I’m married.
To a hockey player.
The one thing I swore to my father I would never, ever do—well, date, but still.
No, this can’t be.
Wait. How do I know he’s a hockey player?
“This isn’t real,” I whisper, staring at the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful in a simple, traditional way, but Lane didn’t propose. Margo didn’t plan this event. The girls and I didn’t go on a bachelorette adventure. Lane and I didn’t snuggle up, anticipating our big day and future together.
We don’t even know each other!
Lucian repeats my question, “This isn’t real? Oh, but it is!”
Lane, who may as well be a pillar of stone, comes to life and takes a step toward Lucian, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. His hard expression suggests Lucian has some explaining to do.
As if anticipating being throttled by a hockey player, the hypnotist spins his finger in the air. Is he casting a magic spell? Making a charades gesture? It almost looks like he’s suggesting someone “roll the tape.”
He says, “Would you like to see the ceremony? We recorded the whole thing for posterity. My assistant will also send you each a copy.”
Before either of us can object, a screen appears behind us and suddenly there we are on the big display—Lane and me, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes with an intensity that makes my cheeks burn.
Up here, mere minutes ago, we looked ... happy. Radiant, even. Like we’re genuinely in love and choosing each other for forever. It’s disturbing, mesmerizing. I can’t tear my eyes away.
Lucian continues as the video plays, “While you were in your relaxed state, you shared some wonderful details aboutyourselves. Nina, you told us your favorite food is fresh bread with honey butter, just like your grandmother used to make. And Lane, you mentioned that your dream is to coach hockey someday.”
He’s been relatively quiet, but a rumble erupts from somewhere inside him.
Lucian asks us each questions that I hardly remember answering, but it turns out that’s how I know Lane is a hockey player.
However, in my mind’s eye, I can picture all of it. Hear myself. I was telling them about Bibi’s recipes, from the ruggedrugbrød,a dense rye bread with seeds, tothe lighter pumpernickel, to the kringle she’d make for special occasions. I even told them that Bibi had a saying, a Danish proverb,Spis lige brød til,which means “have some bread with that.” While it might literally mean to eat some bread, it could also be interpreted as a nudge to calm down, take it easy.
Right now, I feel quite the opposite.
Lucian adds, “You both love the smell of cinnamon. And you, Lane, admitted that fresh-baked bread is one of your few indulgences.”
I arch an eyebrow in question.
He frowns. “I may have mentioned that.”
“This is insane,” I mutter.
I’m watching the video of us exchanging vows. The way we’re looking at each other makes my heart skip. It doesn’t appear as if we’re under hypnosis. It looks like we’re making a choice.
But we weren’t. Were we?
However, a memory, fresh in my mind, playing like a slide show, suggests that I very much did give myself in marriage to this man.
Then, I watch Lane say, “I do” with a smile that doesn’t look forced or like he’s in a trance. It looks genuine.
That’s impossible. Isn’t it?
“Nina’s ‘no way’ moment incoming,” Bree’s voice filters from behind me.
My friends have gathered around the stage like this is an intervention.
“My what moment?” I ask.
