Believe Me (Shatter Me, #6.5) (40)
“Congratulations,” he says against my sweater. “I’m really happy for you guys.”
I have to remind myself that James is not only— biologically—my brother, but also a child, and undeserving of rejection. I pat him on the head in a single, wooden movement that startles a laugh out of Kenji, a gasp from Winston, stunned silence from Brendan, and slack-jawed astonishment from Adam.
I clear my throat, disengaging from James as gently as I can.
“Thank you,” I say to him.
“You’re welcome,” he says, beaming. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“I didn’t invi—”
“So!” Adam cuts me off, trying and failing now to fight a smile. “We, um, we just came by to check in with you on a couple of details.” He glances at James. “Right, buddy?”
James nods. “Right.”
“First of all: Did anyone talk to you about your vows? Do you want to go traditional, or do you plan on saying something—”
“He’s going traditional,” Kenji says, answering for me before I’ve had a chance to respond. “I already told Castle.” He turns to face me. “Castle is doing the ceremony, by the way—you know that, right?”
“No,” I say, staring at him. “I did not know that. But what makes you think I don’t want to write my own vows?”
He shrugs. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes to get up in front of a crowd and shoot from the heart. But I’m happy to be wrong,” he says. “If you want to write your own vows, stand in front of a ton of people—most of whom you hardly know—and tell Juliette her face reminds you of a sunrise, no problem. Castle is flexible.”
“I would rather impale myself on a pike.”
“Yeah.” Kenji grins. “That’s what I thought.”
Kenji turns away to ask Adam a question, something about ceremony logistics, and I study the back of his head, confused.
How? I want to ask. How did you know?
Winston unfolds a garment bag, hangs it on a nearby door, and unzips the length of it while Brendan unearths a box of shoes from a dingy closet.
Adam says, “Okay, I still have a few questions for Warner, but I need to confirm with Castle about the vows, so we’ll be right back—and I’ll find out about the music—”
And I feel as if I’ve stepped into a strange, alternate reality, into a world where I didn’t think I’d ever belong. I could never have anticipated that somehow, somewhere along this tumultuous path—
I’d acquired friends.
THIRTEEN
The backyard is a modest rectangle of scorched land, the sparse and parched grass nicely obscured by a selection of time-worn wooden folding chairs, the arrangement parted down the middle by an artificial aisle, all of which face a hand-wrought wedding arch. Two thick, ten-foot cylindrical wooden stakes have been hammered into the ground, the five feet of empty space between them bridged at the top by a raw, severed tree limb, the joints bound together by rope. This crudely constructed bower is decorated with a robust selection of colorful wildflowers; leaves and petals flutter in the gentle breeze, infusing the early-morning air with their combined fragrance.
The scene is at once simple and breathtaking, and I am immobilized by the sight of it.
I am in a perfectly tailored, dark green, three-piece suit with a white shirt and black tie. My original suit was black, by request; Winston told me he decided to go with this deep shade of green because he thought it would suit my eyes and offset my gold hair. I wanted to argue with him except that I was genuinely impressed with the quality of his work, and did not protest when he handed me a pair of black, patent leather shoes to match. Absently, I touch the gardenia affixed to my lapel, feeling the always-present weight of the velvet box against my thigh.
There are folding tables arranged along the opposite end of the yard still waiting for their tablecloths, and I have been assigned the task of dressing them. I have also been ordered to see to the tables and chairs that need to be arranged inside the as-yet-unfurnished living and dining rooms, where the reception is meant to take place later this evening after a break post-ceremony, during which our guests will change work shifts, see to things back at the base, and Ella and I will have a chance to take pictures.
This all sounds so perfectly human as to render me ill.
I have, as a result, done none of things requested of me. I’ve been unable to move from this spot, staring at the wedding arch where I will soon be expected to stand and wait.
I clutch the back of a chair, holding on for dear life as the weight of the day’s revelations inhale me, drowning me in their depths. Kenji is right; I don’t enjoy surprises. This is fundamentally true, and yet—I would like to be the kind of person who enjoys surprises. I want to live a life like this, to be able to withstand unexpected moments of kindness delivered by the person I love most in the world. It’s only that I don’t know what to do with these experiences; my body doesn’t know how to accept or digest them.
I am so happy it’s physically uncomfortable; I am so full of hope it seems to depress my chest, forcing the air from my lungs.
I draw in a sharp breath against this feeling, forcing myself to be calm while doing, over and over, the mental gymnastics necessary to remind myself that my fears are irrational, when I feel the approach of a familiar nervous energy.