Fangirl_📦

“You don’t have to,” he replied. 

“I know,” she said. The room was half shadow and now it seemed like all of them had conspired to make it hard to read the expression in Hal’s eyes. She’d have to listen to his voice, pay attention to every other subtle gesture. 

Fortunately, she’d already been doing that.

“I don’t need you to, Katie,” he said. 

“I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you if you did,” she said.

“Yeah, you would’ve. But you’d be pissed about it and we’d fight. I don’t want to fight with you,” he said.

“I think you actually like fighting with me, but I know you don’t need me to change my name,” she said. His hand moved from her shoulder to cup her jaw. She knew he’d never be so direct examining anyone else. It was its own intimacy, a kind of vulnerability they rarely found when they fucked.

“Why?”

“A couple of things—it’ll be easier, being posted together, we won’t have to explain as much. There won’t be revelations and surprise, it’ll be ordinary. I don’t want to deal with hyphens, I don’t want to sound like a law firm in Toledo that specializes in personal injury claims. It’s easier to spell, that’s almost worth it by itself. My family won’t care, my brothers both already have kids, and it’s my father’s last name, we’re not close—”

“And this isn’t a case of the lady doth protest too much?” Hal said. There it was, that very slight softness in his tone, the way he said the lady. He wasn’t sure she wanted any of it, his name, his hand, a wedding, a life. She turned her cheek into his palm, let her lashes drop for a second, then looked back at him.

“You said you wanted to marry me. I want to be Kate Wyler. It’s simple,” she said.

Hal took his hand from her face and used it to flip them, the sheet tangling a little around their legs. Now he was over her, her thighs spread to make space for him. He moved his hips, a reminder of what they’d done, what they were about to do. He was bigger than her but it wasn’t as noticeable until they were together this way and she liked it. She liked that he knew and didn’t make any comments about it. 

“This is simple,” he said, rocking his hips again, bending his head to kiss her throat, tonguing her pulse. “The marriage won’t be. Kate Wyler won’t be.”

“You still want it?” Kate asked, shifting below him. Putting one hand on the curve of his ass, the other at the nape of his neck.

“Yeah. I’ll always want it,” he said.

“You think my name is John? Or Ignatius?” he said. He did that thing with his eyebrows that shouldn’t have been so hot but it was or maybe it was just a normal thing and she found everything he did hot. Some of it was empirically hot, that move he had with his left hand when she’d already come once was unequivocally incendiary, but right now they were sitting in the corner of the café-slash-bar everyone hung out at, nursing whiskeys and a poll of the straight women and gay men in the room would not necessarily have come down on her side re: his eyebrows.

“I mean, not now, because you didn’t make a face like I got it right and you’re forced to eat your words,” she said.

“You’d like that,” he said.

“Sometimes,” she said. 

“Well, you’re not close, I’ll tell you that,” he said. He took another sip of the whiskey. She didn’t really like how it tasted, but it tasted better on his lips. She could stop messing around and cut to the chase.

“Your father was a huge nerd and nicknamed you Hal after 2001,” she said.

Hal laughed, loud enough to draw attention anywhere that people paid attention to loud laughter or any dramatic emotional expression, which wasn’t this bar.

“This is very amusing, but I have to say, you’re getting colder. I don’t think my father ever watched a movie for fun, not that he would have enjoyed 2001,” Hal said.

“Halberd. Hallelujah, Halloween,” she said. She did a little head toss because she thought, given the expression in his eyes and the fact that he’d glanced at her lips and her boobs a second time, that she could get away with it. This might be the one night of her life when she was a successful coquette and she was going to run with it.

“I hate to see you get it so wrong but I do appreciate the effort you’re putting into it,” he said.

“I can go all night,” she said.

“So can I,” he replied and the blatant innuendo, in contrast to his usual restraint, made her dizzy. And stupid.

“Oh yeah?” she said.

“Yeah, and I’d rather, so I’ll tell you but you have to promise to keep it a secret,” he said. A secret, said in that intimate tone, the curve of his lips nearly a smile.

“Cross my heart,” she said, letting her forefinger drag at the neckline of her top. 

She counted it a victory that he had to pause for a second.

“Hallam,” he said.

“Hallam?”

He shrugged, a colossally elegant gesture that made her want to literally jump his bones.

