Married in Michigan

by Jasinda Wilder

  “And you’re not?” I glance pointedly at his watch, which is both.

  He follows my gaze. “Okay, well this watch is literally the one exception of everything I personally own, and it was a gift from my grandmother when I won my seat in Congress. It’s not really my personal style, but Grandma gave it to me so I wear it.”

  I can’t help a little smile. “That’s sweet.”

  He frowns. “That feels a little condescending, Makayla.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Just because I’m rich and arrogant doesn’t mean I don’t love my family.”

  I blink. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that, Paxton, and if I gave you that impression, then I apologize.”

  He waves a hand. “Whatever. Let’s get this show on the road.” But instead of heading for the door, he ambles into my room, and stares thoughtfully at my little pile of crates. “So, idea.”

  I lean in the doorway next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Okay?”

  “How about you take, like, a few changes of clothes, and that’s it?” He gestures at the tubs. “Underwear, some jeans and shorts and T-shirts and workout stuff, a few things of your own in case you get, like, homesick or whatever, but leave the bulk of it? As soon as we get to DC, I’m hiring a stylist and personal shopper to outfit you with a decent wardrobe. So, really, you don’t need any of this, because you’ll be wearing all new stuff. I just figure you’d feel better having at least a little bit of your own stuff.”

  I sigh, a long, slow exhale. “I guess you’re right. All this is from the thrift store anyway.” I set my purse down and open the duffel bag. “Just give me, like, five minutes.”

  He shrugs, and sits on the bed to wait, and watch. But, as soon as he sits, he frowns, and bounces on the mattress, which is so old it has actual springs in it. “How the hell do you sleep on this? I can feel the springs through the mattress.”

  I laugh. “It’s what I’ve got, so it’s what I use. Beggars can’t be choosers. And I mean, I’m not a beggar, but when I got this apartment from my boss it was empty and I had no furniture and about a grand total to furnish it, including appliances.”

  He frowns. “I’m not an expert by any means, but I thought most landlords provided appliances?”

  “He had just finished remodeling, and so he waived the deposit and gave me a discount on rent for the first year if I provided my own appliances. So, to the thrift store I went, for everything from T-shirts to my microwave to my kitchen utensils.”

  He grimaces harder. “You bought kitchen utensils from a thrift store.”

  I laugh at his disgust. “And underwear and bras.”

  He blinks. “Wow.”

  I shrug. “Hey, if you’ve never been poor, you don’t know, and you don’t get to judge. And besides, you always wash before you use.”

  I don’t bother folding, I just cram a handful of underwear—thongs, boy shorts, period granny panties, my two best sports bras, my one bought-new full coverage bra and, for reasons I’m not entirely certain of, the one matching set I own, purchased on a whim because the set was clearance and my size. I’ve never worn the lingerie, and the tags are still attached—I’m not even sure what it looks like on me, or what I was thinking when I bought it, or why I’m including it.

  I steal a glance at Paxton as I shove the racy, lacy red thong and demi push-up bra into the bag—thankfully, he’s on his phone again and not looking.

  Resolutely, I leave the lingerie in the bag, despite not having any clue what’s going through that section of my brain.

  Quickly, then, I put my favorite sleepwear, laze-around T-shirts and sweatpants, my most form-flattering jeans, my one nice going-out skirt and blouse, a few T-shirts, my work out tank tops and shorts, and—again, for reasons I don’t care to examine too closely—my one slinky, revealing, tight, barely mid-thigh little black dress. Again, bought on sale because it fit me and was dirt cheap, and I had the idiotic idea I’d wear it someday. The tags are still on it, and I’ve never worn it besides trying it on in the fitting room.

  Now, my toiletries, clothes, and my few personal effects are all contained in this one small duffel bag.

  I zip it closed, and hold it, staring at it. “So, this is my entire life. Everything I own of value, not including the stuff I’m leaving.”

  Paxton nods. “Compact and efficient. I like it.”

  I snort. “I meant something kind of the opposite.”

