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We grin at each other.
“But . . . ,” I say, sobering.
“Yes?”
“But the better part of me hopes that after all that misery they do get their private moment to say their I-do’s and go on to have a nice life together. I really do.”
His temple creases with a smile. “I know you do. For what it’s worth, you are a good sister and a remarkably thoughtful human being. You deserve the same kind of happiness you wish to bestow on them.”
I feel myself warm at his words, from the tips of my toes to the tips of my ears.
“Even so,” he adds, “I don’t think they’ll make it to the altar.”
My smile falls. “What?”
He levels his gaze. “Savannah. The man tries to take you couch shopping. He picks you up to go give blood. He brings you flowers on Valentine’s Day. Do you really think that is typical brother-in-law behavior?”
He opens his door, letting the conversation transition to a natural end, neither needing nor wanting a response. But he’s not right, I want to say as I sit there in the cab of the suddenly silent truck. Those flowers weren’t from him at all. They were from Sam. But then . . . I don’t want to share that fact either.
“That’s not fair,” I respond, throwing open my door, refusing to give up. “How do you know I don’t have a boyfriend?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he says from across the bed of the truck, although, in asking, he acts as though he already knows the answer is no.
What is this?
Do I look like a girl who just can’t have a boyfriend? Is there really something so obvious about me that would lead him to believe, Savannah Cade. Ah, yes. She never dates.
“Well, no,” I say a bit begrudgingly. I shut the door, and it slams with surprising force.
We walk in through the back side of the building and stop at the elevator halfway down the hall. The black-and-white tile floor looks scuffed from an endless flow of traffic, the old halls still carrying that ever-present scent of bleach water and bills. Is the courthouse always this crowded? A number of people I notice are stopping to read the map of the building along one wall, and we join a cluster of at least ten people beside the elevator.
“Anyway,” I say, tilting my chin upward as we squeeze in with the group and Will hits the button for the second floor, “I have a suggestion for staff meetings.”
“Yes?” he prompts, holding his binder of papers in front of him. Beside him, a handsy couple start going to town. My eyes widen, and I quickly avert my gaze.
But they’re not alone, I realize. A woman to my left grabs a bald man by his ruddy cheeks and pulls him in. What on earth is going on?
I can’t help it. I catch Will’s face, which looks as uncomfortable and surprised as my own, and let out a noiseless giggle.
The couple beside him change positions with their hands, and the woman’s elbow knocks into the back of Will’s head.
“So,” Will says, squeezing his arms as close to his chest as possible to avoid touching the couple. “Staff meetings.”
“Right,” I say, my eyes mirthful. “So. Everyone on salary”—I spot a roving elbow and dodge it before it rams my face—“needs to get Friday afternoons”—oh dear, the couple beside him has started slow dancing—“off in the summer.”
The number two lights up, and the doors open.
We spill into the hall.
Only this floor is just as crowded. Paper hearts are strung across the ceiling all the way down the hall. Music is playing through speakers. And there is a string of couples leading all the way to one particular door at the end of the hall.
Are those rose petals on the floor?
“As you were saying . . . ,” Will says, clearly trying to pretend he has not walked us into this madness.
“Yes,” I continue, moving aside to let a woman and the long white train of her wedding dress pass. “As I was saying . . . everybody else in the industry does it. We should too. Denying us the choice just makes us feel like a baby company clearly not up to par with the publishers in the big leagues. It’ll boost our self-respect.”
“And give everyone the chance to catch Friday matinees,” he counters, clearly unamused as he pushes a string heart from his face. When I just reply with a look, he adds, “I’ve never understood that industry norm. It’s just an excuse for New Yorkers to beat the traffic on their weekends out of town.”
