Neversend me to Vegas.
“I can’t believe you went through with it,” I say, flabbergasted for lack of a more accurate word.
Dreamily, Malcolm single-handles the wheel as he guides his vehicle toward the office, because we’re both supposed to be at work right now, notgetting married. “Should we exchange rings? Plan a honeymoon? We’ll have to wait for after Ivy’s wedding. And he deserves no less than a month-long honeymoon, but once he’s back in July, we can take August.”
Malcolm has just provided me with a lot of words to process. The only response I manage is, “I hate rings. They feel so…dirty.”
“Scarification, perhaps?”
“What?”
“It’s like a tattoo, but instead of ink, you use scars. We could get rings cut into our flesh as an eternal and irreversible symbol of our love.”
I stare at his profile, slackjawed, and finally whisper, “I’m just going to wait for you to compute the words that just came out of your mouth.”
Blissful, he grins, and I’m not certain, but I don’t think he’s doing much computing at all. Delirious with joy, he says, “I’d like to honor our union in some way, with a symbol of some kind. If you could think on it, I’d love to circle back later.”
Circle back. Like we’re discussing a merger. Which I guess, in some ways, is exactly what marriage is.
Sinking, I touch my fingers to my forehead and whisper, “I think I’m stunned.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“You’re still not funny, crow.”
His eyes sparkle. “Our very first lover’s tiff as husband and wife. What fun.”
Before I can inform him that this isn’t fun at all, and wemightbe married but we areabsolutely notlovers, his phonebuzzes in the center console. I glance over to find a text from an unknown number. The preview mentions Perfectly Painted Pottery.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Disassociating, I drawl, “I think our pottery is ready for pick up.”
“Is it?” He changes lanes. “Perfect timing.”
?
I am actually never going to ever again in my life say things. Just. I’m not. I cannot be trusted to my own devices. I agree to murder. I agree to marry. I get myself in all sorts of trouble. And for what?
I have absolutely no idea.
“Do you, Azalea Swallow,” Malcolm says the moment we’re back in his SUV with our glazed and fired pieces, “accept this crow as your lawfully wedded wedding bird?” Wistful, he presents the little black creature touched up here and there on its features with purples, blues, and greens.
It’s lovely.
Even though it’s mostly black.
Cradling my own bird against my waist, I fix my wary attention on the clinically unwell man beside me. “Malcolm?”
“Yes, my darling dove?”
I exhale. “I’m afraid I don’t really understand what’s happened today.”
“Ah.” Sagely, he nods. “Allow me to recap: We got married. We picked up our pottery. We’ll head to work soon. We’ll have dinner together.”
“Dinner…together?” I don’t have enough dinner for two. I’m very specific in my meal prepping. I weigh everything to make sure the servings are exactly proportionate, because Ihavetoeat all of it. Even if it’s hard. Even if it feels impossible. I refuseto go back to the days when I was so underweight my body ached. “I could make tonight’s and tomorrow’s meals…but…then I wouldn’t have dinner for tomorrow.” And he’s too big for my portion size to be enough for him anyway. Dinner together would mean using up my dinners for the whole week. And today isn’t meal-prep day. I don’t have time to shop and meal prep again until meal-prep day.
He softens, and it’s visceral. The way every part of him settles, peaceful and fixated, captivates me. “Oh love,” he murmurs. “What I’m saying is that I’d like to make you dinner.”
