by Katie Klein
I exhale a shaky breath and swallow hard, dragging my slick palms across my lap.
"Yes," Carter says.
Pastor Bryan adjusts his glasses and licks his thumb, the pages of his Bible rustling, crinkling as they turn. He clears his throat, begins:
"We are gathered here this evening not to mark the start of a relationship, but to recognize a relationship that already exists. For this union has already occurred in the giving and receiving of the love that this young man and woman share. Carter and Genesis, tonight you are both called to a new existence, as the whole universe has come to you in the form of this person who has a unique love for you and is loved by you. In this love, let the giving love of God in Christ Jesus be your example and your strength."
Outside the storm thickens, rain hammering, pounding the roof. My head tips toward the vaulted ceiling at the back of the church, as if this is some kind of omen. A warning. Carter's eyes settle on me, burning, but I can't bring myself to look at him.
What if this is a huge mistake?
What if it changes everything?
"Carter, please take Genesis's hands and repeat after me," the minister says.
I place my hands in his. They're warmer. Stronger. Confident. His fingers gently squeeze mine, and this single, commanding gesture fills me with resolve, quelling the doubts in an instant.
He knows what he's doing. Of course he does.
"I, Carter Fleming," he repeats, "promise to encourage and inspire you, to laugh with you, and comfort you in times of sorrow and struggle."
The words ring familiar. Sorrow. Struggle. My eyes lift at them, and our gazes lock.
Carter.
"I promise to love you in good times and bad," he goes on. "I promise to cherish you and hold you in the highest regard. You are my best friend, and I will always love you. With all of my life, and all of my heart."
There it is again: best friend. Best Friend. The best friend I will ever have.
"Genesis?"
I repeat after the minister: "I, Genesis Green, promise to be the shoulder you lean on, the rock on which you rest, and will seek to strengthen you, comfort you, and encourage you. I know that our miracle lies in the path we have chosen together." The words catch in my throat, breaking.
Why the butterflies? It's pretend.
"You are my best friend, and I promise to be true to you as long as we both shall live," I finish.
Carter's mouth twitches, a soft smile brightening his features, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's unable to mask the sadness behind them.
We exchange rings, symbols of our faithfulness and love.
"Carter and Genesis, each of you is unique, distinctive, and wondrously human. You have chosen to journey together in the remaining moment of time that is yours. From this day forward, you are one. You may seal this promise with a kiss."
My heart stutters.
Kiss? I haven't kissed Carter since . . .
But before I can think another thought, Carter tilts my face to his, fingers lifting my chin, and brushes the sweetest, simplest kiss across my lips. A humming energy passes between us, a thousand forgotten memories rising to the surface, dredged. My throat constricts as he pulls away, heart pumping faster.
"Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder." The minister's voice is saturated with delighted smile, as if this simple command, this admonition, is all it takes to keep us safe. Protected. Guarded.
Carter's eyes burn into mine, gray and serious, those final words hovering between us, between that kiss, suspended. And I know what he's thinking. I can read his thoughts as if they're my own. Because they are my own.
It's not man we're worried about.
EIGHT
I roll over, stretching, bang my wrist against the coffee table. A spike of pain shoots through my arm, pricks an old injury like knives. "Shit."
"I told you to take the couch." Carter's voice carries from the kitchen.
I wrestle my way to sitting, wiping sleep from my eyes, blinking back light streaming through windows.
"Here." He passes me a cup of coffee. The thick, silver band on his ring finger glints, pulling a trigger, memories springing to focus. The church. The candles.
"I guess we really did it," I mumble, stifling a yawn.
Carter removes the phone from his back pocket, shifting the screen toward me. The new background is the two of us together, smiling, flaunting our rings. My cheeks are flushed. Eyes bright. We look so . . . happy to be together. So real. And I remember: Pastor Bryan snapped the shot at Carter's request, right after we kissed.
We kissed.
