by Catherine Karp

George climbed into the trunk of a gold Lexus sedan and lay down, shifting around to check for comfort, scarcely having to bend his legs to fit.

"It's pretty roomy," he said, stretching out as far as possible.  He then climbed back out into the radiance of the dealership's nighttime lighting.  "I'm satisfied.  Do you want to take it on a test drive, love?"

I caught the salesman watching my fiancé with the type of amused semi-smile that indicated he half feared his nut-job customer.  "What are you, a member of the Mafia?" asked the fellow with a nervous chuckle.  "Seeing if you could fit dead bodies in there?"

"No."  George rubbed away the wrinkles on his button-down shirt.  "But you never know when you may need to sleep in your own trunk."

To my amazement, the salesman nodded as if these words made utter sense.  Perhaps it was George's Armani suit and no-nonsense tone of voice that persuaded him. 

*

Two weeks later, in the pre-dawn darkness, I found myself packing my suitcase next to George's in that very same car on the street in front of his apartment.  George lined the trunk with his body bag and six ice packs.

"What happens if I get pulled over?" I asked, straightening up after arranging our bags in the back seat.  "What if they want to look in the trunk?"

"Why would they want to look in the trunk?"

"What if my taillight has a problem?  Or if they think I'm hiding something from them?"

"You're not going to get pulled over, and no one is going to check your trunk."

"That's not a good enough answer."

"I don't know what else to tell you, Anise.  I can't ride through a desert I'm unfamiliar with during the time of night I'll need to be out drinking.  You've got to trust that everything will be all right."  He shut the trunk and wandered over to me, taking my hands.  "Okay?"

"Yes."  I sighed and dropped my shoulders.  "I still also worry you're going to die of heat exhaustion in that trunk."

"I told you I can absolutely guarantee that won't happen.  I'll be deep in my own version of sleep back there, but I'll be back after sunset no matter what I may look like before then.  Now, more importantly..."  He kissed the backs of my fingers.  "...do you have your new dress packed?"

"Yes."

"You've got everything you need?  Directions?"

"I think everything's ready."

"Good, then give me a kiss so I can climb in, then please go on up and get some good sleep before you're ready to take off."

He tried to soothe me with his lips, but a thousand worries still haunted me.  My attempts to kiss him in return with equal passion failed miserably.

"It's our wedding day, Anise."  He took my hands again and smiled.  "Everything will be fine."

*

I watched for highway patrol cars with obsessive intensity the entire trip, and, as frustrating as it was, I heeded the speed limits as best I could unless I was in a pack of other cars.  The Lexus's air conditioning pattered a cool breeze against my face and arms, but the stretch of empty highway ahead blurred with ripples of heat.  The skin on the back of my neck crawled with nervous sweat.

Please stay alive back there! I mentally willed to my fiancé.  Why does the desert have to be so damn hot?

By the time I crossed the state line into Nevada, where a roller coaster, casinos, and a barrage of restaurants offered an early taste of Vegas's garishness, I had convinced myself that I killed my undead future husband. 

*

George had asked me to go ahead and eat and change into my wedding dress before I fetched him from the car.  With grim thoughts of what I would find once I lifted the trunk, I sat alone in a vinyl burgundy booth, picking at a lobster tail at our hotel's all-you-can-eat buffet.  The young couple in the booth in front of me sat together on the same side and bobbed their heads to a Green Day song pumped out of the speakers overhead. 

Nice! I snarled inside my jealous mind.  A happy, ordinary pair that never has to worry about betrotheds lying dead in the trunk. 

The lining of my stomach boiled with uncomfortable acids.  New fears about George's current condition, like the possibility of spontaneous combustion, filled my head the longer I lingered there with that ugly, half-eaten lobster tail.  Could people like him spontaneously combust? I thought, even though I'd never read any such thing.  Is that something I should have been concerned about while cooking him in the back of my car?

To bide the time and distract myself from my worries before sunset--not due until at least another hour--I pulled my phone out of my satchel and took care of a conversation I had postponed long enough.

"Hi, Mom.  It's me."

"Well, hello stranger.  I was just trying to call you at home this morning.  Have you been out all day?"

"Yes...that's why I'm calling.  George and I have some news."

My mother paused before replying with an expectant "Yesss?"

"We're in Las Vegas."

"Yesss?"

"We're getting married tonight." 

I muffled the phone with my hand as an ear-piercing shriek shot through the other end of the line.  

"Dan!" I heard my mother squeal.  "Dan, get on the other phone!  Neesy has some news.  Oh, Anise, I'm so happy for you.  Is George there?  Can we talk to him?"

My father's husky voice piped up before I could answer.  "What's going on?"

"He's taking a nap.  It was a long trip."

"Have you known him long enough?" asked Dad.

"Why Vegas, Anise?" added Mom.  "We've always told you we'd help you with a nice wedding."

"We haven't even met him yet."

They continued assailing me with questions: When could they meet him?  Why hadn't I sent a picture of him?  Where would we be living?  What did his parents think?

"I've got to get going and get dressed.  Our reservation for the ceremony is at eleven o'clock and we still need to get the license at the courthouse."

"Take lots of pictures, sweetheart," begged Mom, whose voice now cracked with tears.  "Let us come out and visit you soon.  Tell us all about it when you get home."

"I will, Mom.  I've gotta go.  I love you both."

They lavished me with their own I love yous and continued to offer advice, congratulations...and warnings.  By the time I hung up, my head bulged with a headache that made my skull and neck sore.  I rubbed my temples and attempted to regain my breath, still horrified about what I would discover when I went to fetch George.  A strapless, tea-length, satin dress--ivory with a faint hint of blush--waited for me in a garment bag up in our room.  But I contemplated how macabre it would be to find my beloved dead of heat exhaustion while I myself was all gussied up like an overgrown Madame Alexander doll.  I remained in my shorts and T-shirt, even as I took the elevator to the parking garage at eight fifteen.

The gold Lexus sat in a row of other metallic-hued cars, its trunk scarcely visible among the hulking vans and SUVs that flanked it, but the sight of the bumper sent a volcanic rumble through my belly.  I drew my keys from my pocket, accidentally dropped them on the ground with a loud clank, and fumbled with slippery fingers when I picked them up and inserted them into the lock. 

While holding my breath, I hoisted up the trunk's door.

George peeked up at me, his face lit by a small reading light attached to a hardcover copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, recently purchased from Lindstrom's.  He had freed himself of the body bag and was curled on his side, looking as comfortable as if he were lounging on our bridal suite bed.

I covered my mouth and burst into tears.  "You didn't combust!  Oh, God!  Oh, thank God!" 

George scrambled out of the car, hitting his head on the trunk's opening, yet arriving by my side as swiftly as he could muster.  "What's wrong?" 

He rubbed my arms while trying to peer into my watery eyes.  "Why are you crying?"

"I thought you'd be dead," I sputtered, burying my face into his sweat-soaked shirt.  "I really thought you would be.  Just a regular dead guy."

"I'm fine.  I told you not to worry."

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.  "I just thought it was stupid of me to drag you through the desert in my trunk.  You've never even tried something like that, have you?  What were we thinking?"

"But I made it."  He held me close.  "And I'm thrilled to be here.  What time is it?"

"Eight fifteen or so."

"We should be showering and getting ourselves ready, then.  Have you eaten?"

"Yes," I said.  "What about you, though?  Are you going to have enough nourishment to do all of this?"

"I feel perfect.  Let's go get married."

The Vampire's Wife is represented by Barbara Poelle of The Irene Goodman Literary Agency.  For more information about Catherine Karp, please visit CatherineKarp.com or suburbanvampire.