I pull my eyes up from the horrible carpet, and there she is.
There she is.
Her hair is down, soft waves dancing just above her shoulders, falling in front of her face. Her makeup is neutral and bronzed, bringing out her natural tanned complexion. Her dress is off-white with spaghetti straps. It’s not tight to the point of hugging her like a second skin, but it floats around the edges of her curves exactly how you’d expect it to. The material is silk, and I sobadlywant to touch it.
Touch her.But I force my hands to remain where they are.
One thing that doesn’t surprise me, though, is her choice of footwear.
Or should I say, lack of? She’s…barefoot.
I suppress a shudder, knowing how outdated this place is. It probably hasn’t had a deep clean in years.
But then my eyes find hers.
She’s got a mischievous smirk on her face, and it sets free the smile that’s been tugging at my lips all afternoon.
For the first time in a long time, it’s genuine.
All because of Olive Herring.
"You sure you want to do this?" she asks as the distance between us closes, and I hold my hand out for her.
Why does this feel so natural? Like it’s just her and I alone in this room, wanting to commit to forever?
"Only if it’s what you want to do."
She takes my hand lightly, using my arm for balance as she steps up onto the platform where the five of us are standing.
Six, if you count Cassandra, who’s still shooting 2D daggers at me from across the aisle.
She’s smiling, but I swear she hates me.
"I do." She smirks.
"We’re not quite there yet, sweetheart. But if I were marrying this man, I’d be eager, too." The Elvis wannabe does his best impression of that low, iconic voice. It could be worse, but God, am I looking forward to this being over.
Elvis runs through all the usual ceremony jargon, and Olive actually looks like she’s listening to every word.
Then we’re repeating the long-awaited, painfully generic vows after him, one line at a time.
It’s awkward as hell, and I’m way too uncomfortable saying any of this in front of actual people.
But Olive? She looks like she might throw up the second she’s forced to promise a man she barely knows that she’ll stick by his side through it all.
In sickness and in health.
For richer or poorer.
Till death do us part.
When in reality, our vows should say: until my image is clean, and she’s pleased her record label enough, or she's broken my heart.
Elvis asks for the rings, and Lizzie hands them over happily, like her little sister isn’t marrying a stranger.
Then he asks the age-old question. "Do you, Olive Herring, take this man—Avery Jones—to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I resist the urge to say,"Define ‘lawfully.’"