But it wasn't like that, I remind myself. Not at all. Carter knows it's not like that between us.
I chew on the tip of my thumbnail, conviction surging through my veins, the word mistake pulsing behind my eyes.
"I sent it to my mom a minute and a half ago," Carter says, pulling it back, studying the photo. "I'm giving her another thirty seconds before this phone rings."
I blow on my coffee, cooling it as I shove thoughts of weddings and kisses out of my head. "Is that good or bad?" I ask, not entirely certain I want to know the answer.
He hesitates, sighs, as if he doesn't want to know the answer, either. "That remains to be seen. Either way, it's done."
It's done.
The way he says it is so final—so committed. But I know Kitty Fleming. She'll go batshit crazy when she hears the news. I know Mr. Fleming—fathers like him, anyway. And again, that word: mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Because the truth is: boys like Carter don't marry girls like me. And of all the problems Carter's had with his parents—those are just the beginning.
He crams the cell phone into his pocket, grabs keys from the counter. "I have some things to take care of in town. Wanna ride with?"
"Not particularly."
"I wish you would. I don't feel comfortable leaving you here alone," he confesses, lips pulling to a frown.
I take a sip of coffee, set the mug on the end table. "I'll be fine. I need to get in some target practice."
He relents without argument. "All right. But I need you to sign a few things before I head out."
I rise, step over the pile of blankets, follow him to the dining room table.
"This is a lot of papers," I say, eyeing the stack.
"I know. I'll make it quick and painless. I'm taking our marriage certificate down to the courthouse today, too. Just so it's official."
That was signed last night, under the watchful eyes of our witnesses.
"So what, exactly, am I looking at?" I slide onto the wooden chair, tucking my leg beneath me.
"These are insurance papers," he explains, handing me a pen. "We're covered if something happens while you're driving my car, and I'm putting you on my medical policy. If there's any kind of accident or . . . whatever, you'll be taken care of, no questions asked."
First the car accident and then the relapse. . . . The Flemings are forever taking care of my medical expenses. "Carter," I begin, leaning back from the table, shoulders squaring in defiance, argument poised on the tip of my tongue.
"Come on, Gee," he interrupts. "Please don't fight me on this."
I study him carefully—those serious, gray eyes. Determination in his features. And I get it. I finally understand. This is what he wanted to do—how he planned to take care of me. This is why he went through all of the trouble: risking his parents' ire, risking proposing, even, when I should've said no.
Refusing him now isn't an option.
"I guess I sign Genesis Fleming?"
He shrugs. "If that's what you want to go by."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it depends. You can keep your last name, too. Hyphenate it. You can go by your middle name. Whatever you want."
"I'm not attached to Green. And I don't have a middle name."
His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. "Your mom didn't give you a middle name?"
"Nope. We both know she was kind of a slacker."
"If you're changing your name anyway, why not give yourself one?" His eyes fix on mine. "I'm serious, Gee. This is your chance to start over. You can be whoever you want."
Start over.
He's right. I don't have to be Genesis Green, anymore. Genesis can die, right here at this very table. I consider the possibilities. A new name. New look. New life. But I can't. I can't be someone else. Not surrounded by unfinished business. Even if I change my name, I can't forget. I can't ignore. I can't not be me.
"What's your middle name?" I ask.
"Nicholas. Harrison."
"Which is it?"
"All of it. Carter Nicholas Harrison Fleming."
I swallow back a laugh, amused. "That's okay. You have enough names for the both of us."
"Nick was my grandfather, and Harrison was my mother's maiden name," he explains.
I sign Genesis Fleming across the bottom of the first page. "How did I not know that about you?" I ask, flipping to the next.
He shrugs, pointing to a column of boxes on the paper. "Initial those." I initial and flip. "Print and sign."
We move through several forms. I print, initial, and sign as instructed.
"This will add you to my bank account," Carter says. "They're going to send you a card and a PIN."
