Page 37 of This Might Hurt

JUDE

I had never hitchhiked in my life before Lena’s accident.

Growing up in a close-knit, conservative town, everyone taught me hitchhiking was a Very Bad Thing, tantamount to some kind of deadly sin.

People who hitch rides deserve to inevitably be kidnapped and murdered, because what kind of degenerate would mess up their life so badly that they had to stand by a dirty road with their thumb out?

The first time I tried it, I approached a friendly, middle-aged female trucker.

Even then I spent the whole drive with one hand on the door latch, watching my life flash before my eyes.

To my surprise, I was neither murdered nor smote with heavenly lightning.

Andrew’s fixed stare hasn’t changed since I fell asleep, eyes locked on the back of the pickup truck in front of us with no acknowledgement that I’m even here.

The radio station I chose must have gone out of range at some point, but he didn’t touch it.

He’s been listening to nothing but static for at least an hour.

I’m not worried about this part of the plan, but even my chest clenches when I spot the green road sign pointing us toward the Park County Courthouse Parking.

The medium-sized lot is so full there’s only one spot left in the corner, which Andrew grimly cuts off two people to claim.

Turning off the engine, he lets out a long, shaky breath that ends on a low groan.

The back of his neck looks sweaty, and he keeps rubbing it.

“Relax,” I murmur. I want to touch him, because he went so calm last night under my hands, but he told me very clearly we were done with that.

I asked him to pretend he wanted more from me than bad ideas and a gun, and he did.

He pretended so fucking well. Now this is his show and I need to get over myself.

“Why is it so goddamn busy?” he croaks, his eyes darting across all the cars. “What are they doing here?”

“Same thing as us, probably.”

“Can I pay them to help us first? How much?”

I drag my hood up around my ears and watch Andrew wrestle on a very expensive-looking black windbreaker.

“Don’t. They might get offended and call the police or something.

But they run these things like a deep-fat fryer, right?

In you go, three minutes later you're all crispy and married and out the door.”

He shoots me a look that tells me he doesn’t appreciate anything I’m saying right now.

Pressing my lips together, I climb out of the car and flinch as the rain instantly soaks through my hoodie and runs down my bare legs.

As we cross a grassy park toward the tall brick courthouse, I count an impressive number of Stetsons on display in the crowd moving up and down the steps.

I’m lucky I left my backpack in the car, because a bored-looking guard checks our IDs before asking us to empty our pockets into a pile of plastic bowls and waving us through a flimsy metal detector.

Andrew balks at throwing his Patek into something that looks like it was made to hold dog food.

The guard starts to get annoyed until he actually sees the watch, then goes kind of pale and starts speaking a lot more respectfully.

They shuffle me through the metal detector while the guard runs a wand over Andrew.

It didn’t strike me until now that he’s probably never gotten herded through security checkpoints like a bunch of cattle.

From the way he stops and stares at the packed lobby, he’s never been forced to wait in line with a hundred random commoners, either.

I scan the three open desks and point at the one with the shortest line.

“Over there.” He seems frozen, so I lead the way and open up a path for him with my body.

To be fair, the sheer noise and number of bodies packed into a too-small space is a lot even for me.

We shouldn’t have shown up at midday on a Saturday when the rain is driving everyone inside.

Andrew compacts his wide frame into a pitifully small space and stares at the floor between his feet with his hands balled up into fists and tucked under his armpits.

I try to do research on my phone for Ramona’s new bicycle-themed library display, but I can’t stand watching his tiny scraps of confidence disappear.

Finally I hook an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into me so that I’m blocking him from everything—the kids trying to play toy horses on the floor while everyone trips on them, the couple arguing behind us about a lot of things that suggest they’re even less qualified to be getting married today than we are.

Then I go back to reading my phone with my free hand.

Andrew stiffens, his whole body rigid like he wants to pull away.

After a minute, his muscles ease up and he drops his forehead against my shoulder and goes still.

Whenever the first person in line finishes, I shuffle us a foot closer to the front until it’s our turn.