  He pats me on the shoulder. “By the end of the week, Makayla, that will no longer be true.”

  I consider what he means. “Well, no. Not really. You will have bought me a bunch of stuff. That’s not the same as it being mine.”

  He tilts his head, genuinely confused. “Yes—I’ll have bought things for you, therefore they will be yours. If, or when, rather, we get a divorce, you’ll keep it all. So, yours.”

  I shake my head and pat his shoulder like he did mine. “I realize you can’t know this about me yet, Paxton, but that’s not how I work. It’s not who I am as a person. You buying me shit, giving me shit—that’s your shit. I didn’t buy it; I didn’t earn the money that bought it. So it ain’t mine.” I hear my mother in my voice, the old her, the born-and-raised in inner-city Detroit, pre-MS, the vehemently and proudly independent, don’t need nobody, won’t ever ask for help version of her. I lift my chin, stare him in the eyes. “Don’t think I won’t be appreciative, mind you—but nothing you give me will be mine.”

  He frowns, stares back. “What the hell would you want me to do with a closet full of women’s clothes and whatever?”

  I shrug. “Your business. Donate them? Give them to the next girl?” I snicker. “Not like the next girl will be built like me, though.”

  His eyes flit over me, head to toe. “Point is, Makayla, we’re going to have to discuss this a bit more. When I give you something, it will be because I want to. And whatever it is, it will be yours. So when we separate, if you leave your stuff in my condo in DC, I’ll have them delivered to wherever you are, and you can sell them or donate them as you see fit.”

  I sigh, smile. “I’d say we’re at an impasse, then.”

  “Have you forgotten?” His grin is an arrogant smirk. “I always get my way.”

  I pat him on the cheek. “Well, buddy, you don’t know me very well, do you?”

  He doesn’t laugh, and his eyes are deep and serious. “No, I don’t.” A pause. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Not yet. Not yet?

  I put that odd little comment aside and shoulder my bags. “Well. Time to go, I guess.”

  He nods, pushes up off the bed and strides past me. I follow him, and then pause at the door. Dig my keyring out of my purse. Funny—there’s only the one key for this apartment. I don’t own a car, or a post office box, or anything else that would require a key. Not even a bike lock. I set the one key on the table beside the couch, and with one last glance around, leave the apartment that has been my home for the last several years.

  I don’t look back, once I’m out the front door.

  10

  Paxton precedes me down the stairs, and then at the bottom, takes my duffel bag from me. Parked at a careless angle in front of the carriage house is the tiny little classic red Porsche of Paxton’s. I expect him to open the trunk at the rear of the car, but instead he opens the front where the engine usually is. This is where he sets my bag. He closes the front trunk, and then rounds the hood to open the passenger door, and holds it for me.

  I hesitate. Breathe out slowly, and then lower myself into the sumptuous black leather bucket seat. I clutch my purse on my lap and try to not tremble all over. This car has a much different feeling than the super Ferrari I was in a week ago—that was beyond luxury, hyper technologically advanced, like being in a futuristic spaceship; this, by contrast, is small, sporty, comfortable, open air all around rather than a small removable section of roof. When Paxton slides behind the wheel and starts the engine, the sound is a rumbly feline purr rather than the massive throaty predator snarl of the Ferrari.


  He shoves the stick shift forward, nudges the gas, and the little car makes a tight circle, pauses at the end of the driveway, and then we’re zipping out of the neighborhood and onto 31 back toward his parent’s house.

  I glance at Paxton: he’s grinning, an ear-to-ear grin of sheer joy, the wind playfully ruffling his hair. I can’t help a grin myself at the fun of being in this car—it’s a visceral experience, a sense of connection to the world and the road.

  He glances at me. “Well?”

  I know exactly what he means. And I can’t help laughing. “Okay, you were right. With this car, I get it.”

  He howls a triumphant laugh, and it’s a joyful, easy, carefree sound; this version of Paxton…I like. A lot.

  “You like it?” He says this as he yanks the shifter down, floors the gas, and the car surges forward down the highway.

