by Katie Klein
"It's hideous. I hate it."
"It's beautiful," he replies.
"It's like I sold my soul."
"We sell our soul every day, Gee. Little by little."
I pull my arm away from him, take another quick sip of wine. Carter stares ahead, vacant eyes reflecting the firelight, lost. A log crumbles apart, cracking and popping as it settles.
"I haven't given you your birthday present," he finally says.
"This is enough, Carter. I can't pay you back for any of this—everything you've done for me."
"I haven't asked you to. And I won't. I promised." He clears his throat, a somber frown deepening his features.
"The thing is . . . I got you something for your birthday, and I need to give it to you."
His hand slips inside his pants pocket and removes a tiny black jewelry box.
"What is it?" I ask, hesitating.
He refuses to meet my gaze, handing it to me. "Open it."
I slowly lift the cover.
Inside, nestled between velvet folds—a ring.
The stone is round, a subtle shade of blue, double band encrusted with tiny, diamond-like stones that sparkle in the firelight.
I exhale a quick gasp. "Oh My God. Carter! This is beautiful!"
"It reminded me of you," he explains, with a trace of sadness too hard to ignore.
"It's like . . . water. A tropical ocean. Is it a topaz?"
"Something like that."
I study the ring, turning it this way then that, light springing from every angle. I imagine what it would look like on my finger. It must've cost a small fortune. "I can't accept this," I say, handing it back to him.
"I knew you were going to say that. And I also know that, not only can you not accept this ring, you're about to flat-out refuse what I'm going to say next."
"What are you talking about?"
He tosses his head back, polishing off the remaining wine in a single gulp. The firelight casts shadows across his dark features.
"I want you to marry me."
SIX
A weak laugh jams my throat, a surge of panic coursing through my veins. I watch him, mouth gaping, waiting for some kind of. . . . I don't know what I'm waiting for. An explanation? I don't know what this is. What he's doing. He can't be serious.
Wait. Did Carter just ask me to marry him?
He's kidding. He meant it as a joke. He's not serious.
But his eyes are serious. His face. His lips.
Oh My God. He's serious.
"Carter—I . . ."
"Please," he begs, sitting taller. "Hear me out, first."
My jaw smarts, tightening in frustration. I don't want to hear him out. I want him to tell me this isn't real.
"I watched you guys the whole summer, and, for the sake of being honest, it about killed me. But as much as it hurts to admit this, I saw something you had with him that you never had with me. I know that I am never going to replace him. I can't. He . . . he gave you something that I couldn't give you. He helped you figure out who you are. You're meant for this, Gee. For some reason. I don't know why, but this is what you're supposed to do, and he gave that to you. He was there for you when I couldn't be—in more ways than I could ever be . . ."
"I never needed you to do any of that," I interrupt. "That's not what we were ever about. But that doesn't mean you aren't just as important to me."
"I know, but I want to prove to you—to show you—that I do have something to offer."
"You already have! I couldn't have done any of this . . ."
"Regardless," he interrupts, plucking the box from my trembling fingers. "I can do more. And this is the best way I know how."
He removes the ring, pinching it carefully, and in my mind I imagine him doing this very thing a dozen times before. Debating. Rehearsing the words spoken. Predicting my reaction to them. My answer.
"I know you don't love me the way you love him. And I know better than to make you choose between the two of us, because I know that, when it comes down to it, you would pick him. But I have the chance to do something with my life because of you. I want you—I need you—to become a Fleming."
He slides the ring onto my finger. My hand refuses to stop shaking.
It's so big. So heavy. I can't stop shaking.
The weight of its meaning presses into me: an engagement ring.
God! Why won't I stop shaking?
I shrink away from him, a thousand reasons to say no surging through my head.
"I—I can't get married, Carter. I don't even know if I believe in marriage. If I could ever get married. I'm not the 'get married' type!"
"If Seth asked, you would say yes."
