Page 4 of Not Your Romeo
“Sean, it was–”
“Unacceptable.” His voice boomed, and I tilted my head away from the sound, “They’ve been dealt with. Now, you’re getting your just medicine; a husband to calm and keep you, lass.”
“Fuck you!” I spat.
“Aye, I told the lad he had his work cut out for him, I did.” Sean smiled, like I’d proven some point for him.
Chapter Three
Soggy Calculations
Ziggy
That Irishman was a mad bastard. There wasn’t no two ways about it. He was mad as the day was long! He had some good furniture in his study, though. I was sunk into that leather, high-backed piece with one leg cocked over the armrest.
I’d been there for a while, long enough to put an impressive dent on that whiskey container of his. I was currently balancing it on my propped knee while I tried to drown in my misery.
The chair was comfortable enough to sleep in. I scoffed, imagining how much he must have paid for it, only to laugh in the next tipsy breath when I realized money didn’t mean shit to him. Hell, he couldn’t count past eighteen anyhow. I was convinced of it when I saw that sassy piece he hauled up the stairs.
That was not a twenty-two-year-old college student. A twenty-two-year-old college student was four years past high-school. Such a creature should be refined, ready to graduate by my calculations.
Then again, my calculations were getting soggier by the sip, so there was that; they also might have been a little hypocritical since I was a man who never made it a day past the twelfth grade.
What the fuck did I know of college women?
“Not a goddamn thing,” I huffed at myself.
The door to the study swung open and I awkwardly hailed an arm to the side of the chair, as if anyone could miss me in such a state.
“Wyatt, Father McDaniels is here.” Sean announced, rounding my chair with a figure in a long, black robe.
I raised the whiskey canister at the priest, and his jaw dropped.
I thought for sure he was going to call the whole thing off. I hoped for such mercy, anyhow. It was probably the closest I’d come to praying in a long damn time.
The good father laughed, taking the canister from my hand. He drank deeply from it before passing it to Sean with an appreciative murmur.
“Go on, then. Get him sobered up, Sean. Saints alive, you’ll give the girl cause to call the whole thing to annulment.” He laughed again and moved around the desk to what I assumed was typically Sean’s seat.
The priest scribbled for a few moments, held the marriage license up and stared down the length of his nose at it with a skewed expression before nodding and setting it aside.
“All is in order then,” He stood and started back toward the door with Sean on his heels.
“Wait– uh,” My brain scrambled for something, anything…
Sean paused while the priest continued along.
“What is it?”
“Uh– it’s just that– I went to my grandmother’s funeral as a boy. She was Catholic, as I recall. I didn’t understand the majority of that sh– that stuff the priest was singing, chanting, and saying. I don’t think this is gonna work.”
Sean’s brow spiked.
“I mean–” I tried to reach through the whiskey fog for the word I wanted, “I don’t know Latin. I don’t want to cause a scene or hesitate at the wrong time.”
Sean laughed and clapped my shoulder, tugging me along, “Don’t worry. I’ll tell McDaniels to keep it short and to stick to English as much as possible, eh?”
“Are you serious right now?” an indignant voice piped up from behind us as we turned onto the hall. “He isn’t even Catholic? You want me to marry someone who isn’t Catholic?”