  I nod. “It’s fun, and I don’t feel like I’m going to make it dirty or damage it just by sitting in it.”

  He laughs. “I get what you mean. That Ferrari is actually intimidating to drive, even for me.” We come to a curve in the road, and there’s a subtle sense of leaning to the right. He eyes me, grinning again. “Wanna drive?”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “Come on. It’s fun!” A glance. “Or can you not drive a stick?”

  I hesitate. “I, um. I don’t drive.”

  He frowns at my answer. “Don’t, or can’t?”

  I shrug. “Same thing.”

  “Explain.”

  “I grew up in Detroit, inner city. Mom didn’t own a car, and never has. Same with me. We used public transportation in Detroit, and once we moved up here, we walked everywhere.”

  He shakes his head. “You never got your license?”

  “Nope. I have never operated a motor vehicle.” I laugh. “Closest I’ve come is sitting in the driver’s seat of a fire truck during a field trip in third grade.”

  “Well that’s…fucked up. Driving is one of life’s great joys.”

  I sigh and laugh at the same time. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  A pause, and then he shakes his head. “No. You’re learning.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Yeah, okay.”

  He eyes me as we pull into the deBraun driveway. “You are. Right now.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Right now? In your half-million-dollar matching-numbers classic Porsche five thousand or whatever you call it?”

  “1956 Porsche 356 Speedster,” he says, droll. “And yes, now, in this.”

  “Isn’t driving a stick harder than an automatic?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Not really. A steeper learning curve, maybe, at first, but once you learn, you never really forget. And it makes driving an automatic easier.”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s not like I’ll ever own a car.”

  He tilts his head. “You could.”

  I roll my eyes at him again. “Oh, right, because I’m going to stroll into a dealership and buy myself a car using my fake husband’s family’s money.”

  Now it’s his turn to narrow his eyes at me. “I won’t be your fake husband—I’ll be your real husband, it just won’t be a love match.”

  I sit in silence—except for the purr of the engine. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do. But it’s important to remember that it may not be a real marriage in the sense you know it, where we fell in love and got engaged and planned a wedding and got married, but it will be a real marriage in every other way—you’ll legally be my wife, and I’ll be your husband. You’ll take my last name, get an equitable division of property upon divorce, meaning you’ll get a shitload from me out of the deal, because I’m going to conveniently forget to do a prenup.”

  I frown at that. “Won’t your mom be all over that? Like, I would imagine she’ll have that drafted and ready to sign before I ever set foot in the church.”

  He waves a hand. “I’ll handle it. Even if she does somehow force the issue, you have my solemn promise upon my honor and my life that I will make sure you’re set for life when we divorce.”

  I sigh. “Part of me just wants to push all the details away and pretend this isn’t happening, just go with the flow and not think about anything.” I look at him, and the truth bubbles up out of me unbidden. “Truth is, I’m actually really scared.”

  He doesn’t dismiss this as I expect him to. “I’m not going to say I’m exactly scared,” he says slowly, “but I will admit to being a little…apprehensive.”

  “What the hell do you have to be apprehensive about, Paxton? You’re the man. You’re the rich one, with the connected family, the education and the career and everything. I’m the woman, the one legally tying myself to a man I don’t know from Adam, for a vague promise of being ‘taken care of’ at some future date, at which point I will have a divorce on my record and another man’s name.” I rub my face, shuddering a sigh. “I’m the one risking everything. I quit my jobs, and if something goes wrong I’ll have no money, no jobs, no furniture, no apartment…and I’ll be stuck in Washington DC with no way home, and no home to go to.”

  “You don’t have any family you could crash with?” he asks. “Not that you’ll need to, I’m just wondering.”

  I shake my head. “Father has never been in the picture, grandparents have all long since passed. Only child, no aunts, no cousins. Just my mom, and living with her is…well, it’s not an option.”

  He eyes me in silence for a long, long time. “I guess I didn’t realize that.”

  “Like I said, Paxton, we don’t know anything about each other.”

