I check every nook and cranny of his house while I move in, looking for secret meth labs or size 11 stilettos, but even his guest room closet is organized and tidy. How disturbing! I would have preferred a dead body.
By Sunday night, when we’re sitting on his couch, spooning spaghetti into our mouths as fast as we can, I realize my fears might be unfounded.
“This is pretty great. We should have married each other ages ago,” I say, mouth full.
His eyes slice to me and I give him a big, toothy, spaghetti grin.
“Wow, gorgeous. I guess the honeymoon period really is over.”
I smirk and go back to my food. All that moving worked up my appetite.
“I plugged my phone charger into the outlet on the right side of the bed—y’know, because it’s my side.”
“Huh.” He nods. “My is a really strange way to pronounce your.”
“Come on! Don’t you want to be my protector, the one sleeping near the door in case someone breaks in to murder us?”
“Sure, but what if they come through the window?” he asks.
“Good point. I’ll take the left side, you take the axe-murderer window.”
I beam. Our first example of healthy conflict resolution as a married couple!
Normally, after dinner, I head back to my apartment to sleep. I’m so used to the ritual that I load my plate in the dishwasher and head straight for the door. I’m slipping my shoes on when Ian’s shadow falls over me.
“What are you doing?”
“Going ho—” I pause and laugh. “Oh my gosh!”
I turn off autopilot and kick off my shoes. Ian leans down and hooks his hands under my arms to lift me back to my feet.
“Leaving me already?” he teases. “We’ve only been married two days. Who is he, what’s his name?”
“Bad Ian.”
I spin around and he tugs me into him. My hands hit his chest.
“Sorry, I guess things are happening so fast it’s taking my brain a little while to catch up.”
“We can slow down if you want.”
“How?”
He thinks about it for a second and shrugs. “I’m not sure, actually. I could sleep on the couch if you want?”
I think I give him a perfectly executed look that says, Are you fucking insane?
Later that night, I walk into our bedroom after brushing my teeth and find Ian, shirtless, reading in bed.
I hide my smile and scurry to crawl under the blankets beside him.
“Thanks again for being my fleshy axe shield.”
He grunts before going back to his book. I follow his lead and pull my Kindle onto my lap, but there’s no reading happening. I sit there, studying Ian’s bedroom and taking in the newly added details. A candle and delicate jewelry case sit up on the dresser beside his cologne. One of my spring scarves hangs on the doorknob of the closet because I don’t want to forget to wear it in the morning. My antique floor lamp in the corner brings a feminine touch to the otherwise masculine space.
Sitting here, I have a giddy, anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I wonder how long it will last. Days? Years?
I glance toward Ian out of the corner of my eye. His gaze is on his book. He’s been a source of calm throughout all this, and I wonder if, under all those abs of steel, maybe he feels anxious too? If maybe he’s just a little bit better at hiding it?
He doesn’t say a word as I study him. He turns a page in his book and I scoot closer until our hips touch. Then I reach over and drag my pillow over so I’m propped up beside him. He has a king bed, so we don’t have to be crushed together in the very center, but feeling his skin on mine unknots my stomach. I take the first deep breath of the day.
For three years I’ve trained myself to ignore my feelings for Ian. I never imagined he could possibly feel the same way I do, and now here we are married, living together, reading in bed.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod and lean my head against his shoulder. His arm dips around the small of my back so he can grab my hip and drag me even closer. I’m basically sitting on his lap.
He must realize my brain is going a million miles a minute because he asks if I want him to read his book aloud. I nod and close my eyes and listen to his voice, deep and steady as he picks up right where he left off. It doesn’t take long for my heart to mimic the rise and fall of his chest so we’re breathing in sync.
His voice is so soothing, like the sensation of sinking into a warm bath on a cold winter day.
I’m so close to drifting off when I speak up. My voice sounds drowsy and soft.
“Hey Ian?”
He pauses reading.
“You know I’m in love with you, right?”
