Chapter 5: The Courthouse Wedding

I didn't wake up until noon, sunlight streaming through my floor-to-ceiling windows.

The bed was empty, sheets still warm. I sat up and rolled my neck, hearing it crack like bubble wrap.

Recalling last night, it was like a spring dream—too perfect to trust—like finding a Rolex at Goodwill.

My waist was even a bit sore, and there were scratches on my back that stung in the shower.

Natalie was in the living room, wearing only one of my Yale t-shirts, her beautiful legs long and fair against my leather couch.

"Do you have your driver's license with you?"

She looked at me with a hint of confusion on her face, holding a cup of coffee she'd made in my Nespresso machine.

I leaned down and circled her in my arms, smelling the fragrance in her hair—my shampoo, but better on her.

She widened her eyes slightly, beautiful clear eyes with a watery shine, like morning dew.

"I'll take you to get a license later, the kind where you can drink at my place for a lifetime."

I wasn't drunk at all now. Sober as a judge passing sentence. And the verdict was in.

My heart was pounding, unprecedentedly intense and fast, like I'd just run a marathon.

An hour later.

I walked out of the City Hall holding Natalie's hand with one hand, tightly gripping two marriage certificates with the other, still in slight disbelief. Like I'd won the lottery but kept checking the numbers, waiting for someone to say it was a misprint.

"All done, the legal kind." I held up the documents like they were winning lottery tickets.

Natalie met my gaze and smiled slightly: "Being tricked by you like this, I feel somewhat unwilling. What about our wedding? I always dreamed of something more than a courthouse ceremony."

I couldn't help but smile too, pressing her into my arms: "We'll make up for everything. We'll shut down the Yale Club if you want. Hell, we'll buy it."

These past few days Natalie and I selected wedding rings at Cartier, tried on wedding dresses at Kleinfeld, discussed wedding details with the wedding planner from the St. Regis.

Watched sunrises and sunsets together from my apartment balcony, talked under the starry sky on my building's rooftop deck.

She and I were exceptionally in sync, both wanting to hold the wedding in the desert—maybe Scottsdale or Palm Springs, somewhere completely different from the stuffy New England traditions.

So we just did it. Booked flights, called venues, acted like kids who'd just inherited their trust funds and wanted to blow it all on love.

We began planning how to arrange the wedding venue. She quickly sketched out a scene with pen on white paper—she'd minored in art at Yale, it turned out.

At this time, my phone rang again:

"Hello? Is this Mr. Chen? The custom suit has arrived at the store. When would you be free to come to the store?"

I asked confused:

"What suit?"

The other end was obviously stunned for a moment, then began explaining in that careful tone salespeople use with big spenders:

"A few days ago Miss Turner came to the store to custom order a suit for you. She left your phone number, said to have you come pick it up when it's ready. It's the three-piece in midnight blue wool."

I secretly glanced at Natalie, covered the phone and walked to the balcony, closing the sliding door behind me.

"I don't know about this. Please contact Miss Turner directly. Don't call me again, thank you."

What was Rachel Turner doing? Still playing the devoted fiancée?

When did I ask her to custom order a suit for me? When did she ever care what I wore? She only noticed my clothes when they didn't photograph well at her Instagram events.

At this time, Rachel Turner called again, her ringtone—Taylor Swift, of course—filling the air:

"Hello? Michael, why haven't you contacted me for days? I've been calling your office."

"Stop making a fuss. This time I spent a lot of money to get the designer from Savile Row to personally design a suit for you. Go pick it up tomorrow. It's for the engagement party photos."

Then her tone became impatient, like she was instructing her personal shopper at Bergdorf's:

"That's enough already. Our two families are having dinner this weekend at the country club to discuss the wedding date."

"Don't give me a sour face then! You know how your mother gets when you're moody."