Theo

I feel ridiculous sitting in a bridal suite, but here I am anyway.

It’s not like my husband-to-be-but-already-is hasn’t seen me in a white dress before. I wore a cute little swishy number one year ago to our courthouse rendezvous. But apparently this is tradition.

Remind me again why I signed up for this?

Oh right. Because I love my parents.

Orson and I promised we’d officially get married in the church, but we insisted on the smallest of ceremonies. Only immediate family and our closest friends. No engagement parties before. No big reception after. If we were going to do this, we were doing it our way.

Well, my way. If it were completely up to Orson, my mom’s sour face might have made him crumble on the spot. I held our ground for us.

So here I am in a dress.

I bet Orson won’t even care about my over-the-top wedding gown. He’ll get a bigger kick out of my slinky lingerie secretly beneath—a wedding present courtesy of the girls. Maybe I’ll get a breathy Christ, Theo when he sees the silk thong. I love it when he says stuff like that.

I miss my husband. And I’m stuck in this dang bridal suite without him.

The door creaks open. Kassandra walks in, eyeing the elegant bun on my head surrounded by tulips.

“Theo.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m gorgeous. My bodice is tight enough that I can barely breathe. I’ve got Spanx that have spanked my ass into submission, cups that give me enough cleavage to make Dad have another heart attack and legs that won’t quit. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s even church appropriate. I’ve been getting weird looks from Paula all morning. Plus, I’ve been standing in my one place for maybe thirty minutes, or an hour, who knows, because the train on this thing is perfectly wrapped around my ankles like a cocoon and Mom said if I move then I’ll trip over it.”

“That’s a lot of words,” Kass says. “You aren’t nervous, are you?”

“Nervous? For Orson?” I don’t have to finish the sentence. I just give her a pointed glance as if that’s one of the silliest things she could have said. “The only thing pushing me through this over-done ceremony is the sound of his voice at the end of that aisle.”

I really hope I get a hi, sweetheart. That’s my prize for all this pomp and circumstance.

Kass scoffs. “Of course you’re not nervous. Y’all are perfect.”

She rolls her eyes but then she grins. She’s been doing that more lately. I like that she seems happier, even if it does look devious in the process. I’m not sure she knows how to properly smile without some form of scowl behind it.

“Well, aren’t you happy?” I ask, hands held out. “You got what you wanted.”

“You in a wedding dress and standing on an altar for one hour just like the rest of us had to do?”

“Yes.”

“Jokes on me, then,” she says. “I have to stand for an hour too.”

“Call it revenge,” I jest with a smile.

When I asked my older sister to be my Koumbara—our equivalent of a Maid of Honor, which is understating it quite a bit—it was because she was meant to be that person for us. We could have asked Callie and Alex because having a couple is more traditional anyway. But I wanted Kass. I wanted the only person who understands how much this sacrifice means to me—to have a wedding when you never wanted one to begin with. Even if our reasons vary.

The door creaks open behind her and both our heads turn. A loose ringlet curl slaps me in the face, and I blow it back.

My dad is roughly shuffled in by the church’s coordinator, Paula, who asks me, “Nervous?”

“Nope!”

“Hmph.”

She doesn’t give me anything but a tight smile and a slammed door. I’m not sure why she looks stressed enough to be herding cats. We have a total of maybe ten people in this place. It’s probably the smallest wedding this cathedral has ever seen.

“Doesn’t she know not to shove a sick man?” Dad says with a slight smile.

Kass scoffs again—her go-to sound—before winding her hand through the crook of our Dad’s elbow and escorting him over to the low couch in the corner.

“You’re doing fine.” Her tone lacks empathy which only makes him smile wider.

Dad lowers on the couch with a heavy grunt. He’s only a month and a half healed from his surgery, and he’s doing everything he can to get back on his feet regularly but that doesn’t mean it’s not a struggle.

“I came with a message, Tomato,” Dad says.

“From who?”

“Your husband.”

I pull in an exaggerated gasp. “Is he chickening out?”