I stare at him blindly, speechless.
"If there was a way for you and Seth to live the rest of your lives together, to get married, happily ever after, you would say yes in a heartbeat. So you are the marrying type."
Seth and I—it's not something I ever let myself dream about. I could never see that far into our futures. The entire time we were together, we were always a second away from disaster. Never promised a tomorrow. God, we barely had a present. Yes, I wanted him. Yes, I love him. But an entire future? It's almost too much to ask of anyone.
Would I say yes to Seth? If he asked? If it were possible?
"I'm only eighteen," I whisper. "Today. Seth—he's still out there."
"I just want to give you my name, Gee," Carter says. "Legally. I can do more for you as a Fleming than I can any other way. You can marry me. We can change your name. You would have access to everything I have and more."
My fingers tighten to fists; spikes of anger prick my skin. "You want me to marry you so I can become Genesis Fleming?" I ask. "Five minutes ago you said you didn't even want to be a Fleming!"
"You're right. I want more. I want to be better. To do better. I want to be part of something that matters. And I want to marry you because I love you, I would do anything for you, and right now that means sounding like a complete tool to get you to agree to this."
"What about Seth? It would crush him if he found out. What if he didn't believe us? What if I couldn't explain. . . ."
What if the Council? If Viola?
The potential for this to backfire is enormous. Anything could go wrong.
"It won't be like that," he assures me.
"You're only going to get hurt!"
"It already hurts! Because if it were up to me, you would be saying yes because you want to."
A powerful hush settles over the room, the only sound the fire, crackling as it fades.
"This is temporary, Gee," he finally says. "The second you want it over, it's over. I won't even put up a fight." A quiet laugh. "I know I sound crazy. This whole thing doesn't make any sense. But I promise you I have a good reason for asking—for begging—you to do this. I just need you to trust me."
"I don't know, Carter. This is so freaking . . . complicated." I stand, unsteady on my feet, head light from Carter's proposal. The wine. "It's like, I'm trapped. And nothing is happening. I'm waiting for Viola to show up to tell me what she wants from me. And now the Council is coming. I don't know where Seth is—if he's even okay. And you want me to marry you? I don't even know what I'm doing anymore!"
He rises, standing over me, cups my chin with his warm fingers, bending my face to his. "I'll be right beside you," he swears, eyes searching mine. "I won't let anything happen to you."
"I—I don't know what to say." The words swell in my throat, choking me.
"Don't give me an answer tonight. Just promise you'll think about it."
"What if I say no?"
"I would never force you to do anything you don't want to do. If you say no, I won't ask again. I won't bring it up. It'll be like it never happened."
"Only it did," I remind him.
He releases me, hand falling to his side. "I promised Seth I would do everything I could to protect you." His shoulders lift in a defeatist shrug, eyes steady, prepared to accept whatever
my decision. "I'm sorry, but this is the best way I know how."
I consider the ring, the curve of the stone, blue facets bouncing with every slant of light. God. I'd hate it if it weren't so perfect for me. My thoughts spiral, conflicting, screaming at me.
I can't believe he asked me to marry him.
It doesn't make any sense. I can't get married. What will everyone think?
It wouldn't come as too much of a shock. We dated most of our senior year.
But what about Carter's parents? They'll kill us. They'll say we're too young. God, everyone will think we're pregnant. They already hate me.
They never hated you.
A chill flutters across my skin, Seth's voice as clear in my mind as if he were whispering directly into my ear. The memory of a conversation.
What?
Carter's parents. That night you were fighting in his SUV. You thought they didn't like you. It wasn't like that.
What was it like?
They thought you were great, Genesis. They think you're great.
They thought I was below Carter. That I wasn't good enough for him.
The only person who felt that way was you.
Fresh tears sting my eyes.
What am I supposed to do, Seth?
Nothing.
I don't know what I'm doing anymore. . . . I need you.
