Chapter 6: Rain on the Marriage License

I don’t know how I left my parents’ house.

The air outside was thick with humidity, the sky threatening rain. I ran into Derek at our apartment door. He was carrying a suitcase, about to close the door.

I blocked him immediately.

"Derek, where are you going?"

"Back to my mom’s."

The answer reassured me, and I breathed a sigh of relief, but my body was still trembling.

"Then what about my dinner?"

"You said you could eat at your mom’s, or order takeout."

"Who will do the housework?"

"You can order a dishwasher and a robot vacuum."

These were all things I’d said before.

The words I once used to tell Derek he wasn’t important now came back to stab me like a boomerang, as if he was reminding me that the truly unimportant one was me.

When we rushed to get the marriage license, I saw other couples with bouquets, veils, photographers—I felt nothing.

Couples posed by the city hall flag, parents snapping photos on iPhones, some grandma dabbing her eyes with a Dunkin’ napkin. After we got the two blue marriage certificates, I took a photo and posted it on Instagram.

Derek said he wanted to take me to meet his mother.

I frowned, unwilling: "Modern marriage—no need to meet the parents, right?"

Derek said nothing.

But my mom saw the post first, called, and told me to bring my husband home so she could see what kind of guy tricked me into marriage.

Derek bought some cigarettes, tea, fruit, but my dad threw them all out.

"Get out, you swindler! Trick my daughter like this, I’ll beat you to death!"

That was the first time I stood up for Derek.

I stood in front of him, even blushing at my father, whom I’d always feared.

"I’ve already married him. If you hadn’t interfered, I’d be the bride on Chris’s invitation now."

"But you can’t just get married without knowing anything—marriage isn’t a joke!"

I couldn’t be bothered to argue, picked up the gifts thrown at the door, and signaled Derek to leave.

But I saw a man’s pride shatter.

His shoulders slumped, the light in his eyes dimmed. I pulled Derek into the elevator, gently comforting him: "My dad’s just like that, don’t feel pressured. I don’t want a dowry, don’t want gold, don’t want a car or house."

These are all things men can’t refuse when getting married, but it seems I put a price tag on this marriage from the start.

Derek said nothing. I didn’t know what he was thinking.

Soon, I found out—he took me to buy jewelry.

The mall was crowded, the air heavy with perfume and popcorn. Derek seemed more excited than me, only picking pretty ones, not caring about the price.

In this story of marrying first and loving later, had he already started enjoying it?

I was speechless.

In one afternoon, Derek bought me jewelry and lots of new clothes, but didn’t buy himself a single thing.

Derek isn’t from here, so his house was rented.

"Let’s go, pack your things and come to my place."

My house was the condo my dad bought me before I ever met Derek. Derek’s arrival just added another tenant.

That was the beginning of our marriage.

Except for the day we got the license, when Derek took a day off, he went to work and lived as usual.

He handled all the cooking and housework, never letting me touch a thing.

Of course, I wouldn’t anyway.

We seemed to have had some happy times too.

Every morning he spent forever in the bathroom, so I called him a golden retriever—saying he could clog the toilet in record time.

He loved fried chicken, and when he ate, his head would twist at a funny angle.

He’d take me to watch horror movies, then see me dive into his arms in fright—that was me pretending.

Sometimes we’d take the stairs for exercise, and when I was behind him, I liked to smack his butt and do the old "poke" prank.

So whenever he saw me, he’d cover his butt.

He didn’t have any special hobbies, liked to look at cars, and if there was nowhere to go on a date, he’d take me to a dealership for test drives.

The BMW M2 he liked was bought for him by my dad, at my request, on his birthday.

He was so happy that day, he cried.

I told him, "See? You’re living the American dream, modern-marriage edition."

At Chris’s wedding, I brought Derek with me.

The church was packed, sunlight streaming through stained glass, making everyone look a little softer. Chris wasn’t as tall or as handsome as Derek, but he was the one I loved most.

Seeing the beautiful woman beside him, I pretended to be over it, holding Derek’s arm and greeting them.

When they read their vows, I cried like a mess.

Mascara streaked my cheeks, and Derek squeezed my hand under the pew. Derek held my hand and comforted me softly, "I’ll give you a better one."

I shook my head. If the one beside me wasn’t Chris, I had no desire for a wedding.

You can get married many times, but you only get one wedding.

Anyway, men don’t yearn for a perfect wedding.

Derek’s insistence made me feel powerless, even stirred up my stubbornness.

Fine, let’s just get divorced.

I’ll wait for him to regret it and beg me.

I watched the rain streak the window and wondered if I’d just let the best thing in my life slip right through my fingers.