Do You Take This Man (82)



The night before, at the rehearsal, I’d given him a wide berth, only speaking to him when absolutely necessary because the sight of his stupid face reminded me how many butterflies I’d felt inviting him to spend the night, inviting him to be more in my life. Shame burned my cheeks, a feeling I was tired of, and I tapped a reply before tossing my phone in my bag.


RJ: I don’t think we have anything to talk about.





* * *



? ? ?

THE COUPLE HAD been indecisive the entire time, and the number of last-minute changes should have surprised no one. I’d kept my head down and my mouth shut unless it dealt with me, and they’d effectively rewritten half the ceremony the night before. Now, with everyone gathered, the music was supposed to begin, but the crowd was met with silence. At the back of the hall, I saw the bridal party looking at one another. The sound system controls were to the left of the door, so I couldn’t see what was happening but saw Lear sprint over. Nervous chatter began, people eager to fill the silence, and I glanced around. Finally, the music began, though far too loud. “What a Wonderful World” played at a volume to rival any club, and several people covered their ears as the groom and his mother made their way down the aisle. The volume evened out with the start of the processional music, and I stood at the front of the room trying to keep my expression neutral.

The rest of the entrances went well until it was time for the bride and her father. As they neared the front of the room, the bride’s father tripped on her train, sending him sprawling to the floor and her veil pulling back as it caught on his arm. The man climbed to his feet, and the bride approached me, her face soured as she tried to rearrange her headpiece.

“Well, that was a fucking disaster,” she muttered.

Her groom’s eyes widened, and he motioned to where I stood, fully miked. In the back of the room, I caught Lear wincing, and knew the sound system had picked up her words perfectly. I looked from him to the couple quickly and gave them what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

I began the ceremony, reading more than normal with all the last-minute changes from the night before. The couple relaxed, and I read the passage they’d selected to open the ceremony, something from a book they’d read together in college. It was offbeat but moving, and the crowd seemed to forget about the earlier issues. I shifted to the next thing the couple had added the night before, the reading of a poem by a family friend. I followed my script, noticing the bride’s eyes widen and tears well as I read the friend’s name and asked them to come forward.

In the back, Lear was waving his arms and shaking his head, and the room fell into another moment of hushed and awkward silence. “We took that out this morning,” the groom hissed, leaning forward. I had the forethought to cover the mic this time, but my heart hammered. I was used to navigating the unexpected. I was even used to people crying in my presence—it happened often—but the combination of Lear trying to signal me from the back of the room, the bride’s tears, the groom’s concern for her, and the shift in the room because of what I’d said made me anxious.

For the second time that evening, heat burned my face at the embarrassment as I walked back and jumped to the next portion. I’d examined my notes, going over everything they’d changed the night before, and they’d added that poem. In the back, Lear threw up his arms, his mouth in a firm line, and I went from my normal reaction to his presence—wanting to kiss him—to wanting to punch him, to not wanting him to look so disappointed in me. I knew how to improvise, and the ceremony went on, but I clenched my toes until I was offstage and could let my anxiety show in other ways. I’d messed up, and I didn’t know how exactly, but a thread of guilt wound through my veins. It wasn’t a feeling I was used to.

Lear was in the alcove when I went to retrieve my things after the ceremony ended. His broad shoulders made him look imposing, and his jaw was set as I walked toward him. “Hey,” I said quietly, my brain still pinging. I was pretty sure I’d messed up big-time, and I felt something crack when I approached him, something I didn’t try to hold together. I waited for him to read my face or uncross his arms so I could hug him and apologize. I bit my lip because I didn’t just want that, I needed that. I parted my lips to say it, to admit I was upset, but he spoke first.

His voice was pitched low. “What the hell was that?”

I stiffened at his tone and at the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree difference from how I’d wanted this to go. He was poised for a fight, and if I knew how to do one thing, it was that. I tucked away the thread still niggling my brain, and I closed off the idea that I wanted to find comfort in Lear. “You’ll need to be more specific. I seem to recall a lot of things going wrong.” I crossed my arms over my chest, staying as far back from him as I could in the small space, my mind running back to all the small spaces we’d crowded into since we’d first met.

His eyes narrowed, but the hushed tone of his voice sounded more powerful than any yell. “Maybe we start with you asking someone to walk to the stage who is currently in the ICU.”

“What are you talking about?”

He took a step closer to me, the smell of his aftershave filling my nostrils and my brain with the sense of him, of his body heat so close. “I texted you and emailed you and tried to talk to you before the ceremony. Their friend was in a bad car accident this morning, and you brought it up in the middle of their damn wedding ceremony.”

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