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“Well, whether the rule was made for vacationing in the Hamptons or not, we deserve it. We are just as qualified, just as hardworking, and after the year we’ve all had, I can’t think of a better proposition to lift everyone’s spirits.”

I can see he’s mulling it over.

“You don’t think productivity would be affected?”

I smile, sensing a victory ahead. “I guarantee it won’t.”

We take three more steps forward in line. Then another two, before he finally puts out a hand. “If—and that’s a big if—everyone can do the same load of work in four-and-a-half-day weeks, then I’ll agree to afternoons off from June 1 to the final week in August. But I’m going to monitor production, and I won’t hesitate to pull back if the company starts to suffer.”

I grab his hand and shake so swiftly it startles him. “Deal.”

A man separates momentarily from a rather firm squeeze his fiancée is giving him and points at our handshake. “See, Delilah? That’s all we need to do. Shake hands on it and be done.”

The woman, presumably Delilah, shakes her head from her perch by his side, her arms wrapped around him like a koala gripping its tree. “No, Danny. For the thousandth time, we make this official or I’m out. And taking the TV.”

Ah. True love.

I go over a few more items with Will, and while none of the others garner such quick agreement, I make fair headway regarding limited parking spots, the weird smell in the women’s bathroom, the illogical and potentially harmful nature of creating ARC spines that don’t reflect the same color and nature of the final product—particularly given that 95 percent of the time the books are spine out in the bookstores—and the thermostat that is perpetually five degrees too low.

Finally, after at least one dozen brides have left the county clerk’s office clinging to their newly betrothed—or, in one case, watching one woman stalk out alone, dumping her bouquet in the hall trash can as her would-be spouse chases after her—we arrive at room 206. At last.

“Should I . . . ?” I hesitate, feeling suddenly uncomfortable about going in. But between standing in the back of the room watching him get papers notarized and standing out in the marriage madhouse subjected to an incredible overexposure of public affection and tulle, my preference is written across my face.

“Sure,” he says, “This should just take a minute.”

So, together, we step inside.

It’s an unassuming office. A single window with dusty blinds slit open to reveal a row of windows on the back side of another building. But where there were scattered petal droppings in the hall outside, in here it looks like a florist exploded in the dead of night. Rose petals cover the walkway between the doorway and the man’s desk like a red sea. Bouquets of fake roses sit on every available table space. The clerk across from us wears a single carnation corsage on the front of his old beige button-up.

He registers us coming in and stands, not really looking at us directly but at the stack of papers on his desk. “Stand here, please.”

“Uh, right,” Will says and shuffles uncertainly forward, raising his papers. Being always the squeaky-clean kid I am, I follow without question. “So—”

“Hold your questions to the end.” The man clears his throat. Then with one bony finger he hits the Play button on an ancient cassette player on the table. Suddenly, an organ booms “The Wedding March” through the speaker.

I feel instant hysteria rising in my chest, sort of like acid reflux that sizzles against the rib cage. I press my lips tightly together as I glance over at Will. One look, however, only makes it worse. His usual cool persona has instantly collapsed, and his neck above his trim-fitting suit coat looks like it’s been out in the sun for twelve hours without sunscreen. In Bermuda.

“Dearly beloved,” the clerk says, reading from a paper on his desk, “at this time of”—he checks his watch—“1:14 p.m. on Tuesday, February 14, 2021, we are pleased to gather this fine gentleman . . .” He raises his eyes and gives Will a meaningful look.

“Uh, William Pennington, but I think we have a misunderstanding. This is the clerk’s office, yes?”

“That’s correct. To gather this gentleman, William Pennington, with this young lady . . .” He pauses and this time turns to look at me properly for the first time.

By this time I’ve got two bright spots on my cheeks.

I’m just opening my mouth, my mind undecided on whether to give my name and let the ruse go on a little longer, when Will throws an arm out. “Sir, I’m here to get these notarized.”

“We will notarize your marriage certificate at the end. Please, if you haven’t noticed, there are quite a few couples we have to get through. So if you don’t mind to just follow my directions—”

“We are not here to get married!” Will booms. And as though he needs to emphasize the point, he takes a gigantic step away from me.

At this point I can’t help but throw my hands over my lips to keep from going into hysterics over the entire situation. The clerk swivels his gaze to me and, clearly misunderstanding my posture as being on the cusp of collapsing into tears, swallows hard.

He blinks, and his expression shifts to one of compassion.

He clears his throat. Opens a drawer and pulls out a pamphlet. “Actually, we have a room today for these little ‘moments.’ If you could just go down to 212, you’ll find a safe space to talk it over, and then”—he slants a meaningful look at me—“depending on how things go, you may get back in line if you wish. We recommend perusing this packet as well,” he adds, pushing it into my hands. I look down to an enormous stock photo of a ticking clock, with the words above: WHY WAIT?

Pressing my lips very, very hard together so as not to disrespect him by laughing at his kind offer, I pull my face into the most respectably peaceful expression I can manage and nod in gratitude.