“Brooke?” I whisper, voice barely steady. “What does it say?”
Chapter Eight
Brooke
“Do you, Brooke Olivia Masters, take Matthew Reynolds Basen to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold…”
I look up into Matthew’s eyes, and for all his big declarations of love, he sure looksshit-scaredright now. His jaw is tight, his shoulders a little too stiff. If I didn’t know better, I’d thinkIwas the one who’d suggested this.
“Yes,” I say, clear and steady.
It’s his turn.
The officiant, some court clerk with a monotone voice and a tie that’s too tight, rattles off the same question to Matthew. He answers, and I swear there’s a half-second delay before the word leaves his lips.
And just like that, we’re married.
“By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Matthew kisses me. Not a hesitant brush, not the careful, nervous peck I half-expected, but arealkiss. Full and certain and dizzying. It’s a one-eighty so sharp I swear it gives me whiplash.
One second he’s telling me he loves me.
The next, he’s saying we should co-parentas friends.
Then, when we realize my insurance barely covers anything, he’s the one suggesting we get married because I’m hispartnerand we’re in thistogether.
And now, here he is, looking like he’s about to pass out through most of the ceremony, only to beam like a kid on Christmas the moment we’re pronounced husband and wife.
I stand there, blinking up at him, caught somewhere between laughing and screaming.
Because I don’t know which version of Matthew is real.
The one who says he loves me?
The one who’s terrified of me?
The one who wants to co-parent?
Or the one who’s suddenly over-the-moon about being my husband?
All I know is that this is real now. This isn’t a test or a what-if. It’s a ring on my finger, a name on a marriage certificate, and a kiss that makes my knees go weak.
And God help me, I’m not sure if I’m ready foranyof it.
We walk out of the courthouse hand in hand.
I’m in my second trimester now. Still not showing, but I’ve definitely gained weight and not just in my stomach. My jeans are tighter, my bra feels like a vice, and I swear even myfacelooks rounder. Like I ate all the Halloween candy… and then the Easter basket for good measure.
Whatever. At least I can still work.
Matthew and I were all set to, you know,nothave a shotgun wedding until my last prenatal appointment, when we learned something that changed everything.
Even though Matthew and I get insurance from the same company, Marx United, his plan is the “executive” one. It coverseverything, maternity, postpartum care, newborn visits, even things I didn’t know existed. Mine, on the other hand, barely covers a single night in the hospital when I deliver.
Because of course. Why would awomanneed maternity benefits? No, let’s give themanthe family plan.
I huff under my breath as Matthew steers me gently toward a bakery across the street.