My posture stiffens. "Carter, you can't add me to your bank account."
"We're married. Yes, I can."
"I have my own money," I remind him.
His laugh is hard, mocking, edged in disbelief. "Why are we still arguing about this? If you don't want to use it, then don't. But I'm adding you, just in case."
"In case what, Carter?"
"I don't know," he says, voice rising. "In case . . . the Council. Viola. Seth. I don't know what's going to happen, Gee. I don't know what the future holds for either of us. I'm planning for the fucking end of the world, all right?"
His eyes search mine, vast and empty. And again I wonder at the transformation in just a few short months. How one summer changes everything.
"All right," I whisper, resigned, scribbling my name across the remaining papers. When I finish, I stack them carefully, hand them off to Carter, and, without a word, move toward the sliding glass doors, grabbing a forty-five on the way out.
* * *
My body sinks lower in the bathtub, water touching my chin, invigorating my skin until it's pink with heat. The tension from the day's workout dissolves, muscles relaxing. And I let myself close my eyes and imagine Seth is waiting for me on the other side of that locked door. That this is a day like any other: winter, spring, summer. And I remember how it felt to curl against him, body next to mine, arms wrapping me in a too-tight embrace too important to unbind. Our connection so strong it's like he's right here beside me.
Just as I let go—a presence in the darkness. Hand clasping my neck, pushing me beneath the surface.
The water turns cold. Ice. My arms and legs thrash, splashing, battering porcelain as I struggle against this restraining force. My eyes sting, lungs taking on water.
The hand lifts me to air and I inhale sharply. Gasping. Coughing. Sputtering. Shivering. Gooseflesh rising to the surface of my skin. The world swims into focus, colors gleaming, mingling, tattoo sleeve mirroring my own glowing in fluorescent light.
The next time I'm prepared, sucking a breath before submersion, holding onto it. Lungs straining, losing time, I feel with fingers, grasping the sides of the bathtub. Viola pulls me upright, and beyond the spatter and hiss of water choking my ears is Carter, beating the door, shouting my name.
"What the hell are you doing?" she growls.
"I—I don't know what you're . . ."
It's dark, tranquil in this muffled, underwater world. My lungs refuse to fill when I'm lifted again, paralyzed by the frantic beating of my heart. Water bounces in waves, pouring over sides and onto the floor.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find out? That I wouldn't find you?" Viola asks. I blink against her watery outline.
"Genesis? Open the door!" a furious Carter demands from the outside.
I grapple for words. "It—it's not what you think, I swear!"
Her features harden, eyes darkening, sending me back under.
I'm gasping the moment I hit air, shaking with cold, lips trembling. "It's not like that," I rush. "We had to get out. They would have come looking for me!"
"Genesis!" Carter pounds the door, rattles the knob.
"I'm not running!"
Her temper flares, teeth clenching. Her fingers tighten, nails digging into my skin. "You do not speak, you do not breathe, you do not move until I say so. Understood?"
I nod frantically, fighting back the specks of light shining behind closed eyes—the dizziness threatening to consume me, the blackness dragging me under.
And then I'm alone.
I rise, struggling, unsteady on my feet. Desperate to get away. I reach for the towel draped on the bar on the wall, and, when I step onto the tile, slip. The bar loosens, wrenching free as I hit the floor. Pain radiates, jamming my throat. I pull the towel tight around my body, crouched low and shivering. The door breaks and Carter tears inside, gun in hand.
"What happened?" He kneels beside me, feels my cheek. "Jesus, you're freezing." He rummages through the cabinet, removing extra towels.
My lungs work in spasms, breaths like knives slicing my chest. "S—she thought we were. . . ." The words collide in my mouth, refusing to surface.
He wraps my legs. My feet. "She did something to the door! I couldn't get in!" His eyes drift to my neck, reaching, something inside him breaking. And when he pulls his fingers away they're covered in blood. "Shit."
