Until the signature opening piano notes of “Welcome to the Black Parade” came on. I’d learned that Jack has two car modes: extremely enthusiastic, almost voice- and definitely ear-grating singing, and half-present mumble singing.
This time, he was silent, but he draped his arm over the console. His fingers brushed over my forearm, the back of his knuckle wisping over my skin not that differently than he had when I was in the hospital and he was convincing me to do this very thing.
He was testing the waters, extending an olive branch after he knew he hurt me. When the screaming part of the song kicked in, he eyed me, daring us to go all in.
So we did. Jack Leroy, my husband-to-be, was apologizing to me through the very nerdy and very ridiculous vessel of a My Chemical Romance song.
Eighteen-year-old me would have been very pleased. Jack laced his fingers with mine, a genuine smile creeping over his face. He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. He let me go, but instead of returning his hand to the steering wheel, he tapped a rhythm on my thigh.
As the song built, so did we. We were trying. I had more to give than he did, but I knew in his own way, he was giving everything he could.
The guy next to me was an asshole, sure. But he was a fun asshole. He was about to bemyasshole.
We parked outside the Beverly Hills courthouse, but instead of getting out right away, we turned to each other and finished singing the song. It was stupid and cheesy, but we needed it. We were doing something most wouldn’t, and maybe we just needed to feel like we were in it together.
I took the longer notes while he did the layered verse, like we’d done this hundreds of times. We laughed, and I flicked my head toward the building. “Let’s go get hitched, Leroy.”
“Let’s fuckin’ go.”
He rushed to help me out of the car, even if I didn’t need it. Instead of taking it as some chivalrous or ableist bullshit, I knew it was one of the ways he felt comfortable showing he cared.
“Need your cane, baby?” he asked as I slid to the ground.
It wasn’t the question that suddenly made this real. It was the “baby” that set off my nerves. Tremors went through me.
I hardly knew this man.
He was calling me ‘baby.’
He was trying to care for all my needs.
He agreed to take care of my children if I died.
And even with all that, he was never going to love me.
My throat turned into a desert, and I croaked out a, “Sure, can’t hurt. But then I can’t carry my flowers.”
“I’ll get those,” he said.
Jack walked beside me, his hand resting on my outer hip, the other holding my flowers. We went through security, and as we stood by the elevator, he looked me over. I gestured to his hand on me. “You’re handsy today.”
Jack chewed his lower lip. “I feel calmer when I touch you.”
The elevator doors opened, and on jelly legs, I let him lead me inside. As they slid shut, Jack’s hand found mine. “You’re so beautiful, Mara.”
I wanted to cry. He was being so sweet, so earnest. This guarded asshole was being vulnerable for me. He was trying, putting himself out there.
But love was off the table.
“You look great too, Jackie baby.”
Woodenly, Jack led me to the registrar’s office. Everyone working there was so jolly, the people whose job it is to deal with happy people.
There was an undeniable undercurrent that made it hard for me to be fully happy.
We sat in the two seats in front of a desk cluttered with family pictures and fake flowers pinned up everywhere. I was zoned out before I realized Jack was pushing a clipboard my way. “My handwriting’s shit,” Jack said. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, sure.” I penned in our vital details, realizing I found out things like his birthday on the spot. “Leo baby,” I said with a laugh.