His heart thumps against my back and his breathing quickens. There’s a long, heavy silence, and I blink one eye open to look up at him. He’s staring down, studying my face with intense focus. My words clearly caught him off guard.
“Once again—years.”
I smile.
“Say it again.”
“Which part?”
His mouth tips down and captures mine. His poor book doesn’t stand a chance now. We’re supposed to be sleeping and resting up for work tomorrow, but instead, Ian strips me out of my pajamas and presses a kiss to every patch of skin he can find. His lips hit the center of my chest and he tells me he loves me too. He moves lower and kisses my naval and tells me again. The words are muffled, but he says them so many times there’s no way to miss them.
We fall asleep tangled up in one another, and in the morning, I wake up to “I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher. It’s Ian, calling me from the kitchen.
I smile and reach over for the phone.
“When did you have the time to change my ringtone?”
“Last night after you drifted off. You were snoring.”
I groan and sit up so my feet dangle off the side of the bed.
“Tell me the truth—what’s the point of these songs?”
“Haven’t you guessed?”
“I think you just like to torture me.”
“No. I’ve been trying to tell you how I feel.”
I think back on the last few I can remember. I just thought they were cheesy songs. Now, I realize I should have read between the lines.
“They were all love songs by dynamic duos, just like us.”
“Awwwwwww! Ian Fletcher, you big softie!”
He hangs up on me and shouts from the kitchen for me to get my butt out of bed.
He loves me big time.
“This isn’t fair. Our honeymoon wasn’t nearly long enough.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t skip school. I checked my email while you were showering and Principal Pruitt wants us to be at the PTA meeting later today. He thinks a public apology would go a long way to settle tensions.”
“An apology?” I sound affronted by the idea. “This O’Doyle lady is a terrorist! We can’t negotiate with her.”
“We’re married now, so it shouldn’t be a problem anymore, but I’m worried she’s gotten everybody so worked up our new wedded status won’t matter. Maybe I should look into going back to work for my old company.”
“No.” I know how much he hated working there after college. “We’ll figure it out. If I have to paste on a fake smile, I will. I can do it.”
I tell him that, but really, I’m not so sure. I have a lot of pride and I’m not very good at apologizing when I don’t feel like I’ve done anything wrong. So what if Ian and I canoodled? We did it on our own time and away from school premises—well…mostly. There was that Valentine’s Day dance chaperoning incident, and that time we nearly made out in the field house…but let’s not get bogged down in the details here.
Ian and I stroll into school side by side but not touching. He walks me to my classroom and I can tell he wants to kiss me, but we save it. Instead, I say, “Let me see it.”
He wipes away his grin and holds out his hand. His thick gold wedding band sends a s
hiver of pleasure down my spine.
“I love it.”
“And yours? Do you love it too?”
“Are you kidding?”
My ring could do some major damage if I ever decided to partake in a street fight. I glance down and the diamond twinkles up at us.
My students immediately notice it, one in particular: Nicholas.
“Good morning, Ms. Abra—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR HAND?!”
“Nicholas, deep breaths.”
He fans his face like he’s going to pass out.
“It’s a wedding ring,” I admit calmly.
“Go Ms. Abrams!” another student hoots from the back of the class.
Nicholas sends them a death stare then flings his glare back to me. “How could you do this to me? I was going to wait for you!”
I ease him down to his seat, just in case he’s about to lose consciousness on me. “Well, Nicholas, Mr. Fletcher and I—”
“Mr. Fletcher?! So he’s the homewrecker!”
For the rest of class, he refuses to meet my eyes. When we go around the room, discussing this week’s newspaper assignments, he declares he’s going to write an opinion piece on marriage failure rates in America.
“Last I heard, nearly half of all marriages end in divorce,” he warns, gaze slicing through me.
“Sounds like an interesting feature. Dig into it.”
