Southern Charm (23 page)

I nodded.

“And, well, she agreed,” he said. “She said she just wanted things to be normal between us, the way they were before you came along, even before she and I dated, when we were just friends.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Now,” Tripp continued, “we did leave together. I dropped her off at her apartment on my way uptown. But we did not go home together.” He took a sip of water.

I nodded again.

“Will you please believe me?” he said, pouting a little.

I sighed. “I just feel like everyone in the whole world thinks I'm an idiot, staying with you while you're running around behind my back.”

“But you realize,” he said, “all that matters in the end is the truth. And I'm telling you the truth.”

Maybe it wasn't as bad as “Page Six” was making it out to be. Maybe it just
looked
like something was going on.

“Mints, you've gotta believe me,” Tripp continued.

Who was I going to believe? The man I was about to marry? Or a gossip column? I knew who I
wanted
to believe.

“What do I have to do to prove to you that nothing is going on?” he asked.

“Oh, Tripp,” I finally said.

The funny thing is, I wasn't really angry anymore. I just felt . . . spent.

“Seriously.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I'll do anything. I'll marry you right here and now if that's what it takes.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I'll get up tomorrow and go down to city hall and marry you, first thing,” he said. “If that's what it takes to prove to you that Tabitha means nothing and you mean everything and”—he paused—“that I want to be with
you,
then that's what I'll do.”

“City hall?” I asked. “Do people actually do that?”

“All the time.” Tripp smiled.

I stared back at him. Part of me did find it kind of romantic. And an even bigger part of me was flattered Tripp was willing to do something so drastic, so spontaneous, to prove his love. But was he serious or just trying to appease me?

“You're not serious, are you?” I asked.

“Dead serious,” he said.

“Tomorrow?”

“First thing tomorrow,” he said.

The look in his eyes was calm, focused, centered. He seemed so confident. Part of me just wanted to see if he'd actually go through with it.

“Fine,” I said. My stomach flip-flopped. “Let's do it then.”

I expected my answer to throw Tripp for a loop, but instead he cracked a tiny smile, like he'd won.

“Really?” He grinned.

I thought for a moment. Honestly, no, not really. For one, my mother would have a fit. She was in the midst of planning an over-the-top Charleston wedding and Tripp and I were about to go behind her back in the worst of ways. What would we tell his parents at the cocktail party we were supposed to attend in a few days? Would we smile and thank people when they congratulated us on our “engagement” and then tell them, oh yeah, we were actually already married? Minor detail?

I shook my head.

“Come on,” he said. “It'll be our little secret.”

It was almost like he was daring me, and somehow I was feeling more and more up to the dare. In the end, I couldn't help but think that maybe getting married—and having it be “our secret,” our one thing we could really call our own in the midst of the frenzy that was becoming our lives—was the answer. Maybe it was a step toward warding off the Tabithas of Tripp's past. Maybe it was my way of securing my future, a binding contract to ensure that Tripp would magically morph into the man I needed him to be. He would become someone I could rely on, someone I could trust. What can I say? I was young and naïve. I was in love.

“What do you say?” he asked. “We got a deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

Mother Knows Best?

S
ure, a lot of engaged couples live together, but in my family—and Tripp's family—living together before marriage is a no-no. So Tripp and I ferried back and forth between each other's apartments.

After Philippe, Tripp and I went back to his place and went to bed in silence. There had been the initial excitement, the adrenaline rush after he suggested a city hall marriage. But the walk home was a different story. I couldn't help but wonder, how was I going to explain this to Emily, who clearly had her doubts? To my mother, one of the most traditional people on the planet? And was this really the best solution for all of the problems we'd been having?

The sun streamed in through the window of Tripp's bedroom and I groaned. Could the city hall idea have been a dream? Or the result of two glasses of wine too many?

I sat up in bed. Tripp was sitting at his desk on the other side of the room in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, scrolling through something on the Internet.

“Babe, what are you doing?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

He turned around with a Cheshire Cat smile on his face.

“Oh, you know,” he said, “just perusing the New York Department of Health website. There's something about waiting twenty-four hours after you get the license to do the actual ceremony, but I found a loophole. So I'm just working that out and then we should be all set.” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “I've already called in sick to work. Oh! And I ordered breakfast in, by the way.”

I guess I wasn't dreaming. I guess it wasn't the wine talking. “You're crazy,” I said.

He turned around, a serious look on his face.

“Crazy about
you,
” he said.

I narrowed my eyes.

He got up, came over to the bed, and leaned over me, his arms on either side of my waist. “Come on,” he said. “This will be fun.”

I thought about it for a minute. “You're still crazy.”

He leaned in and started tickling me.

I yelped and squirmed.

“Stop it!” I screamed. “I will
not
marry a tickler!”

He pulled away.

“Will you marry someone who does this?”

He kissed my neck.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Will you marry someone who does this?”

He moved down my chest.

“Maybe,” I said, giggling.

“And what about someone who does this?”

His hands traveled underneath the elastic waistband of my boxer shorts.

“Oh . . . um . . . yes . . . definitely,” I said.

