Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
And then there’s Andie. She glows—actually glows, as if the baby inside her is a lantern lit just for this afternoon. Her dress is lavender, and there’s an actual silk ribbon under her breasts, tied in a bow, the kind you see on cupcakes or the ankles of newborns. She keeps one hand on her round belly, fingers splayed and absent-minded, and the other hand is buried in the curve of my dad’s arm. Thomas wears a suit in conservative navy, but his tie is a shocking, bloody red; he sits with the posture of a man who cannot, will not, be moved. His hand is on Andie’s thigh, not possessive, but anchoring, like if he let go she might drift up into the trees. I watch him murmur something to her, the words lost in the night air, but I can see the muscle in his jaw flicker, the way his eyes are already glassy and unreadable.
My mom is in the second row, a white handkerchief clutched in her palm. I don’t know how long she’s been crying, but her mascara’s gone a little punk, and every few seconds she smiles at me with so much rawness that I have to look away. Her dress is gold and semi-flashy, but she’s thrown a denim jacket over her shoulders, and she keeps twisting the sleeve, knotting and unknotting it, like a nervous habit from childhood.
The rest of the seats are filled by a scattering of faces from my life: a few other friends from Century College, a pair of Hunter’s corporate lieutenants, a smattering of the unflappable aunties and cousins who always materialize at these things, even when there’s a threat of scandal. A couple of them are whispering, their mouths hidden behind their hands. The sight makes me smile. It means they’re talking about me, and I love it.
Above everything, there’s the single note of a cello, slow and syrupy, weaving between the conversations. Somewhere out of sight, a musician draws a bow across the strings with the patience of a surgeon, and the music shudders across the lawn, every note a benediction.
I’m not wearing white, because it’s too traditional. Instead, my gown is silver-blue, almost liquid in the way it slides down my body, the metallic threads catching the fairy lights and sending them spinning across the grass. The back is cut low but not immodest, and the front is draped just enough to highlight my bust without looking trampy. My hair is down—Hunter insisted on it—and falls in a thick, gold sheet to the small of my back. Every step I take across the stone path is a lesson in muscle memory and prayer.
At the end of the aisle is the makeshift altar, a little rise built of railroad ties and a platform of whitewashed planks. It looks temporary, defiant, like something that could be torn down at a moment’s notice if the neighbors called the city. There are no flowers on the altar, just the riot of wisteria behind it, and the candles that edge each corner, flickering with the smallest tremor of wind.
Hunter stands at the altar in a suit that looks poured onto his body, charcoal with black satin lapels, his hair tamed and a little too short, his face half in shadow. Next to him, Lachlan is a vision in heather gray, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the forearm, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he’s not wearing his clerical collar. The absence of it is as loud as a fire alarm, and when I see the naked column of his throat, I feel a pang of something raw and animal. He’s changed so much to be with me. To be with us, in our taboo relationship, and yet I know he doesn’t regret it one bit.
Both men's eyes are on me, and the heat of it is so real that my legs go weak at the knees.
I take my time walking the aisle. No one gives me away, because again, I’m an iconoclast that way. With every step, the hum of the cello grows, the whisper of the guests drops away, and all I can hear is the click of my heels and the racing of my own pulse.
At the halfway point, Hunter’s gaze meets mine, and he tilts his chin just so. It’s a command: come here, now, I’m waiting for you. Lachlan’s eyes are a blaze of blue, but there’s something softer at the edges, a gravity that pulls at me in a way I have never felt before. I want to run to them, but instead I pace myself, each stride more deliberate than the last.
When I reach the altar, the cello draws to a halt, and there’s a breathless, suspended silence. I turn to face the rows of guests, and the garden is suddenly so silent I can hear the shiver of the wisteria as it drops a petal at my feet.