Notwalkingdown the aisle.
Not evenrunningdecorously.
No.
Launching himself down the center runner like this is the hundred-meter final and there’s Olympic gold waiting at the altar. His miniature tuxedo jacket flaps behind him like a tiny, determined cape and I can’t help smiling. This is way too cute.
And god, he looks like Liora.
Same blond hair refusing to behave. Same button nose. Same cherubic face currently twisted with the grim concentration of a child completing an urgent mission. I watch Rory barreling up the altar steps, nearly losing a shoe. He recovers heroically, and drops the ring pillow directly at Riley’s feet.
Then he pivots.
No hesitation.
No lingering for applause and he sprints toward his grandmother’s outstretched arms, skidding to a stop only long enough to shriek?—
“I NEED A SNACK!”
At full volume.
The church dissolves into laughter an even I feel my shoulders loosen by half an inch. And I take another deep breath. Yeah, maybe Priya’s right.
No one is watching me and Colton.
No one is analyzing whether our marriage certificate is basically elaborate fiction wrapped in mutual panic management.
Riley stares down at the abandoned ring pillow like it contains active explosives and bends to retrieve it anyway. Rory says something to him on his way past—too quiet for me to catch—and Riley’s entire face changes. Actually changes.
One second: controlled, nervous groom.
Next second: raw, helpless grin. It feels weirdly intimate to witness. Like accidentally opening a bathroom door on somebody singing emotionally to eighties power ballads.
“You know,” Priya whispers beside me, “it’s cute how nervous Riley is.”
I nod.
Cute isn’t the exact word I’d use.
Terrified. Besotted. Mildly concussed by feelings.
Something that feels closer. I don’t know Riley well but thanks to TikTok, Instagram, and the terrifying efficiency of internet oversharing, I know he used to be some kind of legendary playboy until he met Liora.
“I genuinely never thought he’d get married,” Priya says softly. “But he fellsohard for Liora. I adore them.”
I nod but then I catch something underneath her smile when she says it.
Something quieter.
Something sadder.
From what I know, Priya’s been single for roughly a geological era, so maybe watching everyone fall in love, get engaged, get married, and start using phrases likeour favorite farmer’s marketis beginning to wear on her, and I get that deeply, though at least she has the dignity of being genuinely single. All I have right now is a fake marriage.
I watch the bridesmaids begin their procession in a coordinated wave of blush-colored fabric, matching bouquets, and the kind of flawless composure that suggests they’ve either spent months preparing for this exact moment.
They’re beautiful in that aggressively polished way, sleek ponytails, glowing skin operating at an almost supernatural luminosity level, and teeth so white they somehow manage to catch and reflect the candlelight. Each of them clutches her bouquet with concentration.
At the very end of the line, Rosie (Riley’s younger sister) adjusts the strap of her dress mid-step, breaking formation just enough to catch my eye to sneak me a tiny wave.
