More Than a Hotline Fling

-44-

Juneau's POV

Damian and I got married at the cemetery.

Correction: legally, we got married at the New York City Marriage Bureau, where we waited in a DMV-like crowd queue longer than the actual civil ceremony. The grayed front of the federal-style building stood out among the skyscrapers that towered around it. Hand-in-hand, we climbed the front steps with a late spring breeze at our backs.

Damian's entire body relaxed when I told him I didn't want a traditional wedding ceremony. Adam and Vaughn's wedding, as elegant and intricate and oozing opulence, overwhelmed me with its detailed planning.

Since our wedding meant closing one chapter of our lives, which both of us sorely needed, and opening another, neither of us wanted to wait long. This was a relative term, enough time for Damian to secure a day off work and for me to make the necessary preparations.

In other words, we waited six weeks.

Despite never being more sure of a decision in my life Damian's eyebrows raised once we passed through security and waited first-come, first-serve in a herd of other excited couples. "You sure?"

"We already filled out the application and paid the license fee," I teased, threading my fingers between his. "Beyond sure."

I sat back in my bench seat, skimming over the other couples. All ages and genders were present, including same-sex couples, in clothes ranging from business-suit attire to sweatpants to full wedding attire. The vibe was a mix of impatient knee bounces, loving glances, and happy spirits.

My fingers shook this morning when they trailed over the trunk at the end of our bed. The brown leather, worn with age, offered a smooth contrast to the sturdy brass accents. The locks chilled the pads of my fingers, which I opened with a click.

The smell of stale, aged air hit me first, followed by layers of folded white lace. While I loved the idea of wearing the dress exactly as my mother had last worn, it had yellowed armpit stains and stunk. And, since my ass was wider than hers, I had it tailored. My nerves were frayed the twenty-four hours it was professionally cleaned but it returned to me a brilliant, brand-new white.

Design-wise, I had the obnoxious, puffy sleeves exchanged for see-through versions. The same transparent fabric ringed my neck, showing the heart-shaped bust line underneath and a trail of decorative buttons down the back. Once the layers of tulle underneath were removed, soft satin rested on my thighs.

I skipped wearing a veil, but Adam insisted I booked a hair salon appointment. Thanks to a lovely, flustered woman, Yvonne, my hair was half-pulled back by an army of bobby pins and soft curls trailed down my back. A wire baby's-breath piece with pearl inserts trailed through it, which I coordinated with Mom's pearl earrings and Damian's necklace from Christmas.

Damian looked mouth-watering in his dress uniform. He sat so stiff, I joked he forgot to remove his coat hanger. His brass reflected the yellow lights from the overhead globes, embedded within the off-white, coffered ceilings. My fingers trailed over the crisp navy blue on his shoulder, skimming down and tracing his last name.

Rivera. My new last name.

Tears pricked my eyes. When Damian's hand cupped my cheek, I assured him, "Happy ones."

"Let's get a City Hall picture," he suggested, which I nodded at.

Contrary to movies and television, New Yorkers didn't get married at City Hall. But the clerk's office had a wall mural of the white, federal-style building. We stepped into a small waiting queue, hand in hand. A few smiles graced us, including the man ahead of us thanking Damian for his service.