Roomies - Christina Lauren Page 0,30

“That would have been . . . bad.”

And on, and on, for a half hour, about what we ate last night and how we weren’t sure what to wear today. The only time either of us seems to relax and fall into easy conversation is when Calvin mentions he almost brought his guitar with him.

“It seemed oddly fitting,” he admits, “but then I worried it would be a hassle, or seem odd.”

“I wish you had.”

I really do. His music magically loosens that knotted ribbon inside me; I already miss hearing him play in the subway.

While we trip our way through the Holy Shit We Are About to Be Married awkward dance, Lulu and Mark chat unobtrusively to the side, having no apparent problem making entertaining conversation. Mark—like most people—seems completely charmed by Lulu, but every time Lulu snorts and loses it over one of his jokes, the more anxious I feel.

From this moment forward, no matter what happens after, I am combining my life with Calvin’s.

Finally, our number is called. We step up to the counter and I watch Calvin fill out the last bit of paperwork. Alongside our witnesses, we sign our names—mine is a lot less legible than everyone else’s, thanks to the cast—and after another small wait, it’s time. The New York City Marriage Bureau is very efficient.

We’re led into a small room with peach walls and pastel watercolors. Our officiant is a smiling woman with dark hair and rosy cheeks who greets us with a friendly welcome. There’s no music or fanfare, but she gently instructs us to stand opposite each other, while everyone else can stand or sit where they’d like. Calvin takes both my hands.

“Calvin and Holland,” she begins, “today you celebrate one of life’s greatest moments, and give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, as you join together in the vow of marriage.”

I look up at his face; his eyes are crinkled in amusement that is oddly masked as joy. I bite my lip, grinning back despite myself.

“Calvin,” she continues, “do you take Holland Lina Bakker to be your wife?”

His voice comes out hoarse at first, and he clears his throat. “I do.”

I love the way his accent curls the words.

She turns to me, and he squeezes my hands in his. “Holland, do you take Calvin Aedan McLoughlin to be your husband?”

I nod. My breath is tight in my chest, and for the first time since the ceremony began, I feel a pang of loss that Jeff and Robert and the rest of my family aren’t here. “I do.”

We promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect each other—forsaking all others.

We promise to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.

My stomach drops, and Calvin twists our fingers together—a tiny loophole on these promises.

With a shaking hand, I slide the simple band on his finger, and he returns the action on mine. At the bases of our fingers, the rings are so unblemished and innocent, gleaming proudly. I have the hysterical thought that I wouldn’t have the heart to tell these shiny, happy rings that they’re just props.

The ceremony is over with a flash of the camera as the officiant pronounces us husband and wife.

“Calvin, you may kiss your bride.”

I do a double take toward the officiant before I can help it. It never occurred to me that he would. That we would.

Calvin laughs a little at my wide eyes. “I promise to make it nice.”

It takes every bit of focus I have to remain upright. “I . . . believe you.”

A tiny cocky grin curves his mouth. “If you can’t be good, at least be good at it.” His hand comes to rest at the back of my neck; his fingers thread into my hair. “So come here,” he whispers, licking his lower lip. As he leans in, I have to tip my head back to see him. His eyes are closed, his breathing even, and there’s a moment of hesitation where I know we’re both thinking, This is it. We’re really doing this.

I bring my hand to rest on his chest and it’s that solidness that spurs me on, has me closing the last bit of distance between us. His lips are warm, smoother than I imagined, and tiny explosions travel along my body like a rush of caffeine filling my veins. It’s a perfect kiss, not too wet, not too soft, and I count to two before he pulls away, his forehead resting