I don’t have the energy to nurse his wounded teenage heart. I need to keep my focus on the PTA meeting coming at the end of the day. I practice apologizing to myself in front of the bathroom mirror in between periods.
“Yes, Mrs. O’Doyle, you may go sit on a pineapple.”
Hmm…not quite right.
I stretch my mouth and practice a few jaw exercises before I try again. “Mrs. O’Doyle and members of the Oak Hill PTA, I’m here today to tell you all that I am so…so ready for you all to…move on to the next piece of mindless drama. Also, did y’all know there’s a sale on choppy bobs down at the hair salon?”
All right, scratch that. Maybe I’ll let Ian do the apologizing and I’ll try to look deeply contrite in the background.
By the time lunch arrives, word about our elopement has spread to the entire school. Ian and I knew it would, and we didn’t go to any lengths to keep it a secret. There’s no point. Being married should help us out of the hot water in which we’ve found ourselves, and, incidentally, we’re both pretty excited about it. I really wasn’t sure how the rest of the school would take it, but when I arrive for lunch, Ian is recounting the museum story to the entire lounge. Everyone turns to me as I walk in and explodes into a round of clapping and whistles. Someone’s even taken the time to decorate the room with balloons and streamers, and yes, there’s a can of whipped cream with a bow on it waiting for me at my chair. I hold it up and laugh.
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
Really, it is. I’m going to lick whipped cream off Ian’s naked chest later.
Life is grand.
There’s even a cake that says, Happy birthday, Mary! I don’t understand the joke, but hey, cake is cake.
After we cut into it and dole out all the slices, a soft voice chimes in near the back of the crowd, “Aww man, is that my birthday cake?”
The Freshman Four stand scowling in a corner. When I glance over, Gretchen slices a finger across her neck menacingly and Bianca elbows her in the ribs. “Jesus, we aren’t going to cut her throat, Gretchen!”
“Oh, that’s what that means? I never knew! Sorry Sam!”
We open a card that was very obviously hastily passed around for people to sign just before lunchtime. Half of the signatures wish Mary a happy birthday. There’s clearly a lot of confusion about what we’re actually celebrating at the moment. Poor Mary. We really stole her thunder.
Just before we head back to our classrooms, one of the teachers demands a kiss, and Ian and I look at each other and laugh. We shouldn’t, really. We’re on probation. We’re supposed to have our tails between our legs, but one kiss won’t hurt, right?
So we kiss, just once, and everyone applauds—right up until Principal Pruitt walks in and announces that the party’s over. Mary rushes forward and uses her fingers to scrape off the last bit of icing from her re-appropriated birthday cake.
Pruitt asks to see us out in the hallway and we trail after him. The cake settles heavy in my stomach.
“You two really aren’t masters of discretion, are you?” he asks, pointing to the balloons filtering out into the hallway.
“We didn’t do this!” I say quickly. “Honestly we were going to keep everything low key, but someone got wind of things and threw us a little reception.”
“So it’s true then? You two eloped over the weekend?”
I hold up my ringed hand and Ian replies, “Yes, sir. That should clear up the breach in our contract, right?”
He laughs. “Honestly, there were easier ways to do that. You two didn’t need to go get hitched. I wasn’t going to let Mrs. O’Doyle and her PTA gang actually force you out of the school. I just needed to show her I was taking her concerns seriously.”
“So our jobs were never in danger?”
“No.”
We all go silent, and then, duh, I remember I’m in love with Ian and didn’t just marry him for this silly job.
“Not going to go get it annulled, I hope?”
“No!” I’m quick to reply, and when I glance over to Ian, he’s grinning down at me.
“Right, then I’ll see you both at the PTA meeting after school. Try to wipe those grins off your faces before you get there. I’d like you looking remorseful, even if it’s just pretend.”
The rest of the afternoon drags on forever. By the time 3:05 rolls around, I’ve chewed my nails down to sharp daggers and have stress-eaten the second piece of cake I stole from the lounge on my way out. I feel jittery from all the sugar.