“Yep. Right out the door.”

“Oh. So, you two aren’t perfect. How refreshing,” Kass says.

Dad smiles. “He’s here. And I’ve never seen him happier.”

“Doesn’t he know he’s getting married?” I ask. “Y’know, I don’t think he got the memo about the whole being tied down thing.”

Dad laughs. “Maybe he did. Because he told me to tell you, ‘You got this, Captain.’ Mean anything?”

Instantly, my heart ramps up in my chest.

Last night when we sat in our den, my legs folded over his, Orson said, “I’m proud of you for doing this.”

I love it when he tells me that. It’s such a subtle thing, like just because he’s my partner doesn’t mean he can’t admire me or applaud my efforts. The world doesn’t deserve Orson Mackenzie. I’m not sure how I do.

“It means a lot to my parents,” I said, in way of excuse.

“I know. And your parents mean a lot to us.”

Us.

“What if I get nervous?” I ask.

“You won’t. You’re a captain, remember?”

“Okay, sure, of a fake theme park ride.”

“So?”

He patted my leg, running a palm over the length of my calves and playfully swatting at the newly painted toenails.

“These are cute. When did you get these done?”

“You weren’t supposed to see those until tomorrow,” I said, wiggling the toes.

“Why not?”

“They’re my bridal toes.”

“Ohh. Well, I’ll pretend I didn’t see them.”

Orson then proceeded to tuck my feet under the blanket, making sure to shape the fabric over each individual toe. I couldn’t stop laughing.

I look down now, shifting my foot out from below the skirt of my dress, staring at my manicured tips showing through the peek-a-boo heels.

“You nervous?” Dad asks.

I groan, shaking my hands out.

“I’m nervous I’m gonna smack the next person who asks.”

“Don’t get blood on your dress. It’s too pretty,” Kass says. I shoot her a look, but it only grants me a little Cheshire Cat grin in response.

I take it back. She’s too grinny lately. It’s unnerving.

The door bursts open again. I swear it’s gonna fall off its hinges before the day is over. Paula stands in the doorway, her plump frame filling the doorway with a hand on her hip.

“I’m having Sunday School flashbacks,” I say. “Am I in trouble?”

“What? No. And thank God you’re not in my classes anymore,” she says with a huff.

I mouth, “I wasn’t that bad” over to my dad. He chuckles.

“Ready, Kass?” Paula asks.

Kass turns to me. “Last chance. I’ll run with you now if you want.”

Both my dad and I let out a mix of “bah” and “get out here”s because the thought of running from this, from Orson, is so ridiculous to me and everyone else who knows us for two seconds. And I kinda like that about us.

Kass gives us a final cheeky wave and walks out. We’re instructed to stay here through Paula’s narrowed eyes and extra intense finger point. The door shuts with a small ring.

For a moment, me and Dad just sit there, twiddling our thumbs to ourselves, glancing around at the white walls and white tiled floor. The packages for the boutonnieres are still open on tables. The box for my heels is without a lid, stuffed full of excess paper and a couple packages of mini peanut butter snacks I’ve rifled through.

“Want a cigarette?” Dad asks.

“Dad.”

“Kidding, kidding.”

“Is this when you started?” I ask. “Your wedding night?”

“No, I started smoking when I bummed one from your mom on our first date.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am.”

I shake my head. “Is that the secret to a good marriage? Smoking?”

He barks out a laugh. “No, it’s love. And communication. Definitely that.”

“That’s sweet.”

“And lots of cuddles.”

“Not as sweet.”

“Keeping things exciting with those little—”

“Okay, I’m done.”

He chuckles. “You asked.”

“Didn’t expect to be blindsided by your old people love.”

“Made you less nervous though, right?”

I cut him a glance, and he shrugs.

“It’s okay to be nervous, Tomato.”

“I’m already married to him, Dad. I’m not nervous.”

And it’s the truth. I’m not. I could never be nervous about spending forever with Orson. At least, not anymore.

