“Pews do maim,” Aoife calls over without looking up. “I’ve lost brides to splinters and superstition. Not on my watch.”
I’m in the turquoise pantsuit my rebellious streak insisted I wear. Pru insisted on doing my makeup, which today means mascara and dignity I’m wearing like a shield.
“Stand there,” Aoife says, pointing at the start of the aisle. “Walk when I cue you. Don’t rush.”
“Definitely not in a hurry,” I mutter.
“Just focus on the man you’re marrying,” she says sweetly.
I take my spot at the rear of the aisle. The doors are propped open. The vestibule smells like wet coats and hand sanitizer; the breeze slipping in like we invited it. People I don’t know are gathering in the pews, cousins of cousins, men who nod without smiling, women who look like they could run a kitchen and a political campaign at the same time. A cluster of older aunties stage-whispers about turquoise like it’s a scandal and a blessing all at once.
Pru bumps my shoulder. She’s in black skinny jeans and a sweater that makes the old ladies frown because it hugs every single one of her ample curves. “If he so much as laughs at your suit, I’m opening a can of whoop-ass.”
“He approved,” I say.
“That doesn’t count. Men ‘approve’ because they think they’re kings.” She jerks her chin toward Cayce. “Yours might actually be one.”
“He reminded me,” I say, “that I will be queen to his king.” I keep my voice flat so she hears what I think about chess metaphors.
Pru’s eyes light. “Did he now?”
“He said it comes with responsibilities.”
“Oh, did he now?”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“I’m warming up,” she says. “Just in case I have to bring out the monologue later.” She softens. “How are you?”
“Standing up,” I say. “That seems to be the assignment.”
She squeezes my hand and then slides away as Aoife waves her over to help bully a flower girl who is two and very sure of her own agenda as a princess in flowers.
“Ready?” Aoife calls to me. “We’re going to practice the walk and the turn. Don’t worry about vows yet. That’s a tomorrow problem.”
I look to the front. Cayce’s gaze is steady. Not the soft I glimpsed in the confessional. Not the street-edge he uses on other men when he glances away from me. Something between: a closed hand I could press my palm to if I picked the right moment.
“Walk,” Aoife says.
I walk.
The first seconds are awkward because I’m thinking about walking. Then my body remembers how to move in a straight line without narrating it to myself.
Eyes forward. I’m aware of the mouths that stop whispering as I pass, the way two young men stand up a little taller like showing off their shoulders will change anything. I don’t look at any of them. Not directly. I look at the man who asked me towear a black dress with no panties and didn’t complain when he got a full-body turquoise pantsuit instead.
Halfway down the aisle, I notice Tiernan and Pru near the side door. They’re bickering, which means Pru is talking with her hands and Tiernan seems to be saying three words per minute to make her madder. She points at the security camera tucked into the choir loft. He shakes his head. She says something about angles. He says something about permissions. Aoife pretends not to hear because Aoife likes to let other people work out their problems as long as they don’t mess with her agenda.
I reach the front. Cayce doesn’t move. He doesn’t offer his hand because this is public and he doesn’t seem to do anything in public. I stop at the step below him and tilt my chin up in a challenge of wills. He lowers his head the smallest fraction, acknowledgment of my action and the rebellion I’m making.
“Again,” Aoife says, clapping once. “But slower, and at the end I want you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and look at the altar like it’s real.”
“It is real,” I say.
“Then treat it that way,” she shoots back in her no-nonsense way.
We reset. I walk. At the front, I step up one step so that I’m next to him and then pivot to face the altar as directed. It feels less like surrender than the first time—more like choosing where to put my feet because if I don’t, someone else will decide for me.
“Good,” Aoife says. “Cayce, you will tell the priest if any change in security affects the order of the service. He does not want to be surprised by men in the side aisles with wires in their ears.”
