I keep walking, and now I can hear my mother's voice carrying over the music.
"That's my baby! Look at her! Oh, she's so beautiful. I knew it, I knew from the moment she told me about him. You can hear it in someone's voice, you know? When it's real love. I could just tell."
Real love.She thinks this is real love.
That's my mother. Rose-colored glasses permanently affixed.
I reach the platform.
Devyn is right there, and everything else fades.
Up close, I can see what I couldn't from the entrance. The slight tension in his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes. He didn't sleep either. Or maybe he hasn't slept in days, handling whatever happened in New Jersey, and came straight here to marry a woman he barely knows.
His eyes meet mine, and for just a second, I see something flicker there.
Relief.
Then it's gone, and his face is a mask again.
“You came.”
“You brought my mother.”
We actually speak at the same time, and I don’t care if this doesn’t mean anything.
For me, it’s...it’s cute, and it bodes well for us,period.
"She was very enthusiastic about attending."
The corner of his mouth twitches as he says this. That almost-smile.
"She thinks we're in love,” I admit apologetically.
"Yes. She mentioned that. Several times."
Before I can respond, the judge steps forward, and the ceremony begins. He speaks about duty and commitment and the binding nature of vows. I stand beside Devyn and try to focus.
But my mind keeps drifting. To my mother, sniffling happily in the third row. To the stalactites glowing overhead. To the warmth of Devyn beside me.
I sneak glances at him. His profile is sharp and serious. His hands are clasped, perfectly still.
He could be carved from marble for all the emotion he shows.
And then it's time for the vows.
Devyn turns to face me. Takes my hands in his. His grip is warm and steady, and my pulse jumps traitorously.
He speaks in French first.
I don't understand the words. My French is limited to "bonjour" and "croissant" and “eureka”. Or maybe the last one isn’t even French?
So no, I don’t understand a single word he’s saying, but his tone?
Oh, his tone.
I understand the weight of each word, like he's carving promises into stone. And the way his eyes never leave mine as he speaks? It’s what makes nine-tenths of the law, and I...secretly like that it’s so.
Devyn finishes the French and switches to English. Standard words now. But his voice is still low, still intense, and he's still holding my hands like he has no intention of letting go.
