It doesn’t. So, I don’t care.
I don’t care that the wedding is in the dead of winter, rather than in the summer when the sun is bright and warm. I don’t give a fuck that the shade of purple chosen to present me is far too light, and garish at that. And I certainly don’t care that we are in a house of God, rather than outside in the crisp air with the pines towering over us.
None of my potential dreams for how this day would go matter because this is what is happening.
I’m marrying Rosalie, and this wedding has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my family.
My attention is pulled back down to the aisle as the music changes, and carved oak double doors open up once again. They reveal Rosalie, in all of her white-gowned glory. A long veil covers her face and most of the top of her dress, but the bottom half is sleek and bouncy, it flows effortlessly with each of her steps.
At her side, is, unsurprisingly, Soren. I had wondered for a moment if Eivor would have been walking her down the aisle, but I knew that she would likely choose her own brother over her uncle. That, I don’t blame her.
Rosalie walks as though she was meant to be a bride. Her steps are even and align with the tempo of the music. She hasone arm in Soren’s and the other holds her bouquet of full and lively flowers daintily.
All eyes are on her, but as she grows closer, they’re on me too. Expecting a reaction.
I think about my mother.
That brings a glossiness to my eyes. Just enough.
Inside, though, as she gets closer to me, my smile hides nothing but numbness.
Soren hands Rosalie off to me, I take her hand and step up closer to the priest with her. Then, I move her veil behind her head for her.
Her hair is curled and pinned behind her head in an overly ornate and elegant fashion. Ringlets grace the side of her well made-up face, and her cheeks are a rosy red. She smiles at me, soft, warm, feminine.
The act is a good one. She even squeezes my hand and keeps her eyes locked to mine for several moments longer than she needs to.
I squeeze her hand back, even though I don’t have to.
I look to the priest. A man I don’t even recognize, who looks far happier about the event than I can even pretend to feel.
“We are gathered here today to unite Alessio Dresvanni and Rosalie Fiorelli in holy matrimony,” the priest starts, voice loud but gentle. Likely able to be heard by even the back row of pews.
“If anyone objects to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace,” the priest adds. Then waits.
There’s a part of me, a large part, that wishes someone would stand up and give a reason why Rosalie and I shouldn’t be—can’t be—married. There’s no real reason though. None that matter.
Still, my eyes shift to the side, and I catch his gaze.
Damian.
There he is, standing to the side of the bride’s procession, near the back wall. Just close enough to run over if somethinghappens, but not close enough to ruin the photographs by being a big blinking security guard.
I swear his gaze meets mine.
Just for a second or two, then he’s looking at Rosalie. I look at her too, and I notice that she’s not looking into my face. She’s looking to the side, behind me, at the pews.
I wonder who she is looking at. Maybe that ex-boyfriend that she had been seeing until a few weeks before.
When no one speaks up, the priest continues. Going on and on about love, affection, acceptance, and the importance of tying souls together.
I zone out for half of it, but remember to keep a calm and collected look on my face. Trying not to let my eyebrows furrow down.
My head is dizzy as the vows begin. Traditional vows, of course, because we barely know each other. How could we possibly say something about each other that wouldn’t sound like it?
“Alessio, do you take Rosalie Fiorelli to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, and promise to honor her?”
I swallow the lump in my throat as I squeeze Rosalie’s hand and take the ring from the ring barrier—one of her cousins.