He jerks his head up when I poke him gently in the side and approaches the counter without looking at me.

“Hi, we’re here to get married. It’s very urgent.

” Even with his day-old clothes and fluffy, rain-mussed hair, the way he talks to people is intoxicating.

Polite but commanding, so effortlessly charismatic that you’d never guess what a stick-up-the-ass brat he can be.

“What’s the fastest possible way to do this? ”

The young guy behind the counter glances between incredulously.

I’m not sure if it’s because we’re both men or because Andrew’s giving off the vibe that if someone doesn’t help him quickly, he’s about to go full Karen.

“There’s only one way, sir. Please fill out these forms so we can issue a license, then bring it back with your IDs.

You can use the empty counter over there. ”

I’ve lost so many parts of my old life that I’m worried I might forget something important for the forms, but it’s easy stuff—family names, place of birth.

I scribble it all in and then watch Andrew finish his.

His middle name is Graham, he was born in New York City, and he’s a Scorpio.

When he looks up from signing his name, I show him a tab on my phone, some purple astrological-themed website with more pop-up ads than text.

“It says here Leos and Scorpios can make the most unbeatable power couple, but we’re pretty much guaranteed to kill each other first.”

One eyebrow quirks and he grabs my form away. “It’s like they fucking met us.” Before I can answer, he cuts the entire line to give the forms back. I follow him, mouthing sorry at the people behind us.

The clerk glances at our work, comparing it to our driver’s licenses, then shrugs.

“It takes about fifteen minutes for us to process these, so go get your two witnesses and wait near that door all the way on the right.” He points toward a short hallway where a cluster of jittery couples are waiting, the girls holding flowers and wearing delicate dresses, the guys in suits or at least collared shirts.

“Two witnesses?” I hear Andrew echo weakly. Shit.

“Great, thanks.” I catch the sleeve of his windbreaker and drag him through the crowd and out the front door. Everyone’s standing huddled under the edge of the roof as water drips off the eaves.

“I forgot about witnesses,” Andrew rambles. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I guide him to an empty spot along the wall and stand facing him with my hands on his shoulders.

“Look at me.” I have to say it twice before the tone of my voice pulls his panicked gaze to mine.

He brought me here to be the tough one, so I decide to take a risk.

Even if I’m wrong, it can’t make things much worse.

“You chose this, so pull yourself the fuck together. Remember what I told you? We have to improvise, think fast, roll with the punches. You told me you could do that.”

His dazed eyes widen a little. “I lied.”

“I know, but it’s too late now.”

He curls his fingers tight in the front of my damp hoodie. “This is insane. I’m so fucked if I do this. I was too angry to care, but now…”

“You’re still mad,” I tell him, fighting not to put my hand on his neck. “You just have to find it again.”

He lowers his head, his hair right in my face, and pulls my hoodie tighter. “Make me, Jude. Tell me this will be worth how much it’s going to hurt.”

I can’t. I know nothing about his family, what they’re going to do. But I’m certain about one thing. “I’ll let you quit if you can look in my eyes and tell me out loud that going home and marrying that fuck is better than this.”

He sucks in a breath, glancing up at me, then rests his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“Okay,” I offer, when he’s had plenty of time to process. “I’ll fix this one for you if you promise to stop looking for reasons to give up. Deal?”

His soft, auburn eyebrows furrow in confusion, but he nods once and lets go of me, trying to smooth the wrinkled cotton flat.

I slide my hand around to his back pocket and steal his wallet, then search through it and pull out a couple of fifties and hundreds, the way a normal person carries ones and fives.

I give it back to him and tuck the money in my shorts pocket, trading it for my box of Luckies.

“Light me up,” I demand, sticking one between my lips.

Immediately, like his body knows before his brain, he takes my lighter out of his jeans and holds up the flame for me. “Thank you.”

Pretending I can’t feel his eyes on my back, I jog out into the rain and scan the people trying to hang out and eat under the shelter of the trees. I want the perfect mix of friendly, bored, and broke. In the end, I go for a middle-aged couple in casual clothes who are also smoking.