The buzzer rang and Tripp jogged out of the bedroom. I watched him disappear. He had the broad shoulders of a star quarterback. No complaints here.

When he returned, he was carrying a tray overflowing with waffles and bacon and eggs. He'd even managed to pour two glasses of orange juice.

I was famished and immediately dove into the waffles. “So I'm
thinking we get up in a bit and get dressed,” he said. “And just hop in a cab. Apparently it's kind of a first-come, first-served basis.”

“Okay,” I said through a mouthful of waffle. It all felt kind of fun, make-believe. I started brainstorming my outfit. What did they do in the movies again? For some reason I was picturing a woman in a chic little white suit and a tiny veil. I kept only a few items of clothing at Tripp's—a little work-appropriate dress from Theory, a few Vince sweaters, and some J Brand jeans. I guessed I was wearing a work-appropriate dress to get married. There was no time to scour the city for a tiny veil. I frowned.

“What's wrong?” Tripp asked, looking up at me.

“I won't get to wear a tiny little veil,” I said. “Like in the fifties? Those little hats with the veil attached? I feel like that would be perfect for this type of thing.”

He shook his head.

“Now
you're
the crazy one,” he said. “You'll have plenty of time to wear a veil in a few months.”

A
bout an hour later, we stepped out of a taxi in front of the city clerk's office. I didn't realize the inside of the courthouse was so expansive. A nice lady in a uniform directed us to the third floor, where we filled out forms, paid a fee, received our marriage license, and were promptly told we had to wait twenty-four hours to get married.

“What?!” I said.

The woman behind the desk did little more than look back at me and make a face.

“Policy, ma'am,” she said.

“Actually,” Tripp said, looking assured, “we have a judicial waiver. It was called in this morning by Judge Beekman.”

She raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Give me a moment,” she said. “I'll go check in the back.”

“Don't worry,” Tripp whispered as we were waiting, “Beekman's a cool guy. I gave him the long and short of it and he took pity on me
and promised to keep it hushed. I think he enjoys knowing more than my father or something. Old squash-team rivalry.”

When the woman returned, she had a blank look on her face. “Nothing from Beekman's office,” she said.

Tripp rolled his eyes.

“You're sure, ma'am? I'm sorry, what is your name?” he asked. His voice was an octave lower.

“Barbara,” she said, pursing her lips.

“Barbara,” Tripp repeated, holding out his hand.

She shook it halfheartedly.

“I'm Tripp and this is my fiancée, Minty.”

I smiled my biggest, brightest smile.

“Tripp and Minty?” She raised an eyebrow. “Priceless.”

“Barbara,” Tripp continued, “I'm going to try to get Judge Beekman on the phone. Hopefully, it's just a mistake and he can call it in. Is there a direct number he can call? Just to speed up the process a little?”

Barbara wrote a number down on a piece of paper and slid it toward Tripp. “Be my guest,” she said.

Tripp and Judge Beekman had a brief, heated discussion over the phone while I stood to the side wringing my hands and wondering if this little delay was a sign that we shouldn't get married like this. I could only make out a few words like “trust” and “fair” and “old enough.” By the end of the conversation, Tripp was red in the face and exasperated. Then there was a brief silence. Finally, Tripp said, “Okay” and “Thank you,” which was semi-promising, I guessed. He hung up the phone.

“He tried to talk me out of it,” he said.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why?” I asked. “Didn't you just talk to him this morning?”

“He said the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn't a good idea. He called it a ‘hasty move.'”

“I see,” I said, gulping. It was hasty. But that didn't necessarily mean it was bad. “Maybe,” I continued. “But ‘hasty' is also a word old people use when young people are trying to do something romantic.”

Tripp laughed. Barbara finally managed to crack a smile.

“Well,” Tripp continued, “the good news is, he finally agreed to help us out. He should be calling right now.”

“Well,” Barbara said, “y'all can have a seat over there”—she pointed to a hard, cold bench in the hallway—“and I'll let you know when the waiver comes in.”

“‘Y'all'?” I repeated. “Are you southern?”

She softened a bit. “Mobile, Alabama,” she said.

“Charleston.” I beamed.

We smiled knowingly at each other for a moment. It was funny how even in the midst of downtown Manhattan in one of the coldest, most unfriendly buildings I'd ever been in, there was something comforting about hearing that little twang. I took it as a sign. Maybe Barbara was a good-luck charm.

After about an hour, Judge Beekman came through for us and we finally got the go-ahead. We then stood in line for another hour or so, watching couple after couple disappear behind the closed doors and emerge looking happy and married. Actually, some of them looked tired and annoyed. Others looked really young and scared. The experience wasn't turning out to be as romantic as I'd anticipated.

By the time our names were called, we were exhausted. The actual “ceremony” took all of three minutes. Tripp and I signed another piece of paper, walked into a little room in the back, and swore that the information we were providing was accurate. And that was it. The judge looked at us, pronounced us man and wife, and sent us on our way. Tripp and I stood there for a minute wondering, Should we kiss? So we pecked quickly in front of the man, who looked on with a bored and impatient expression on his face.