Chapter 3: What David Did
I left the white paneled door cracked just the way I'd found it and walked away before I could talk myself into knocking.
The hallway was too quiet. Downstairs I could hear the string quartet warming up, a chair scraping against the ballroom floor, somebody laughing too loud. I didn't go down. I turned the other way, toward the venue office at the end of the hall where Melissa, the coordinator, kept everything in manila envelopes with our names written in sharpie.
My bow tie felt tight. I tugged at it once and stopped. The white rose on my lapel brushed my hand.
Melissa wasn't at her desk. The office door was open and the small room smelled like coffee and printer ink. On the folding table there were three envelopes lined up. Carter-Vance Wedding - License - ORIGINAL was on the front one in her block letters. Next to it, Vendors Paid and Timeline.
I didn't think about whether I should look. I picked up the envelope.
It was empty.
Not thin. Empty. I turned it over and shook it once. Nothing fell out. I checked the other two even though I knew it was pointless. Napkins and seating charts.
My phone was already in my hand. I had the county clerk's number from when David and I had gone to file the paperwork questions last month. I hit call and put it on speaker so I wouldn't have to hold it to my ear with these hands.
It rang four times.
"Jefferson County Clerk, records," a woman said. She sounded tired.
"Hi, this is James Vance," I said. I tried to keep my voice even. "I need to check if a marriage license was filed this week. Vance and Carter. First names James and Lauren."
Keyboard clicking.
"Let me check the system for you," she said. "Date of issue?"
"Issued last Monday. We were supposed to file it by this morning. Courier drop-off."
More clicking. I stared at the empty envelope on the table. My breathing was louder than I wanted it to be.
"I'm not showing a filing for Vance and Carter," she said. "I have the issuance logged, but no return filing. Nothing recorded. If it was dropped off today it might not be entered until Monday, but as of right now there's no record."
I closed my eyes for a second.
"So legally, if we had a ceremony today -"
"It wouldn't be recorded," she said, matter-of-fact. "You'd need to file the signed license for it to be legal."
"Thank you," I said.
I ended the call and just stood there in that little office with the empty envelope in my hand. The quartet downstairs started playing something softer.
My phone buzzed. A text from the woman in the hallway. I hadn't even gotten her name yet.
> Still here by the door. Baby's asleep. You okay?
I typed back: Found envelope. Empty. Clerk says no filing.
She sent back: He was in the back lot ten minutes ago. Black Audi.
I slipped the empty envelope back onto the table exactly where it had been and went out the side door toward the parking lot. The air outside was cooler than the hallway. It was that gray November light that makes everything look like a parking lot photo.
David was leaning against his black Audi with his suit jacket off, sleeves of his white shirt pushed up once. He had our license folder? No. He had nothing in his hands. He was on his phone but he hung up when he saw me coming.
He didn't look surprised.
"You didn't file it," I said.
He exhaled through his nose. "You told me to double-check it."
"That was two weeks ago," I said. "Double-check meant make sure the names were spelled right."
"I know what you said," he said. He pushed off the car and stood up straight. "I picked it up from your apartment this morning. You left it on the kitchen counter next to your keys. I told you I'd run it to the courthouse for you."
I remembered that. I'd been late. He'd said don't worry about it, I've got it.
"I didn't drop it off," he said. "I drove to the courthouse parking lot and sat there. And I didn't go in."
I waited. I wanted him to keep talking so I wouldn't have to.
"I kept thinking about last week at the rehearsal dinner," he said. "Lauren barely looked at you. Her mom kept answering for her. You kept adjusting that boutonniere like you couldn't sit still. I thought - if I just held it for a day, you'd have a window to actually ask her if this was what she wanted. Before it was legal."
"So you told her friend?" I said. "The woman with the baby?"
"Her cousin," he said. "She's her cousin. She was holding the baby for the service. I told her this morning after I didn't file it. I said I was worried about you and I didn't know what to do. I didn't tell Lauren. I swear I didn't tell Lauren."
His voice was quiet and flat. Not defensive. Just stating it.
"You told me you were protecting me," I said.
"I thought I was," he said. He looked down at the asphalt, then back at me. "Are you going to file it now? I have it in my glove box. I can drive it over right now. They're still open till four."
I looked at his car. The glove box. The signed paper with both our names on it sitting in there while downstairs people were taking their seats for something that wouldn't count anyway.
"Don't," I said before I could think it through. "Don't move it yet."
David nodded once. He didn't argue. He didn't apologize the way people do when they want it to be over fast. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets.
"Does she know I heard her?" I asked.
"No," he said. "She doesn't know anything. Only her cousin does."
I felt the hallway behind me again somehow, that half-open white door and the warm light and her voice saying I don't love him through the gap. Legally not married. Practically about to be, in front of a hundred people.
"Stay here," I told David. I started back toward the side door. "Don't call anyone. Don't file anything."
"Jim -"
May you like
"Just stay here," I said.
I could hear the quartet had stopped. That meant they were waiting.
