“Why that date?”
“Hmm?”
“The date.” Saint shifted to look at me. “On the notice you just gave to the council that you’re going to marry Rubi.”
Hearing him, of all people, lay it out caught me off guard. “It’s his ma’s birthday.”
Saint waited.And?
“And... it’s always the day that makes him so sad, so I had this idea we could do something she’d love and he’d feel better about it.”
“It’s a good idea.”
“He might not think so.”
“Ask him.”
“No.”
“So what are you going to do? Wait for the day to roll around and hope for the best?”
“Or I could not ask him at all and he’d never know.”
Saint stared, trying to figure me out, but as clever as he was, it wasn’t going to happen. He was right—I was wired different. Had been since I’d cracked my skull on the pavement twenty years ago and left myself with the shitastic ability to turn a fleeting thought into frazzled pandemonium. And now here I was with a licence to marry and no fucking groom.
“Why are you acting like this is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
A lot of words for Saint, and I didn’t like any of them.
I exhaled the whole world from my lungs. “Don’t be shocked, but I never thought any of this through. I thought I could arrange a little thing with Joe at the farm, blag a couple of forms, then ask Rubi on the day. Surprise him, you know? I didn’t know about all this extra stuff you have to do in advance and it freaked me out.”
Saint pieced it all together, even the bits I’d left out. “That’s why you went to Tam Dubois after Nash’s accident? To get him to forge Rubi’s signature?”
I nodded. “Nearly losing Nash the same way we almost lost Tam scared me into wanting this. But I didn’t tell Tam why I wanted him to forge Rubi’s signature for me. If I had, he might’ve told me all the other fuckery I’d have to deal with after that.”
Saint laughed—a laugh for him, at least. “You got Axel to pretend to be Rubi?”
“Yeah.”
“And it worked?”
“Yeah, but only because the photo on Rubi’s passport was so old, bald, andsmall.”
Saint laughed some more, and I liked it enough not to risk my life punching him. Or telling him to shut the fuck up.
It was spring. The bitter winds had faded and the light breeze left behind felt good as it kissed my skin. I closed my eyes to it, letting Saint make fun of me in peace.
Glaring when he nudged me back to awareness. “What?”
Saint sat up, rising to crouch beside me. “Just ask him.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is.”
“Fucking isn’t. He doesn’t believe in marriage.”
“You do.”