It’s his tell. The microscopic expression that means he’s uncomfortable, restless, trying very hard not to crawl out of his own skin right now. Which means he hates standing up there almost as much as I hate sitting here.
Priya follows my gaze and exhales softly. “Shit. Your fake husband cleans up ridiculously well.”
“If you say ‘I’d hit that,’ I will cause a scene in this church.”
She presses her lips together dramatically and mimes zipping them shut.
“Also,” I add, grinning, “pretty sure you’re not supposed to swear in a church.”
Her manicured hand flies to her mouth. “Oh fuck.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and Priya immediately dissolves into giggles beside me. And maybe it’s the nerves or the flowers or the fact that Colton’s friends somehow folded me into their lives without hesitation, but warmth spreads through my chest anyway. Because sitting here with Priya feels... easy.
Natural.
Like maybe I belong.
And honestly?
I can’t remember the last time I felt that way. Not when it came to a specific friend group.
The organist launches into something aggressively ecclesiastical which is heavy on the pipes. Heavy enough that the floral arrangements lining the pews visibly tremble in sympathy.
Not that I know anything about flowers but I think it’s lilies and calla lilies. Honestly, there are flowers everywhere—expensive, dramatic flowers arranged with the kind of confidence only people with huge wedding budgets possess.
Around me, everyone rises in a rustling, synchronized wave. Chiffon swishes. Heels scrape polished stone. Somewhere behind me sniffles preemptively and we all seem to pivot toward the aisle as one collective organism.
Then there’s a pause.
A long, deliberate, theatrical pause.
Because weddings are performances, highly curated emotional productions with assigned costumes and implied audience participation. And every audience knows the cues.
Stand.
Turn.
Smile reverently.
Pretend not to calculate how long until cocktails.
Well, I haven’t been to many weddings. Two, maybe.
One of them barely counts because I was eleven and mostly concerned with stealing sugared almonds off centerpiece tables.
The only one I remember vividly was my cousin’s and she cried ugly through her vows. Her husband cried even harder. My uncle fainted during family photos because it was August and nobody thought hydration was important.
Love, apparently, is dehydrating.
“Stop being so nervous,” Priya cuts through my rambling thoughts.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m trying. I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”
Silence falls across the church and we turn to watch the ring bearer appearing. Or rather—Rory appears.
At speed.
Absolute speed.
