Chapter eleven
Lindsay
Ialways assumed, vaguely, that if I ever got married, I'd recognize the shape of the day.
There would be people. Noise. An entire week of build-up. A huge, puffy dress full of rhinestones and tulle.
Someone would cry. Someone would make a speech that was slightly too long. The event would feel earned, even if imperfect.
This doesn't feel like that.
The room is quiet. Neutral. Efficient.
The judge stands in front of us with a folder already open, her glasses low on her nose, kind eyes steady and unhurried. ERS staff hover just outside the circle of attention—close enough to intervene, far enough to disappear.
Arthur stands beside me, solid and still, like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.
I adjust my stance to match his without thinking.
The judge speaks, her voice calm, practiced, and reassuring.
It's legal language. Clear instructions. Words that matter without poetry.
She asks us to step closer.
We do.
She prompts us to hold hands.
There’s a fractional delay before either of us moves.
Arthur's hand is warm. Larger than mine. Familiar in a way I wasn't expecting, considering how little we've ever touched.
The contact sends a sharp awareness up my arm.
It's not unpleasant, just present. Undeniable.
I keep my shoulders square.
I have the urge to adjust my grip until it’s acceptable. A professional reflex, the same one that used to straighten my posture when he entered a room.
I stop myself.
My hand is just my hand. I don't need to change it for him.
I keep my gaze forward.
The vows are not vows.
There are no promises of forever. No declarations of love or devotion.
Just consent. Agreement. Acknowledgment.
"Do you, Lindsay Marie Smith, take this man—"
When it's my turn, I hear my voice answer clearly.
"I do."
