Very seriously, Mirabelle says, “Part of what makes an essay Baconian is its concise and impersonal nature.”
Right, yes, impersonal and impartial. “I imagine this will be quite the undertaking…but I suppose I can make an effort to accomplish what I mean to say within a modest three thousand words.”
“One thousand.”
“Two.”
“One thousand, but it can be alittlepersonal. And I’ll even allow first person narrative.”
I ponder, then I lift my hand. “Deal.”
She shakes my hand. “I look forward to reading what you come up with.”
Smiling, I say, “I look forward to marrying you in June…and meeting your parents before Christmas.”
Smiling, she says, “That sounds liketwoseparate essays.”
That it does.
Looks like I’ve got an all-nighter to pull.
Chapter 28
?
12pt Times New Roman font is more romantic than you might think. In this essay I will…
Mirabelle
“Love,” Damion murmurs, “focus on me. Focus on this.” Once again sitting across from me in one of the large leather chairs in his office, Damion plants a finger against what is a beautiful double-spaced essay headed in such a wonderful, wonderful way.
It says:
Damion Anders
(Future) Mrs. Anders
Marriage 101
28 November XXXX
The format is soothing, reliable, and familiar.
Unlike the article currently pulled up on my phone, which is headed:Is Damion Anders’s Relationship Fake?
“The universe is mocking me,” I whisper.
Huffing, Damion leans back in his chair and grumbles, “Assuming that our relationship is fake because we walked around in public for four hours as thoughtrying to get attentionis insane. Whoever’s getting these photos is insane. Our dinner date happenedweeksago. They either held on to the pictures they took, or no reputable source was willing to publish the nonsense until now. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Eyes glazed, I stare at the photo. In it, I’m smiling. I look so blindly happy. And, yet, whoever wrote the article suggests I’m being blackmailed. For reasons they can’t even conclude. The soft street lighting makes the photo seem so warm, so peaceful, soreal. Even though every single accompanying word undermines that. “They didn’t use flash this time,” I say. There was no clue that this would be coming. Not a single hint. Not a single moment I could find amid prepping for Thanksgiving to prepare myself.
Gently, Damion slips my phone out of my hand and sets it face down beside the essay he’s written. “Mirabelle, please focus.”
Focus on an essay explaining why we should get married—when getting married means a future being wrapped up in lies, no matter what I do?
“Please,” he says again, a sense of underlying urgency in his rough voice. “They don’t matter. They will never matter. Not as long as we have the truth right in front of us. Don’t let their idiocy stand against your logic. Don’t let their stupidity ruin what we could have.”
Fighting through the tightness in my lungs, I free a breath, and lift the pages.
