Mr. Winston boxes up our rings. “Anything else?”
“What about a pair of earrings?” Oliver asks me with a wry smile.
I shake my head. “No, we’re good. Let’s go to Vegas before I change my mind.”
We arrive on the tarmac outside his jet, and I do a double take. It’s stark white against the gray concrete, “Lincoln” emblazed innavy-blue lettering on the side. A uniformed attendant stands at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve never been on a private plane before, and it feels insane that this is just how he travels, like it’s as ordinary to him as catching the subway. It makes me wonder what other things money has turned into casual details in his life; things that would feel unimaginable in mine.
“You ready?” he asks, getting out of the car and holding his hand out for me.
I step out of the car, grabbing his outstretched hand. He closes his door, and I start to move around to the back of the car to grab my bag, but he shakes his head. “They'll put it on the plane for us. We can head inside.”
“This is insane,” I mumble, the words hidden by the roar of the engines nearby and the steady wind sweeping across the tarmac.
I follow him up the stairs into the jet and stop mid-stride to take in the plane’s interior. Everything is a creamy white leather with polished black trim, bright and spacious. The air smells faintly of vanilla, making it feel strangely cozy yet undeniably luxurious.
“Where do I sit?” I ask, standing in the middle, looking around at the numerous chairs, expecting he has a particular spot.
“Wherever you want,” he says.
I take a middle seat near the window, assuming he'll sit across the aisle from me. But instead, he chooses the seat directly opposite, and his long legs almost bump into mine. As soon as he sits and buckles in, there's a small gap between us, and I intend to keep it that way.
Taking out my phone, I snap a few pictures and send them to Evelyn before putting it away. Oliver is typing on his phone too, so I keep my eyes out the window, watching the bags being loaded. Excitement and nerves churn in my stomach at how much closer we are to getting married. I’m interrupted by an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Hi, can I get you anything?”
I glance at the brunette hostess with a warm smile, outlined in bright red. For a second, I wonder if he’s slept with her, but I push those thoughts away. He’s been extremely nice and respectful. I know it seems silly to most, but the thing is that I just can't take any more rejection. It's easier to just stay behind my protective wall than risk that again, but this time together is new. I have to find a way to make this work, at least for the sake of his mom. I've never spent this much alone time with him, and the more time that passes, the more I see how wrong it was of me to assume he belongs in that douchebag category.
During the flight, Oliver alternates between working on his laptop and making casual conversation. He asks about work, school, and my favorite artists. I eat sushi and a brownie that I wash down with a soda. My eyes grow heavy after the huge meal. I drift off with the smooth motion of the jet, exhausted from the day.
I don’t know how long I’m out before I wake from a nightmare… my mom snapping and then throwing out my pencils. A touch on my shoulder and a whisper of my name in my ear makes me shudder and blink open my eyes. I instantly perk up, my heart racing as I look around, remembering where I am, and that this isn’t, in fact, a dream.
“We’re here,” Oliver says. I’m actually getting married today. My fingers tighten around the armrest, knuckles turning white as the moment I get off this plane, I know it’s happening in a matter of hours.
When I don’t move, he speaks again, as if he thinks I didn’t hear him. “Time to get off the plane.”
“Great,” I murmur. “Let’s get married.”
He clears his throat. “No second thoughts, right?”
“No second thoughts, but this is not how I thought I’d get married,” I admit, standing up and stretching my back. Theadmission feels oddly vulnerable, like I’m revealing more of myself than I intended.
“How did you think you were going to get married?”
I drop my arms to my sides again and look at him. His expression is genuinely curious, head tilted slightly, his usual polished confidence replaced with something more approachable. “I’m not sure. I suppose I imagined it in a church and maybe even a party afterward.”
“I never pictured you as the traditional type.”
His words sting. Just because I didn’t grow up with anything traditional doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want it now. “Why do you think that?”
“You’re quiet, artistic, and… don’t take this the wrong way, different,” he says, leaning forward. “In a good way.”
I nod. “That doesn’t mean I dreamed about Elvis officiating my vows.”
“Hey, you chose him.”
I laugh, remembering telling him during our flight, but not thinking it would happen. “I didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off in a few hours. This is as dysfunctional as it gets, so why not have a story to go with it?”
“Exactly. If we’re doing this crazy shit together, let’s promise to at least have fun.” He stretches his hand out.
I look between his palm and his face. He wants to shake on it. My muscles coil. This is what it is, a transaction, not a fairytale. “Deal. Now let’s go get married.” I shake his hand quickly, knowing there’s no way I’ll change my mind. I need the money for the house. I smile at the hostess, but she only gives me a half one back before smiling at Oliver like a love-sick puppy. I guess I’ll have to get used to that for the next few months. He’s handsome and charming. Women will want him, which gets me thinking of something we didn’t discuss, but we need to.
