Hopelessly Devoted(10)

“I freaking love you.”

Before I could tear up, the music changed, and Paul led me down the steps to the dance floor. We weren’t announced, like many other couples are when making their grand entrance. We simply walked down the steps, arms around each other’s waist, as Hopelessly Devoted came through the speakers. My new husband guided me to the dance floor, took me in his arms, and we swayed to the music together. Paul sang to me, his face buried in my hair as his warm breath ghosted over my skin. I was only vaguely aware of the guests dancing around us, joining us in what I then realized was our wedding waltz.

The music stopped, and before the DJ moved on to another song, Paul raised his hand and made a circling motion in the air to repeat the track. He did that three times while not moving his face from its position buried in my neck, his arms wrapped tight around me as we danced slowly to the music.

After the fourth time, I tapped Paul’s shoulder. “Umm, Paul. I think we should greet our guests now?”

“Screw them, I’m staying here. This is our time,” he said into my neck.

“I think your mom wants a dance. We’ll have more time later.”

Paul reluctantly raised his head and kissed me sensuously, heedless of the well-wishers standing around waiting to congratulate us all over again.

I danced with Sophia, then Mrs. Connor, who was still sniffling into a tissue, albeit mindful of her makeup. I danced with Paul Senior and even though it raised a few eyebrows, he took it in his stead. I didn’t care. I shook hands and air-kissed with the best of them. I was having such a good time, I forgot about my anxiety and found I could hold a conversation with businessmen and socialites alike. I guess it helped that they all looked like they’d stepped off the set of Grease.

The music was mixed; some more popular songs were intertwined with the Grease soundtrack and other hits from the fifties. Every time a Grease song came on, the dance floor was filled to the point that some people didn’t bother trying to make it onto the wooden platform; they just danced where they were.

Delicate canapés and champagne were never-ending, the waiters making sure no one’s glass was empty. Yet the waiters were so discreet and fluid I hardly noticed them.

There weren’t as many guests at the party as had filled the manor for the ceremony, and Paul explained that we—I use that term loosely since I was psyching myself up for all the glitz and glamour of the Plaza—decided on something low-key, just for family and close friends. That still equated to about two hundred people. But at least there were no paparazzi.

Paul and I cut the cake, which was a traditional three-tiered affair but with the Grease car on top with Danny and Kenickie sitting in the front seat, their arms around each other’s shoulders. I was pleased when Paul told me the model was ceramic and not made of some fancy edible marzipan. It would take pride of place on our mantel.

We danced, ate, mingled, drank, sang, and danced some more. It was the perfect night. It wasn’t until late, when the party started to die down and Paul and I were the only ones on the dance floor, swaying to our song that I asked him about our honeymoon destination. Up until then it had been a secret, with Paul and the rest of his tight-lipped family refusing to tell me.

“Where did Danny’s love interest come from?” Paul asked, lifting his head from my shoulder and staring into my eyes. His were a little mischievous for my liking.

“Kenickie is from the same town as Danny.”

“Not Kenickie. Sandy.”

“Oh. I don’t see Sandy anymore. My Sandy has a cocky smirk, a penis, and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. But she was from Sydney.” It took me another second to realize what Paul had just told me.

“Oh my god! We’re going to Australia!”