I curl my body into a ball, hugging my chest, leaning against the tub, eyes fading to a close. Carter's footsteps echo in my skull. He returns with my inhaler and a first aid kit, grabs a washcloth from beneath the sink and presses it against my neck. I breathe in the medicine, hold it in my lungs, exhale.
"What did she do to you?" His voice is hard, fuming.
My mind spins in circles, tumbling over events as I try to piece it all together. "It was her fingers. Her fingernails. I don't know!"
"I don't even see a scratch! It's like you're bleeding from nothing!" Carter rises to his full height, kicks the first aid kit across the room. It slams against the wall in the hallway, exploding, contents scattering. "How the hell am I supposed to protect you from this?" he demands to know, dragging his fingers through dark hair.
"You can't," I tell him. "Neither could Seth." Salty tears prick my eyes at the thought of him. Of Carter. "I can't screw this up, Carter. I can't."
"Hey. Hey, it's okay." He lowers himself to the floor, wraps his arm around me, murmurs into my hair: "It's not your fault."
But it is.
I wipe my nose across the towel, eyes closing, head resting against his broad shoulder. And my heartbeat slows, working to maintain a normal pace as the medicine takes effect. And all I can see is ocean. The endless curl of waves tumbling, spreading across the shoreline. "I'm tired," I confess, words breaking in my throat. "I'm tired of this. I'm tired of running. . . . I want to go home."
NINE
The empty space consumes me, closing in as I concentrate, fingers gripping the thick handle. I fling the knife, listening to the sound of the blade slicing air, carving a place in the bark of a tree. I throw another. And another. When I remove the blindfold from my eyes, every knife is secured in the trunk of the same towering pine, blades protruding at various points.
Sunlight plays against gaps in the forest, wind rifling naked branches.
Ready or not.
TEN
"What is this?" I ask, lifting the garment bag discovered hanging on the bathroom door. Carter lifts his eyes from the laptop screen at the dining room table, reaching for a bag of chips by his side.
"A dress," he replies, matter of fact. "We're going to dinner."
"The last time you bought me a dress for dinner you proposed," I remind him.
"I
won't propose this time. I promise." He stops here, hesitating. "It's just . . . my mom. She's meeting us."
The announcement jars my world sideways. This is it. This is where he tells me it was a huge mistake. Running away. Marrying me. This is how I learn Jack and Kitty Fleming are livid. That they're officially disinheriting him—forever.
"Your mom is driving five and a half hours to meet us for dinner?" I ask, disbelieving. "No. What she wants to do is kill me." His attention shifts back to the screen, to crunching chips, and I marvel at how he can stay so calm while being disowned.
"My mom doesn't want to kill you."
"Yes, she does. You ran away. You got married, Carter. To me. There's no way she can be okay with this."
"I'm not sure what to address first," he says, eyeing me skeptically, as if I misplaced rational thought halfway between here and South Marshall, between being asked and saying yes. "My mom doesn't hate you. And she's not driving five and a half hours. We're meeting her halfway. In Gaineston."
"You talked to her, then," I confirm.
He reaches deep inside the bag of chips, unfazed, and it wrinkles, crinkling. "She's fine. She's just bringing some paperwork."
"More paperwork?"
"You want to go home, don't you? I'm taking you home," he announces. "She's been apartment hunting all week. She found us a condo, fully furnished. Ocean view. She's bringing the contract for us to sign so we can close on it."
My head swirls, wrapping itself around this new information. Going home. "What?"
Carter's lips fight a fierce smile, mouth full and garbling: "We're leaving in an hour. Be ready."
* * *
"You're sure she doesn't hate me?" I whisper, smoothing the satiny gray material at my waist, tugging the sleeve of the black bolero so that it covers my wrist.
"She doesn't hate you." He hands his keys to the valet and weaves his fingers through mine, passing a comforting squeeze between us as we enter the hotel. The building is stunning—washed in soft greens and browns, trimmed in cool platinum.
