“People don’t surf in dresses, Amá.” I nod toward the big white building looming over us. “Shall we?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been inside the courthouse before. The main room has tall ceilings, wide carved columns, and a mosaic on the wall featuring what looks almost like religious iconography, featuring brown-haired women doing things like brushing their hair and gathering fruit into baskets.
Carter leads us to another room off to the side. It’s smaller and reminds me of the post office—shiny, smelling like strong cleaning agents, and a little boring, especially compared to the grand entrance we were just in.
The clerk is a middle-aged brown woman with fine blond curls and perfectly applied brick red lipstick. The ceremony is unremarkable, lasting just over five minutes, with us answeringI doandI willto predictable questions that you hear in all the series and films that show weddings. Finally, the lady gives us a small smile and says, “Now you may kiss the bride.” During my research of courthouse weddings the night before, kissing didn’t seem to be a requirement, and so I’m a little taken aback.
I look at Carter, who doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, he looks downright bored. The look of disinterest on his face at the suggestion of kissing me pisses me off instantly. The last time we kissed—also, incidentally, the first time we kissed—he was so into it, so frazzled by the heat of it, that his hands shook, that hecould hardly breathe. How could he go fromthattothis—a face without a single emotion—in less than a year?
But I already know the answer to that. I blew it, just like I fuck up all the good things in my life.
I almost jump back when he bends down toward me. The move doesn’t escape him, and he pauses, his eyes intent on me, looking at me, searching. I give him a faint nod, and then I smile as big as I can—Amá and this lady need to buy this, after all—and place my arms around his shoulders and meet his lips.
Carter freezes the instant our mouths touch. I feel the way his back muscles tense up under my hands and forearms. My stomach drops—am I really so repulsive?—but one split second before I pull back, he lets out a huff. I would call it a faint moan if I didn’t know any better. And then his big hands reach the small of my back and he tugs me closer, angling his head just to the left.
His mouth is still open after that huff, so I tease my tongue in. I can’t help it. He looks and smells so damn good that I need to see if his taste matches the rest of him. And of course he does. My entire body heats as his tongue meets mine, so intense and fast that I don’t need to tighten my thighs together to know I’m already wet.
He tastes as good as I remember. Better, even. Back after I’d dumped Johnny, after everyone found out about the bruises he’d left on my arm once, with the implied truth of our relationship: that he’d given me a great deal more bruises all over the place in the course of six years. When Carter heard the gossip, he dropped everything—I mean, heliterallyleft work in the middle of a shift—and ran to Nadia’s to see if I was okay. I broke out the moonshine, and sometime after my tears and him holding my hand, I ended up on top of him, his hands pushing my tank top up over my bra, my hands under his shirt, groping his hips roughly.Even though we fooled around for all of two minutes, I had never been so turned on in my life.
As though he can sense the memories, too—like they’re seeping from my lips to his like a poisoned lipstick—he pulls back, his eyes wide and his breath fast as though he’s afraid of something.
Almost a year ago, Carter ended our last and first kiss because he had said I’d had too much to drink. But now I wonder if it was something else. Maybe the fact was that he only kissed me because he felt bad for me. Because now he won’t even meet my eyes as the rest of the room—our clerk official, a few random people, the janitor, even Amá—clap in celebration of our holy matrimony.
My heart sinks as I realize that as much as I love his taste, he can’t stand mine.
I sternly remind myself that this is for the best. That it would be way better to become best friends with Carter again through this fake marriage than to ruin everything by throwing myself at him over a one-sided, temporary attraction.
11
“You two need to meetme at Nadia’s. Ahora.” These are the last words Amá tells me and Carter as she turns away toward her car, her heels clicking on the pavement.
I turn to Carter as he walks me to my car. “You don’t have to.”
“Of course I do. I’m family now, remember?” He angles a grin at me, one I would almost call giddy. He must be trying to make up for being so visibly disgusted with touching me. “Besides, you know Amá Sonya scares me.”
“She’s probably going to lecture us about making more money and not doing anything to embarrass her.” If I were a hopeful woman, I would think she wanted to talk to Carter to threaten his livelihood if he broke my heart, et cetera, et cetera. But let’s face it. This is Amá. The most important things in her life are her wealth and reputation.
“Remember, I spent my childhood living down the street from y’all Flores women. I think I can handle myself.” He winks as he pulls open my car door, his eyes bright and twinkling.
I hate the way my stomach feels right now. Like a small bloom of lightning has replaced my nervous system. “If you say so. See you there.” I manage a small smile, which for some reason makes Carter’s beam fall just a bit.
I don’t understand this man. But I guess I don’t have to. It’s a fake-ass marriage. There’s no reason for me to analyze any of my interactions with Carter, whether they make sense or not.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” Isay when I pull up to Nadia’s.
The driveway is overflowing with vehicles, half of which I don’t recognize. Iridescent white balloons are tied to the mailbox, attached to a hand-painted sign that says,
Carter and Teal!
Newlyweds!
Just Married!
Soulmates!
That’s all that can really fit on the sign, but under everything, in a scrawl that looks suspiciously like Sky’s handwriting, is the added word ofLOVERS!
I get out of my car, and the scent of tamales and flan and enchiladas hits me, right on top of the distant bass of “Suavemente” by Elvis Crespo.
