Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(65)

I’m about to slam my fist against Luca’s spine again when he spins around to face me in a blur of motion. His big hand intercepts mine midair, halting my strike before it can make contact. I struggle, but it’s futile — he’s far stronger than me. Looking totally composed, he tucks my palm around his forearm and steps close to my side. My mouth drops open to curse him again, but I don’t have a chance to get out a single syllable of my pissed-off speech because, abruptly, we’re moving.

Or, he’s moving.

I’m being dragged along at his side like a sack of potatoes. In a very expensive Elizabeth & James cocktail dress and four inch heels, no less.

“You are absolutely ridiculous!” I hiss at him as we ascend along the tank to the strains of classic wedding music. “Manhandling, misogynistic meathead!”

He doesn’t respond, except to tighten his grip on my arm as we begin another loop around the tank. Maybe, when we reach the top, I’ll push him in and laugh as he’s eaten by a shark. It would serve him right.

“What happened to take your time to figure this out, Lila? Huh?”

“That was before.”

“Before what, exactly? Before you lost your damn mind?”

“Before I saw you flirting with Theo and—”

“I was being friendly!”

“—decided I didn’t want to share what’s mine.”

“I am not yours!”

He laughs — actually laughs - like I’m the one being ridiculous in this scenario.

I growl, but have no chance to say another word to him, because we’ve reached the aisle. My teeth grit as, arm in arm, we make our way toward the platform where Gemma, Chase, and Nate are waiting with the minister. Luca holds me steady so I don’t trip in my heels on the steps, which I’d normally be grateful for but, under the circumstances, only serves to infuriate me more.

He doesn’t even think I can handle stairs alone!

The utter nerve of this man…

We go our separate ways at the top of the dais, him to stand at the groom’s side, me to wait on the bride’s. I jerk my chin higher and refuse to look at him as the rest of the bridal party files in. The music overhead crescendos into crashing organs just as Phoebe steps into view. Dressed in a short white dress — which, for the record, does not give her back fat — she’s grinning ear to ear as she slowly makes her way to Nate. He watches her with laser-like intensity every step of the way.

As the minister walks them through a quick overview of the ceremony, they stare at each other with such joy you’d think they were getting married for real. Their happiness is so strong, it saturates every particle of air in this giant room. Gemma is already in tears, watching them. I can only imagine the waterworks during the real wedding.

“You’ll exchange your rings, recite your vows, and then I’ll pronounce you husband and wife,” the minister is saying. “After the kiss, you’ll exit, followed by the rest of the bridal party. It’s all quite quick. Any questions for me?”

Phoebe and Nate seem perfectly at ease, holding hands and smiling. All traces of her earlier panic attack are completely gone. It’s me who’s feeling anxious, now. I stare at them and a horrible pang of foreboding shoots through my chest cavity. I’m consumed with memories of the last time I stood at a bride’s side, holding her bouquet as she promised to love and cherish a man until death did them part.

And it did.

Far faster than anyone could’ve imagined.

Usually, when Mimi finds her way to the surface, I’m able to shove her back down. To compartmentalize her away into a tiny box marked big sister in the back of my mind.

It’s not because I don’t care.

It’s because I care too much.

It’s been ten years, but the loss still cripples me every time I allow my mind to wander to her. Ten years of grief. Ten years of missing her with every breath, of hating every milestone that passes by unshared.

I can’t think about all the things she was supposed to be here for — graduations and birthdays and broken hearts. I can’t let myself remember her smile that day, as she slipped into her wedding dress and called out for me in that lilting, melodic tone.

Hey there, Delilah!

It was our favorite inside joke, a play on the lyrics of a once-popular radio hit.

Help me with my zipper, will you? And pour us some of that champagne — just don’t tell Mom I let you have any. You may be underage, but I need my maid-of-honor to have a toast with me while we still have the same last name.

She was stunning, as she made her way down that aisle. I held her bouquet while she said her vows, and cried like a baby when my new brother-in-law promised to have and to hold her forever.

None of us realized just how short their forever would be.

My heart is pounding in my chest. My lungs feel tight, my airway restricted by a lump of grief I can’t seem to swallow. My head is crowded with memories and for once, I’m struggling to push them back into their box. No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake Mimi off.

How do I look? She laughed, a tinkling sound of delight. Do you think Charlie will cry, when he sees me coming?

I feel myself beginning to unravel, right there on the platform, as Phoebe and Nate walk hand in hand down the aisle, followed by Gemma and Chase. I know it’s my turn to move, know I should be walking toward Luca and joining the procession downstairs to the deck, where we’ll be eating dinner, but my feet are locked to the ground.