Page 57 of Hate You More

Clara, meanwhile, says I do like she is stating a fact she’s already accepted.

So I promise to love, honor, cherish, and keep Clara as I find myself wondering if it makes me no better than my father. He made those promises to my mom, then beat her for the first ten years of their marriage. Fuck. I’m gonna have to think of something to tell her when she gets back from her cruise.

Hey, Mom, I just married the woman who ripped our lives apart. You cool wid dat?

Yeah, I’m gonna have to come up with something better.

“As a symbol of your promise, please place the ring on Clara’s finger.”

Some symbol this is, I think, as I slip the cheap-ass piece of whatever the fuck this metal is onto her slender finger.

“As you have both consented to be united within the bonds of matrimony, and having exchanged your promises, by the powers vested in me by the state of New York . . .”

My heart begins to thump.

“. . . I now pronounce you married.”

Well, fuck.

“You may seal your vows with a kiss.”

A kiss of the strategic variety.

We negotiated every detail of this marriage like an actual contract we’d sign. We spoke of timelines and expectations, and drew boundaries so tight they might as well have been legal clauses. What we barely considered were the risks. And I didn’t account for this moment, standing in this oddly bureaucratic room, holding hands and staring into Clara’s deep-blue eyes.

In front of me, she gives a valiant attempt at a smile, but I see her anxiety. It helps a little. We’re in this for different reasons, but we are in this together. There’s some comfort in that.

I give her fingers a reassuring squeeze and lean the top half of my body toward hers, and our mouths meet. Briefly. Lips closed. Convincing enough, judging by Dolores’s loud whoop. I guess it was nice of her to offer to be a witness, though it feels like a pebble added to this rock cairn of pressure. I’m also aware her offer was just another opportunity to scan Clara’s face for acne scars.

Kiss over, we make our thanks and leave as fast as humanly possible. As we head for the exit, Clara’s fingers twitch in mine.

“What is it?” I angle my gaze her way.

“You’re doing it again. Your legs are way longer than mine.”

“Sorry.” I adjust my pace, and she mutters something under her breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

But I swear she said something about supermodels.

We exit the courthouse, still hand in hand, where her friend is waiting to catch the happy event. She’ll take a few photographs, and something tasteful and candid appearing will quietly find its way to the press.

The story will write itself. Fintech CEO Marries Banking Heiress. Part human story, part business event.

The sunlight is bright as we push through the courthouse doors, not that I notice as one word rattles around in my head. Married. Married. Married.

I have a wife. That sounds so fucking weird.

Clara Forbes is my wife. My stomach swoops.

This is my wife, Clara Forbes. Clara Forbes Templeton? Shut the fuck up, you idiot. She’s not gonna use your name.

Color rains down on us quite suddenly—confetti cut in the shape of hearts. Clara’s smile freezes before morphing into concern as, in front of us, a little girl of maybe four or five, bursts into tears in her father’s arms.

“It’s not them!” she wails.

“It’s okay, honey.” Her father comforts his daughter by rubbing her back as he slides us an apologetic look.