I should probably mention that to her, but the Uber has come to a stop in front of a large brick plaza leading up to a cold concrete building that looks totally out of place with the historic charm of the city.
I give Ophelia my hand as she slides out of the car. Once on the plaza, I tuck her arm in mine, as she's wearing ridiculous shoes that women like to wear and that are no match for the crevices.
She's a broken ankle waiting to happen.
Though they do wonderful things for her legs. And I thought she had quite nice legs to begin with.
After a moment she says, "You know, I've walked by here and through here getting to the Government Center T stop, but I never really thought about going in this building."
"Well, I believe today will hold a lot of firsts for us." I give her a smile, hoping she'll return it.
"I just never thought this is how I'd be getting married," she says, barely audible above the din of the city.
Ah, that explains the tears.
I have to give her one last chance to pull out. I don't know what I'll do if she does, but I also can't coerce her into anything. "I do appreciate this, Ophelia. I hope you know that. I still don't know why you've agreed to help me, especially since you've dreamed of more sentimental things. You don't have to go through with this."
She stops, midway up the wide granite steps, her arm dropping from mine. "You see, Xavier, that's the problem. My whole life I've wanted it all. An exciting career and a great romantic love story. I've done tons of stupid things trying to craft it for myself. I'm thirty years old, and I don't think I've ever even been in love. I've certainly never been loved. So for once, I'm not trying to create a romance. I know that Hugh Grant or Colin Firth is not going to come swooping in and sweep me off my feet. I have to accept that my imagination wants the great adventure, but it's not my reality. So this will do. Let's face it, it's more than I'd ever get otherwise."
I feel a tightness in my chest that hasn't been there since I lost my spot on the National Team. "You can't possibly mean that. You can't give up."
She looks down and shrugs. "I make really stupid decisions when left to my own devices. Hell, that's why we're here, isn't it? I'm too impulsive for my own good. I'm much better off taking the safe route like I did with my career. You're safe. There's no risk here, and no chance to make an ass out of myself."
"You sure?" One more chance.
Ophelia nods and pulls up her mask. "Let's do this."
I pull up my mask as we walk up the rest of the stairs and into the brick lobby. "City Clerk, sixth floor," I tell the security guard as we walk through the metal detectors. Nothing says romance like being checked for weapons. I let Ophelia go first, so she doesn't see the ring box that I put into the bin with my cell phone and wallet.
After the elevator, we follow the signs to the clerk's office, which is a window separated by plexiglass. Ophelia says, "You know, early in the pandemic, they weren't even doing weddings here. And the ones that had already been scheduled, they did in a hallway. So we're lucky we can do this."
Having to marry a stranger to save my failing career doesn't feel the luckiest.
The clerk pushes a stack of paperwork on a clipboard through the slot. "You have to fill out the marriage license paperwork first. It'll be $150 to expedite this, and you both need to sign here and here that this is voluntary on both your parts. Take a clean pen."
Ophelia giggles. "I know you can't see all of his face with the mask on, but trust me, I really want to do this."
I try not to roll my eyes. We go and sit down on some chairs in the hall. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" I whisper.
"In case she gets questioned by immigration or TMZ," she says, not taking her eyes off the paperwork. Her pen is poised in mid-air, not making contact with the paper.
"Is there a problem?" She hasn't moved in at least a minute. I know she's literate. Her apartment is filled with books, most with shirtless men or cartoon people on the covers. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know she reads a lot of romance.
"I don't know what to write here." She taps the line. I lean over her shoulder and instantly smell lilac, even through my mask. It makes me think of the hedgerows at the front of the property at home, bursting forth with pinks and purples, signaling spring. I shake my head and focus on where she's stumped.
Last name.
"What should I put?"
I pull back, raising my eyebrow. "Don't women usually take the husband's name?"
Ophelia's eyes narrow. "We don't have time for a history lesson on the patriarchal and misogynistic suppression of women right now."
I raise my hands in defense. "Right, point taken. Do what you want to do. No pressure here."
In all honesty, it's not something I've ever thought about. I'm guessing most men would say the same thing. It's not my decision to make.
"It's just, I'm Ophelia Finnegan. It's who I am."