“My mother liked Tennyson. She would have made a good English teacher. She was a frustrated housewife who never found a pot roast she couldn’t burn,” he said.

“I guess I’m ignorant, what does Hallam have to do with Tennyson?” Kate said. She’d majored in politics, minored in econ, took the required freshman writing class and a class generally referred to as “Kiddie Lit” with her best friend Jill. What she knew about Tennyson could fill whatever tiny fancy teaspoon British aristocrats used for caviar. 

“Arthur Hallam was Tennyson’s best friend. He died young, Tennyson wrote In Memoriam about him, named his son after him. My mother thought it was touching. I thought it was silly, embarrassing, shortened it to Hal with my friends. Never looked back,” Hal said.

“Hallam,” Kate repeated. He’d just told her more about his family than she’d ever known. It wasn’t like she was going to call him Hallam in the throes of passion, but she liked the feel of the name in her mouth, the tenderness of it. The trust.

“My middle name is Liesl. My mom was kind of obsessed with The Sound of Music,” Kate said.

“So now we’re even,” Hal said.

“And we can get the hell out of here,” Kate replied.

“You think my name is John? Or Ignatius?” he said. He did that thing with his eyebrows that shouldn’t have been so hot but it was or maybe it was just a normal thing and she found everything he did hot. Some of it was empirically hot, that move he had with his left hand when she’d already come once was unequivocally incendiary, but right now they were sitting in the corner of the café-slash-bar everyone hung out at, nursing whiskeys and a poll of the straight women and gay men in the room would not necessarily have come down on her side re: his eyebrows.

“I mean, not now, because you didn’t make a face like I got it right and you’re forced to eat your words,” she said.

“You’d like that,” he said.

“Sometimes,” she said. 

“Well, you’re not close, I’ll tell you that,” he said. He took another sip of the whiskey. She didn’t really like how it tasted, but it tasted better on his lips. She could stop messing around and cut to the chase.

“Your father was a huge nerd and nicknamed you Hal after 2001,” she said.

Hal laughed, loud enough to draw attention anywhere that people paid attention to loud laughter or any dramatic emotional expression, which wasn’t this bar.

“This is very amusing, but I have to say, you’re getting colder. I don’t think my father ever watched a movie for fun, not that he would have enjoyed 2001,” Hal said.

“Halberd. Hallelujah, Halloween,” she said. She did a little head toss because she thought, given the expression in his eyes and the fact that he’d glanced at her lips and her boobs a second time, that she could get away with it. This might be the one night of her life when she was a successful coquette and she was going to run with it.

“I hate to see you get it so wrong but I do appreciate the effort you’re putting into it,” he said.

“I can go all night,” she said.

“So can I,” he replied and the blatant innuendo, in contrast to his usual restraint, made her dizzy. And stupid.

“Oh yeah?” she said.

“Yeah, and I’d rather, so I’ll tell you but you have to promise to keep it a secret,” he said. A secret, said in that intimate tone, the curve of his lips nearly a smile.

“Cross my heart,” she said, letting her forefinger drag at the neckline of her top. 

She counted it a victory that he had to pause for a second.

“Hallam,” he said.

“Hallam?”

He shrugged, a colossally elegant gesture that made her want to literally jump his bones.

“My mother liked Tennyson. She would have made a good English teacher. She was a frustrated housewife who never found a pot roast she couldn’t burn,” he said.

“I guess I’m ignorant, what does Hallam have to do with Tennyson?” Kate said. She’d majored in politics, minored in econ, took the required freshman writing class and a class generally referred to as “Kiddie Lit” with her best friend Jill. What she knew about Tennyson could fill whatever tiny fancy teaspoon British aristocrats used for caviar. 

“Arthur Hallam was Tennyson’s best friend. He died young, Tennyson wrote In Memoriam about him, named his son after him. My mother thought it was touching. I thought it was silly, embarrassing, shortened it to Hal with my friends. Never looked back,” Hal said.

“Hallam,” Kate repeated. He’d just told her more about his family than she’d ever known. It wasn’t like she was going to call him Hallam in the throes of passion, but she liked the feel of the name in her mouth, the tenderness of it. The trust.

“My middle name is Liesl. My mom was kind of obsessed with The Sound of Music,” Kate said.

“So now we’re even,” Hal said.

“And we can get the hell out of here,” Kate replied.