}{

They make an unholy escape out the side door. She takes off her heels to run, holds her shoes in one hand and his fingers in the other. The grass is still wet in patches, the leaves unfurling above them in brittle greens. The day is filled with fat white clouds in a low-slung discolored sky. This is the part, she thinks, where they run away and don't look back.

Once they pass Market Street, they slow to a walk. It's a Saturday and kitschy shops selling ocean-themed décor, emblemed t-shirts and wind chimes fly bright flags, signaling one long line of open doors. A mini water park on the right has kids shrieking on three-foot log rides and eating ice pops before lunch. A bride and groom shuffle along barefoot, hands a small bridge between them, veil trailing behind as an afterthought. The few passersby point and wave. When they round the corner to Which Wich Sandwiches, a man eating soup at the window gives them a thumbs-up.

"You wanna enlighten me?” Pam says, as they graze the sidewalk and then cross the road. “We're on Main Street. Shouldn't we go more incognito?”

“Hotel's only another block. Come on.”

He's sort of breathless, the way he gets when he has a plan and knows what he's doing and is really excited about it. He looks over at her and smiles, then tugs her arm along. His hair is mussed.

“I know we're romantically running away and all but.” She pauses to catch her breath. “Did you actually plan for something like this? Can't I know where we're running to?”

“You should put your shoes on.”

“Jim. Are you taking me to the hotel? We are so not going to do it while everyone else is waiting for us to get married!”

“Ouch. Beesly. Did you really think I'd stoop so low? Trust me on this one.”

They reach the hotel and find the car parked out front. Someone's already begun the post-reception car festivities, most likely Pete or Tom. Their back window is scrawled with “SHE GOT HIM TODAY – HE'LL GET HER TONIGHT! JUST BURIED!”

“What the hell?” Pam says. “What does that even mean?”

“Annnnd that would be my delightful brothers. Hop into this classy ride.”

“No border-crossing. Seriously, where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

“But you really planned this?”

“I might have done a little back-up research. You know, just in case.”

She rolls her eyes at him.“You crazy. Only because I love you am I letting you do this.”

He looks over at her in the passenger seat and she's gleeful, bare feet manicured petal pink and propped on the dashboard, window half open. She's closed her eyes against the sea breeze and for once she's wearing some white shimmery stuff on her lids and she's glowing, she's just gorgeous. She bites a lower lip to keep from grinning too hard. They turn the radio up loud and past the ports it's just music and silence and some kind of radiant happiness that seems to be plaguing them both. Pam can't remember the last time she felt so rebellious and it's scary and invigorating and really, she thinks, how else would they have gotten married?

}{

She leans over the dashboard where the air seems made of salt, trying to catch the view. Against a dock is a small ferry with its stretched canvas top and the words “Maiden of the Mist” painted blue against the hull.

“Okay, this is seriously cool. Babe don't we need tickets for something like this?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He adjusts his cut tie from the driver's seat, then pulls two stubs from his wallet.

“No way. No way!”She pulls him lightly by his collar, kissing him not-so-lightly over the divider. “That's it, I decided. I love you.”

“Well that's good. Cause I think...we might be getting married today.”

“Were. We blew that church off.”

He cups a hand around her jaw. “Actually, we're going to do both. Hopefully.”

“Your scheming is starting to scare me a little bit. I figured we were just getting some fresh air.”

The boat pulls away to puffs of steam, reminding her of Titanic. They've worked their way up to the bow, where water funnels in a point. He looks ridiculously cute in his blue poncho, tux still visible through the plastic. She pulls his hood over his hair, which points comically upward. The hemline of her dress is already wet, sullied with a few dirt streaks. She's decided, after the ripped veil and the ripped scrotum and everything else, she just doesn't care. She holds his hand instead, feeling the warmth of his chest as she caves to his solid frame. The baby is kicking and she snakes his hand around her belly so he can feel the flutters of their unborn, who Jim, as of four weeks ago, affectionately calls 'food monster'.

“Great idea, almost-husband.”

“You like it?”

She nods. She wants to cry. That he would do this for her, aside from all the wedding stuff, is beyond words. She feels the tears form in full and reaches up for another kiss. He smiles hard against her teeth and she knows without looking at him that he's just really happy.

“One problem though.”

“What's that?”

“I could really go for a hot dog right now.”

He laughs. “A...hot dog? No mustard on the dress.”

“They give you ponchos for a reason, Jim.”

“Right. Not for water protection at all.”

“Clearly, they're like adult-sized bibs. Made especially for people who wear wedding dresses.”

“How am I lucky enough to be marrying someone who is not only awesome but so smart? We're talking crazy amounts of poncho knowledge.”

“Shut up.”

“You do look great though.”

“Back 'atcha babe.”

}{

Later they get married.

Like official married, without the church and the pastor they hired, and the parents and cousins, and the office workers who came against better judgement. It's just them and the surf. How he got both of their rings, she doesn't know. How he decided to book a boat a month in advance is beyond her. But right now he's here and pulling a ring from a box. Right now he's telling her how much he loves her and how the longest wait of his life was the best thing he ever did, while the mist sprays and catches in their hair and their ponchos lay tangled and soaking at their feet.

She can't tell if he wipes at his eyes from the water in their faces or tears but she can tell he's crying by the way his words catch in his throat, the jolting sentences well-formed but lost in his grin. She quotes to him a line of her own, something she said once on a drunk night soon after the engagement: 'It's like you've basically put my heart in your stupid jello mould...that's how much I love you.' A remembered phrase, said often to embarrass her, she mixes it in with the things she loves the most. She's got a paper of vows waiting back at the church but she's makes them up here and it's better.

A captain is between them – he is certified right? Maybe? – asking them if they do. The words seem to be bursting at her lips. She wants to say them a million times over, so the tiny crowd that's gathered and has melted away before their eyes knows that no one could ever mean “I do” as much as she does. And then they're sliding on rings, clasping hands tightly and she's weeping without meaning to, feeling numb and explosive and solidly real, barely believing – This. Just. Happened. There are faint scatters of claps and whistles as he lifts her up and buries her face with his own. She tucks herself into his neck and then raises a left hand in the air so she can see how it fits. The simple diamond blends with the sparkles of a misty lavender sky.

“We just got married,” he whispers muffled in her ear, like she had no idea.

“I know,” she says. “I know. I know. I know! In front of a freaking waterfall.”

“Wait, are we sure that was real? Was he like, qualified?”

“I don't know. Didn't we get a little piece of paper?”

She kicks her bare feet with glee and he spins them around. The sun is breaking the sky. He puts her down and she leans against his shoulder, closing her eyes. She is, she thinks, on a boat with her husband. The hot dog didn't settle so well but she's trying to ignore it. He plants a kiss against her temple.

“Hey. Wanna do it again?”

“The whole married thing?”

She thinks of the church they left behind, of everyone waiting and knows the boat is turning around. She knows she'll have to listen to her mom babble on about Christy's tight pink dress and the reasons why skin-sucking fabric isn't good for women over forty. Michael will most definitely up-stage the reception speeches. The raspberry vanilla cake they ordered will inevitably be shoved into her face. They could go get married on a donkey, for all she cares. As long as it's Jim she's set. Right now, she thinks, she'll never need anyone else.

“Absolutely I do,” she says.

She ignores him.“I'll marry you a hundred times, Halpert. Just tell me where to be.”

“There's a third scheduled for the Puerto Rican airport lounge.”

“Two's enough.”

But she imagines them standing next to baggage claim, attempting to vow in Spanish and it sounds about right. They'll just have to wait until the honeymoon.