Ian and I walk into the PTA meeting with Principal Pruitt by our side. I wish I were wearing a helmet or armor. I have no clue what to expect: angry scowls? Pitchforks? Rotten tomatoes? I swiftly remove my delicate scarf, just in case.
In reality, we walk in to find Mrs. O’Doyle sitting at the front of the classroom with her arms crossed. A self-righteous scowl mars her face—though, from the deep set of those wrinkles, that might just be what she looks like normally. I don’t think her smiling-related facial muscles have been utilized since the early 90s.
Meanwhile, all the other PTA parents are hovering around the snack table in the back of the classroom, picking their way through nuts and what looks to be a plethora of homemade cookies, macadamia chocolate chip if my nose doesn’t deceive me. If it goes as planned, I’ll grab a fistful of them on my way out. If things turn south, I’ll take the whole damn tray.
Mrs. O’Doyle’s eyes follow me into the room, but she doesn’t offer any greeting. Two seats are marked with little reserved signs at the front of the classroom and I realize they’re for Ian and me when Principal Pruitt tells us to have a seat. Oh, I get it: this is a trial. Mrs. O’Doyle is the judge, jury, and executioner. Ian and I are destined for the guillotine.
I check for a scythe near her feet, but instead I find bright orange wedges. I did not see that coming. How can someone so pissy enjoy such bright footwear?
“I hereby call this PTA meeting to order!” she says, banging a wooden gavel against the desk. She looks like she’s pretty comfortable with that thing. I bet if I looked closely, I’d find that it’s engraved and everything. She sleeps with it under her pillow and takes it with her into the shower. “The first order of business is the discussions of last week’s Whipped Cream-gate.”
That gets everyone’s attention. The crowd around the snack table disperses as everyone vies for a good seat.
“Mrs. O’Doyle, this incident is not on the level of Watergate. Let’s not make this more tedious than it needs to be,” Principal Pruitt demands. “I only brought Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher here so we might clear up a few things and move on.”
 
; “Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher?” asks a PTA mom beside me, mouth full of cookie. “I thought the whole issue was that they weren’t married?”
There’s a chorus of disgruntlement. These people came for a show and now they feel deprived.
“Yeah! What gives?”
“ORDER! ORDER IN MY COURTROO—I MEAN, CLASSROOM!” Mrs. O’Doyle shouts, banging her gavel so hard I hold my hands up to protect my face in case it splinters. “What do you mean, Mr. and Mrs.?”
Principal Pruitt sighs and turns to us, like, Well, get on with it. With glee, I hold up my ringed finger like I’m flipping her off. If I were Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting, I’d toss in, How ’bout them apples?
“No!” Mrs. O’Doyle’s face crumples. “A sham marriage—you can’t! Surely there’s something in the teacher handbook about this. Principal Pruitt this cannot, must not, will not stand. Teachers can’t go around canoodling and then getting married just to escape consequences. I will take this all the way to the highest court in the land—THE SCHOOL BOARD!”
He chuckles. “The board has reviewed the incident as well as the district policies. So far, the only judgement they’ve handed down is one of congratulations.”
“So what about their probation?!” She’s red-faced now.
“It’s over as of today.”
“Because they got hitched?” Angry spittle spews from her mouth. “I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!”
I stifle a laugh. Might be, lady. Check your prescription.
“All right, now that that’s cleared up,” a parent shouts from the back of the room, “can we move on to the issues with the single-file carpool lane? I shouldn’t have to wait in line for nearly forty-five minutes just to pick my kid up.”
“Yeah!” a chorus of parents agree.
“Also, what about our end-of-year fundraiser for the softball team?!” another parent demands.
Our trial is over. Principal Pruitt gets our attention with a small wave and tilts his head toward the door. It’s time to scram. We did our part by showing up, and I didn’t even have to apologize.
“Do you think I can take a cookie?” I ask Ian under my breath as we stand.