Moments pass in this swirling fog, each thought twisting, tangling with the next, until I hear a broken sigh, feel Carter brushing the hair from my forehead. I didn't even realize, but I’m spinning the ring on my finger, around and around and around again. Yes. No. Yes. No.
"I don't understand," I whisper.
"I know. But you will, and so will he."
I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. "Is this important to you?"
"Yes."
"And you swear you know what you're doing?"
"I do."
The embers scattered across gray ash flicker, glowing orange. Carter tosses a new piece of wood to the pile. A few sharp prods with the poker and it's crackling again, consumed, setting the space between us on fire.
"Okay," I finally say, breaking the heavy silence. "I trust you."
SEVEN
We're the only car maneuvering this long and winding road, headlights brightening every snaking curve. The wipers scrape the windshield as a blinding rain pummels the glass. Carter remains cautious, hands in perfect ten-two position, eyes bouncing from the road to the rearview mirror to the side mirror and back again. My fingers grip the handle above my head, eyes focused forward and not on the thin, metal guardrail—the only thing separating us from valley below.
The rain is falling in sheets by the time Carter eases into the parking lot of a little white church, the bright cross of the steeple rimmed in darkness. He kills the engine. "Wait here. I'll come around."
An arctic draft whooshes through the cab as he steps into the storm. Goosebumps ripple across my skin. I draw my cardigan sleeves tighter, exhaling smoke with every shallow breath.
Carter opens the passenger side door, umbrella hovering, deflecting the rain. I step out of the SUV and into a puddle. Icy water seeps inside my shoes, shocking my toes. We hurry toward the church, running along the sidewalk, up the stairs. The front door, which, on this kind of evening I half expect to be locked, opens easily.
We pause in the darkened vestibule, shaking rain off our clothes.
"I think it's colder in here than it is outside," I whisper. The building looks, feels, empty. Deserted.
"You all right?" Carter asks, eyeing me cautiously.
"Yeah. It's just that winter came early, is all."
"No. I mean, are you all right with this?"
Marrying him. Am I okay with marrying him?
I squeeze my cardigan pocket, feeling the outline of the ring box—shiny, silver band tucked inside. If we're going to do this, we have to do it right. "Yes."
He hesitates, lips holding a neutral line. "You're sure? Because I don't want you to do anything . . ."
I interrupt before he can finish: "I trust you, Carter, but don't give me a reason to back out."
The sanctuary is small, dim, lit only by a dozen or so thick candles at the altar. The glow casts eerie, moving shadows along the walls. Two individual rows of wooden pews extend the length of the room.
"Wait here," he says.
I adjust the purse strap on my shoulder, move down the last pew, running fingers across the polished wood. I can count on one hand the number of times I've stepped inside a church. Mom wasn't a religious person. I do remember one night, though: a candlelight Christmas mass. Priests and their robes. Carols sung in Latin. It was kind of beautiful, actually. Warm and inviting. A place I could maybe belong.
My eyes cut to a line of stained glass windows obscuring the outside world, each telling its own story. I move closer, examining the furthest from the pulpit, The Temptation of Christ etched into glass. A man suffused in a translucent halo of light points to Heaven. At his feet, another. An Evil One. I study it, curious, wondering what a demon could have possibly offered the Lord.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?"
I jump, pulse spiking, jerking to attention.
"You must be Genesis," an older woman says, approaching me from behind. Her hair is white and thinning, the skin on her neck and face sags. But she has laugh lines. Bright eyes. A cheerful smile.
I twist the button at the top of my cardigan, fingers clenching the sleeve. "I am."
"They'll be out in a moment," she says. "He's with Pastor Bryan."
I assume she's referring to Carter, so I nod.
"I'm Mrs. Bryan," she explains. "One of your witnesses." She winks, a mischievous grin lighting her features, as if we're both in on some kind of secret. In a way we are, I guess.
"Oh. Well, thank you for doing this for us. I know it was kind of last minute."