  He chuckles bitterly. “You have an advantage though—you can find out a lot about me with a quick Google search.” He puts on the parking brake, pushes open his door, and gets out. “Come on, now. Get behind the wheel. Time to learn how to drive.”

  I blink at the sudden change of topics. “Uh, no?”

  He grins. “You’ll enjoy it. Just try.”

  I sigh. I have often wondered how much easier my life would be if I had a license and a car. I would never have imagined my first driving lesson would be in a car like this, but hey, here I am.

  I unbuckle, circle around the hood and slide behind the wheel. Buckle up. Grip the wheel in both hands and familiarize myself with the wheel, the gear shifter, and the three pedals.

  Paxton settles in next to me, his eyes on me. “Okay, so. The steering wheel is pretty obvious, I hope.”

  I give him a look. “Yes, Paxton, I am familiar with how a steering wheel works. I do know that much.”

  He shrugs. “Hey, you’ve never operated a car, so I’m just covering all the basics.” He taps the shifter. “This changes the gears. The numbers indicate where the gears are—first, second, third, and fourth,” He traces the tree diagram as he says each gear. “So, you start in first, up here, and then follow the pattern. It becomes second nature after a while.” He gestures at the floor. “Three pedals—gas on the right, brake in the middle, clutch on the left.

  “Already lost,” I quip. “Not really. But how do they all work together?”

  “Well, the clutch pedal, on the left, pulls the gear out, and then you move the shifter and release the clutch pedal, and the engine moves into the next gear. You take your foot off the gas while you have the clutch pedal down, and push the gas down again after it’s in gear. Try pushing in the clutch.”

  I push it in. “Okay.”

  “Now put the shifter into first—all the way to the left, and forward.”

  I do so.

  “Okay, now—” he cuts himself off. “Wait, the parking brake is on. Put it back in neutral and take the brake off.” Once this is done, he gestures at the shifter. “Okay, try again.” Once the shifter is in first, he juts his chin up. “Cool. Now, very slowly, very gently, let out the clutch, and at the same time, push in the gas. You’ll feel the car start to move, feel the engine taking hold as the gear engages.”

  By minu
te increments, and with a death grip on the steering wheel, I let off the clutch pedal and depress the gas—and, as he said, at a certain point I feel the difference in the steering wheel, and hear it in the engine. The motor hums louder and higher pitched, and then something catches, and the car begins to roll forward—and then I let off the clutch entirely and the car bolts forward, startling me into releasing both clutch and gas. The engine stalls, and the car rolls to a stop.

  “That was good!” Paxton says.

  I frown. “No, it wasn’t. I stalled it.”

  He waves a hand. “Eh. Everyone stalls their first time. I told you, there’s a learning curve. This time, when you feel the motor catch, try to find the balance where you’re not letting off all the way all at once until the car is moving. But don’t jam the gas pedal down or we’ll jolt. Smooth and easy and slow.”

  So, I try again, and this time, I get a bit farther before it stalls out. Within ten minutes of somewhat frustrated effort, I have the knack of it, and we’re trundling slowly down the driveway, which curves and dips and rises; I keep it in first and under twenty miles per hour, learning the feel of the wheel and the gas and the brake, accelerating and slowing down, turning this way and that…

  I glance at him with a smile. “This is fun.”

  He chortles, leaning back in his seat, a long thick arm draped over the back of my seat. “Babe, you’re going literally eleven miles per hour. Wait until we’ve got you a license and you can do ninety on the highway. That’s where the fun is at.”

  “Speed?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, yes. I really love going fast. There’s nothing in the world like getting eight or nine hundred horses howling on a track. But no, I just mean…” He waves a hand at the open sky overhead. “Driving with the top back, the wind in your hair, the flat four singing behind you…sun shining, not a care in the world, nowhere to go but wherever the highway takes you.” He sighs, a great lungful of air sucked in, held, his head tipped back to bathe in the golden sunshine, and then a happy, whooshing exhale. “Like I said—it’s one of life’s greatest joys.”