His eyes fall closed. Frustration probably, rather than him imagining me in it.
“Please,” he says, opening them again. “Put it on. If for no other reason than to give the old goat something to smile at.”
“I’m not the entertainment,” I retort.
“You’re more entertaining than you think.”
“I’m not providing him with an opportunity to perve at me!”
“I don’t think you’re his type,” he adds, glancing back at the man in the matching pink silk vest and bow tie.
“All the more reason for you to wear it.”
“Lavender.” His hand suddenly covers mine. “Bottom line? He wants to be able to say this didn’t look fake. I think we need to give him that.”
Crunch time.
My wedding. On the terrace. Overlooking the Mediterranean.
In the time it took me to shower, braid my hair, pin it up, and slap a little makeup on, the terrace has been turned into some semblance of a wedding venue. Complete with a designated aisle.I’m not going to ask where the arch of greenery has come from or who scattered pink rose petals between the two rows of chairs.
Maybe he’s worried I might get lost on the way.
Burying my nose in my bouquet, I force back the wave of pleasure. My bouquet. A tasteful arrangement of cabbage roses with a delicate pink hue.Probably the same color as my cheeks, I think.
I look up to find my groom’s eyes studying me. He’s changed from his sharp suit into light-colored linen pants and a white open-necked shirt. His dark waves flutter in a sudden breeze, and my stomach tightens, remembering how it felt between my fingers.
No music plays as I step over the petals. There’s just the sound of birds chirruping in nearby trees and theflip-flopof my Havianas, which sound quite ridiculous. As if getting married in a bikini isn’t ridiculous enough.
Thank heavens, I packed my prettiest cover-up.
Raif takes my hand, and I hate how my tummy somersaults again. We turn toSeñor… whatever his name is, as he begins his well-practiced spiel.
“Raif and Lavender,” the registrar’s sonorous voice begins, pronouncing Raif’s name in an unusual way. All rollingr’sand prominenti. “I welcome you both on this most special of days, your wedding.”
I glance down and notice sock rings around my ankles.
Oh well. It was never going to be perfect this time around.
“… voluntarily entered into for life.”
My head snaps up at his proclamation, my eyes meeting Raif’s.
His head gives an almost imperceptible shake. Married for life. It’s what my parents signed up for, though I’ve never thought of it for myself. But I’m young, and I suppose I’ll get to do it again the right way another time. Heather and Archer. Whit and Mimi. Even Daniel is dating. If they can all find love, I’m sure I can.
Hopefully.
I’ll be a divorcée of course. Does that make a second marriage less special? Never mind, I suppose I can mop up my tears with fifty-pound notes because I’ll be a divorcée with a successful art gallery and an obscene-looking bank balance.
As my mind jumps around like a squirrel on crack cocaine, Raif seems so unaffected. Damn his poker face. It’s so bloody unfair becausse my heart is beating so hard, I’m surprised it’s not visible through the crochet loops.
I’m marrying a man I don’t know, and I’m annoyed that I seem to be the only disconcerted one. Ihateinequality. I always have. Maybe because I’ve always felt like I’m missing something. Some intrinsic puzzle piece that will make me the same as everyone else. But I’m not like other people because no one else I know seems to fuck up as much as me.
Before I can examine the thought (or talk myself out of this), my hand rises, and my mouth opens.
And all eyes are looking my way as I say, “Wait.”
7