"Nonsense. I'm pleased to be part of your special day. I wish I could say the same of my sister. She hates to be out after dark. Nights like tonight, especially." Her voice lowers to an almost-whisper, eyes glinting. "She's something of a cynic."
I stifle a bitter laugh at the thought. "We'd get along perfectly."
"My dear, there is no room for cynicism on your wedding day."
Wedding day. Waves of panic rip through my body, this knowledge weighing heavy in my stomach. And the dizzy afterthought:
This is my wedding day.
To the outside world—I'm getting married. Promising to love someone forever. Signing a legal and binding contract. Only . . . I'm not. I swallow back the part of me that wants to confess everything. That this entire thing is a scam. That I'm not even in love with . . . that I don't love Carter like that. That the only person I'd ever want standing with me at an altar is an angel fallen because of me. Instead, I say the only thing I can articulate coherently: "It's raining."
"It rained on our wedding day, and wouldn't you know it's brought us fifty-four wonderful years together."
This isn't helping.
"Fifty-four years. Wow. That's like . . . forever."
She laughs. "It feels like it, sometimes. Other times like barely a breath."
"So . . . what's the secret?" I ask, voice trembly.
"Patience. Understanding. Forgiveness. The willingness to grow together. Roger made it easy for me, though. It's not hard to love your best friend."
My heart fumbles a beat, skittering at the realization: "Carter's my best friend."
"Best friends make the best husbands," she says. "My mother told me that."
"How did you know for sure, though, that he was the one?" I ask. "Mr.—Pastor Bryan, I mean."
"I knew he was the one the day I realized I didn't want to wake up without him." She smiles at me, eyes shining. "It's a cliché, really, but it was wartime. He was about to go overseas."
I wait for the earth to move, to shiver beneath my feet, to shatter where I stand and swallow me whole. For stepping inside this church. For pretending. For promising to love someone for
the rest of my life when we both know it's a lie. For betraying Seth. For betraying myself.
"But enough about this old woman," she continues. "What are your 'somethings'?"
"My somethings?" I ask, not understanding.
"Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue?"
"Oh, um . . . my dress is sort of new," I say, fingering the shimmery gold fabric of the dress Carter bought for my birthday dinner. "My ring is blue. I'm kind of a . . . non-conventional bride," I explain, shrugging.
"If you would," she begins, rifling through her purse, removing a handkerchief. "Take this. It can be your borrowed and your something old."
I stroke the smooth fabric. It's soft and thin, beige in the muted light. And suddenly I miss my own mother. Not missing her, really—just missing what we could have shared were things different between us. I don't miss the irresponsibility. The impulsiveness. Taking care of her.
It's fitting that I would elope. Saves me the invitation.
"It's perfect," I tell her. "Thank you."
At that moment Carter appears, crossing the room, following an older gentleman.
Mrs. Bryan leans closer. "He's very handsome," she whispers.
A tiny smile as I take him in—crisp, white shirt. Black suit. "Yeah. He is."
"Are you ready?" she asks.
I hold my breath, gripping the handkerchief tight in my fist, and nod.
"It appears we are missing our additional witness," she announces, searching the room. "You go on," she tells me. "I'll only be a moment."
The woman is kindness and comfort personified, and this is what gives me the strength to travel the length of the center aisle, alone. My purse slides off my shoulder, abandoned on an empty pew, as I join Carter at the altar. The candle flames sputter, silent, my dress twinkling in their glow. Everything about this night is quiet, reverent, a certain kind of perfect.
When Mrs. Bryan returns—sister in tow—she slips between the first two rows, sits quietly, ready to become one of the only witnesses to this evening: a stranger forever connected to us by a single request—an act of charity.
"We're ready, then?" Pastor Bryan asks, glancing back and forth between us. The older gentleman wears a dark shirt, white collar at the neck, Bible tucked in his arm.
