Yes.
“No.” I really didn’t want to discuss this around Clarissa.
“Are you sure?” My sister’s forehead creased. “You seem mad.”
“I’m fine.”
“I just wanted to make the shoot the best for Birdie,” she pleaded her case. “It will be a lot better with a bride and groom.”
“I know.” I didn’t want my sister to stress. It was a good idea to have a groom, and my issues were my issues. “I just hate taking pictures, and you know I hate group photos even more.”
“Oh.” Bailey exhaled with genuine relief. “Okay.”
It was true. I wasn’t lying, and she knew that. I didn’t like any photos, but any photos that I was in where other people were relying on me to look good caused me additional stress.
“The pictures look incredible,” Clairissa said before closing her eyes, indicating I needed to do the same.
Once Clarissa finished and gave Bailey the nod, I asked, “What do I have to do? I just want to get this done.”
Bailey’s lips rolled inward as she inhaled through her nose. I knew that lip-roll/inhale combo. I wasn’t going to like this. She cracked open the door to the sanctuary and waved, giving someone a signal, then closed it again and handed me a bouquet that was sitting on a side table. “You need to walk down the aisle. Zion finished shooting the kids, and Birdie is taking them back to the shop to get a snack.”
Dang, how long had I taken back at the shop? I thought it had only been a few minutes, but it had to have been closer to thirty.
I heard music start playing. It wasn’t just any music. It was the song. Our song. It wasn’t the Billy Joel version, though, it was Adele’s version of “Make You Feel My Love.” This has to be a fever dream. This can’t be real.
Was I actually having a nervous breakdown?
“There’s music? Why is there music?” I asked.
She smiled an “I’m sorry” smile. “Zion likes to set a mood.”
“Whose playlist is this?”
“Zion’s why?” Her brow furrowed.
FML, that’s why.
14
BILLIE
I could feelthe pulse in my neck, frantic and insistent, counting down the seconds to when Bailey and Clarissa would swing open the church doors and shove me, literally or figuratively, down the aisle.
Was it normal to sweat through the lining of a wedding dress when one was not actually getting married? The air between my skin and the fabric was a sauna. My hands, for once, were not holding a tablet or a phone and gripped the cascading bouquet so tightly I risked decapitating the peonies. The stems were trembling in sync with my hands, and I was genuinely worried I might faint, or worse, vomit. Maybe both, in that order.
It was a photo shoot. A. Photo. Shoot. My rational brain repeated this in time with my heartbeat, but my body clearly had not gotten the memo. Why did it feel so real? Why did the low, romantic strains of Adele feel like they were wrapping around my ribcage, squeezing until I was lightheaded and giddy and sick all at once?
“Okay.” Bailey and Clarissa opened the doors, and everything started to go black.
I shut my eyes for a split second, like maybe if I didn’t see the church, the aisle, or Adam, it would all dissolve. No luck. The inside of my eyelids were a kaleidoscope of nervous colors, and when I opened them, the scene was even more precious, more charged.
The old church was candlelit for ambiance, a detail that would have made me snort derisively under any other circumstances, but today I was all anxiety and wet eyes, and the candlelight just made everything softer and more dangerous. Adam stood at the end of the aisle in a tux, and my legs almost gave out.
Why did he have to look so—damn, so much like himself? He’d never cared about clothes, but he wore the tux like it was part of him, the cut sharp off his broad shoulders but the sleeves just a shade too long, as though he’d borrowed it last minute, like he did everything else in life. He was fidgeting with the cuffs, not looking up, not scanning the room for me, just staring at the floor as if he could burn a hole through it.
My mouth was dry. I wanted a glass of water. A bottle of vodka. A large, conveniently timed earthquake.
“Okay, just walk towards me. Slowly,” Zion called out.