“I mean about the ceremony,” Dad continues. “Being up there for an hour. Having to listen to Father Peter’s droning voice. Just don’t look at the candle’s flames. You will pass out.”

“That sounds vaguely like a threat.”

His eyes widen as if it might be. Then we exchange a smile and two seconds later, Paula’s head pops in again.

“Alright, show time!”

Paula winds around me to grab the train of my dress. We walk out, turning the corner and pausing outside the cathedral’s glass double doors while Paula fluffs out the back. The organ music changes.

I wrap my hand into the crook of my dad’s arm and breathe in.

“Don’t let me fall.”

He smiles. “I’ll keep your pace.”

Paula opens the doors, heads turn, then we slowly pass through the threshold.

Everything about this day would have been different had Orson and I been more traditional. We should have had over three hundred guests filling this cathedral. We should have had a line of groomsmen and bridesmaids. We should have had more flowers.

But instead, I only see the first two rows of the cathedral filled with very few people. Orson’s parents, my mom, Callie, Alex, and our small crew of friends waving like eager puppies.

Lorelei and Emory stand hand-in-hand while Lorelei wipes at her eyes. Quinn leans into Landon’s shoulder as his chin rests on the top of her head. Bennett and Ruby are beside them with him waving like a goofball and her giving a small, more discreet wave by her side.

My family and my favorite group of people. What more could I ask for?

I always said I’d never walk down this aisle. That I’d never be tied down with a crazy dress, with the organ music echoing off the high ceiling, and with the five-minute walk down the aisle to ball and chain matrimony.

But then I see him, standing at the bottom of the altar’s steps.

My wonderful husband.

My heart soars, like little wistful butterflies beating their wings to get out of my chest.

Maybe I am nervous. But not for the commitment—because we’ve been lawfully wed for a year—or even for the ceremony—because I now know not to look directly at the candle’s flames.

No, I’m nervous to see him again.

Capital H. Him.

There’s something about seeing Orson Mackenzie that feels like it’s the first time every time. And now he’s in a tux. And I love my husband in a tux.

His chin is tipped up as his clenched jaw winds back and forth, watching me with hungry eyes.

Can everyone else see how he’s eye-fucking me?

He looks like he’s meant to be this dashing in a tux. Like the tux isn’t made for him, but he’s made for it. He’s my James Bond. My Bruce Wayne. No, he looks like a freaking younger Don Corleone come to claim his bride. Imagine that. The thing I fear most has come full circle, and I’m accepting it with open arms.

Quietly, I hear my dad whisper, “Can we slow down just a wee bit?”

I hadn’t realized I was walking faster, that I was desperate to get to my husband at the end of this aisle. Desperate to hold his hand, to curl into him, to smell his woodsy scent.

After what feels like a full moon cycle or maybe the seasons changing, we reach the end of the long aisle. Orson shakes my dad’s hand, pulls him in for a hug, and helps him to his seat. Then he comes back to me and takes my hands in his. Rough. Familiar. Wonderful.

I finally meet his gaze and instantly my bottom lip curls in at the look of him. His eyes are red. His cheeks are blotchy. And there’s a little hint of water at the edge of his eyes. This sorry sap has been crying. But before I can let out a full laugh, I realize my own eyes burn too.

Dang it, Love! She strikes again.

Orson shakes his head side to side with a crooked smile as we both let out a small, wet laugh.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi.”

He nudges his chin down. “Well,” he clears his throat. “Come on. Let me see the big reveal then.”

I edge my toes out from under my dress and he grins.

“Beautiful bridal toes.”

I wipe under my eyes. I probably smear my makeup. I don’t care.

“Told you you’d like them,” I say.

“I love them.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, between our waists, Orson lifts our hands and starts to gesture together, moving through our secret handshake, wiggling and turning, and all of it ending in the quietest of snaps.

Two from him.

Three from me.

“Marry me again?” he whispers.

“Sure,” I say with a faux shrug. “How bad can it be?”