” Another step. “As soon as you hit submit.” With that, he swipes my phone, seeing the giant red octagon at the top of the page with the word “STOP.” Beneath it, a slew of disclosures explains that submitting these documents makes the marriage legal immediately and triggers the mailing of a physical license. However, having written an article on this website rollout, I know the process requires a second consent. Pressing submit should only lead to a page where both parties upload video confirmations. Declan doesn’t know that. I snatch the phone back and, looking him straight in the eye, I click the big red octagon.

Only they changed the process. My head continues to throb as the memory of last night kicks around in my brain. How could they change it after I went through all the trouble to write that dumb article to inform the public about it in the first place?

It only took seeing that one word for the entire outdoor patio to start spinning.

Congratulations.

When the spinning finally stopped, I stared at the screen for a good thirty seconds. I knew instantly there was no going back, but it didn’t stop me from pressing the back button. Several times. Furiously.

The last thing I remember is his voice. Calling to me.

Skylar