God, I hope this is just about the article, and not her having second thoughts.
Victor kisses Maura on the cheek before handing her off to me, and she doesn’t look at either of us. Her caramel gaze seems fixed on something in the distance, an imaginary place I can’t see.
The officiant clears his throat. “We have gathered here to formalize the union of Maura Matthews and James Keller in marriage. They have consented to exchange the sacred laws of marriage, which is a serious and powerful commitment, meant to last for the rest of their lives. Together, they will declare their intent to honor their agreement of unity.”
He turns toward me. “Repeat after me. I, James Keller, know of no legal impediment why I may not marry Maura Matthews.”
Maybe I should have reviewed the ceremony script. This is more formal than even I would have written it. Still, I repeat the sentence back to the officiant.
“Please repeat after me,” he says, switching his focus. “I, Maura Matthews, know of no legal impediment why I may not marry James Keller.”
She takes a shallow breath. “I, Maura Matthews,” she says in a small voice. “I know of no legal impediment why I may not marry James Keller.”
“Excellent. Now, we can begin the vows.”
No readings, no sermon, no frills. If you asked me my preference, I would have said exactly that. Now that I’m hearing it, though, the ceremony feels too rushed. At this rate, the wedding will be over in a crisp two minutes.
“Do you, James Keller, take Maura Matthews to be your lawfully wedded wife, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.” It’s easy to say. The vows ask so little of me—no “to have and to hold,” no “in sickness and in health.” I’m making the smallest of promises to this woman, and it sends a twinge of unease through me. Is this really it? Are we really promising each other the least we possibly could?
“And do you, Maura Matthews, take James Keller to be your lawfully wedded husband, for as long as you both shall live?”
Her eyes are still on the ground in front of her as she says, “I do.”
“And now, the exchanging of the rings.”
Maura turns and hands her bouquet to Brinley. Without something to hold onto, her hand trembles in front of her. Before I can second guess myself, I take her hands in mine and rub my thumb over her knuckles. The gesture makes her finally look up to meet my eyes.
Hesitance and fear are clear in her gaze, but there’s determination there, too. She’s going to see this through, just like I am.
“James, you may now place the ring on Maura’s finger and repeat after me.” I reach into my jacket pocket, pulling out the ring I’ve kept there. It’s warm from my body heat as I slip it on her slender finger and repeat the officiant’s words. “I give you this ring, as a symbol of my decision to make you my wife.”
Maura lets go of my hand briefly to take a gold band from Brinley. She slides it on my finger as she repeats, “I give you this ring, as a symbol of my decision to make you my husband.”
It’s done now. We’re both in this together.
“By the power vested in me by the Province of Ontario, I now proclaim you married,” the officiant says. “You may kiss the bride.”
I meet Maura’s eyes, and she gives me a tiny nod of permission. I lean forward to brush my lips against hers. They’re cool, soft, and inviting, and I can’t resist lingering in the kiss alittle longer. I wish I could press my tongue against her lips and taste her. She’d let me in, I’m sure of it, because she doesn’t pull away. She lets me have this one real moment with her.
Fuck, I meant this to be a quick kiss. I break it off, pulling away quickly. It unnerves me how much I didn’t want to stop.
Instead of looking at my new wife, I glance behind her to her bridesmaids. There’s a strange expression on Brinley’s face, some intense emotion in her eyes. She’s looking at someone behind me—Beau, I realize. I file the mystery away for later as the wedding march plays, prompting us to walk back down the aisle and out into the world.
Maura and I keep one hand joined as we walk down the aisle. Before we can leave the room, though, the wedding planner grabs me by the elbow.
“Stay here,” she instructs us. “We have photos to take in front of the flowers.”
Right. The whole reason we’re doing this is for photos. Our friends file out of the room, leaving us alone with the professionals whose job it is to capture this whole charade.
They put us through our paces, making us pose back at the altar for what feels like an hour. Maura keeps a small, elegant smile pasted on her face, and I try to do the same, long past when my face can feel the strain of holding it. Then we have a whole reception to mock up. The assistants move the flowers into the empty dining room that would have held our reception, if this wedding was real.
There’s a whole cake for us to cut, three layers of white iced confection, comically large, considering there are no guests left to eat it. The guys text to inform me that they were ushered into a limo and ferried back into the city right after the ceremony. It’s probably for the best—it’s not like there’s any celebration to share with them here.
“Let’s get a picture of you toasting each other,” the photographer says. Immediately, assistants scatter to fetch a champagne bottle and glasses. Full flutes of sparkling wine are shoved into our hands. Maura and I clink them together, posing. It’s the biggest charade yet, considering that Maura doesn’t drink, and I rarely do either, outside of poker night.
Now, though, I drain half the glass, just to cut the oppressive awkwardness around me. None of this is right, not the ceremony, not the guests, not the tense woman at my side. My chest prickles with some unnameable feeling, something like grief or guilt.
