A lone classical guitarist strikes up Mendelssohn's Wedding March, and at the first notes, tears well in my eyes.
I didn't expect to be this emotional at Kate's fake wedding. Or is it real, since she is in love with the guy? I’ve stopped trying to figure it out.
The pale wooden platform in the Magnolia Grand's garden, the white canopy with tulle fluttering in the breeze, the white rose petals scattered on the red carpet aisle — and behind it all, the Starlight River through the ancient oaks, golden in the late afternoon light — make my chest ache with a longing for something I can’t name.
Somehow the Hastings family, Carolyn, and Kate have thrown together a heartbreakingly beautiful wedding in only a few weeks. It’s truly impressive.
And there’s Max. In his black tuxedo he looks rakish, dignified, and like a whole, delicious snack. We're standing at the far end of the garden, waiting for our cue.
He turns to me, and his blue-green eyes catch the late light. “You seem so much better today.”
“High pain tolerance, apparently.” I glance toward the altar where Damien is chewing his thumbnail. “I think I'll be able to stay awake past ten tonight.”
He grins. “High bar.”
“I set achievable goals.”
My eyes go back to the audience. Every chair is filled, and a shocking number of guests are wearing Birkenstocks. The strains of the guitar tug at that place in my chest reserved for overly emotional television commercials and certain romance novels. It's almost sunset and the golden light is perfection. I glance down, and there’s Steve with his little adorable piggy face, in a bow tie, panting happily.
I wish I had my camera. Not my phone for a quick post, but my actual camera, the one I'd packed carefully. I make a private promise to come back to this garden in better light.
But that's not why my eyes are stinging.
It's Kate. It's the way she's going to walk down this aisle toward a man who married her out of kindness and somewhere along the way fell genuinely, obviously in love with her. It's the fact that this whole weird, thrown-together, slightly chaotic wedding is more real than anything I've been doing online for the past three years.
“Hey,” Max whispers. “Are you crying?”
I swallow the thickness in my throat. “Um. Maybe a little. I didn't think it would hit me this hard.”
I can't tell him I didn't think a fake wedding would affect me at all. But now I know how Kate feels about Damien, and the whole ceremony seems loaded with everything she can't say out loud.
Max reaches into his tuxedo pocket and produces a folded handkerchief. He holds it out without a word.
I take it, dab my eyes, and start to hand it back. He waves it off. “Keep it. I suspect you'll need it again before this is over.”
“You're a gentleman, but no, I’ll be fine.” I hand it back to him.
He leans close, lips near my ear. “You look absolutely beautiful, by the way. The most beautiful woman here. I mean that. Truly.”
I shoot him a look and glance pointedly at the scooter.
“Whatever,” he says. He pauses, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Your hair piled up like that is extremely sexy. And yes, before you ask, your butt looks great in that dress too.”
I giggle. “Pervert. But thank you. And you clean up well.”
“We’re going to knock ‘em dead as we go down the aisle.”
Still grinning, we turn toward the minister, who nods at us from thirty feet away. Max rests his hand on the small of my back, steady and warm, and we're off.
I hadn't rehearsed with the scooter. I'm terrified of rolling into the guests, crushing the rose petals, or somehow taking out the front row with sharp turn.
But Max's hand stays at my back, and my confidence grows with every foot of red carpet.
This might be my most objectively ridiculous moment. And somehow it doesn't feel that way at all. It feels…sweet. Lovely. Romantic.
A breakthrough arrives somewhere around the midpoint of the aisle: this isn't about me. It's not my day. It's Kate's day, and I love her, and I would roll down this aisle on a scooter through a blizzard if that's what she needed.
I catch a few people holding up phones in our direction. A flicker of anxiety — will this end up online? But then I look at the expressions on people's faces, and they're not mocking. They're just happy. The whole room is pure joy.
No one here knows me. No one cares about my brand. Everyone is dressed informally — Hawaiian shirts, sundresses, people with sand still on their feet. Nobody here has the faintest interest in my engagement metrics.
It's startling how much that makes me relax.
I grin at Damien as we reach the altar. He leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek, then wraps Max in a hug. Then Tate and Remy pile in, and they're like a heap of very well-dressed man-bears. It's sweet to see how much the Hastings brothers love each other.
And when Kate walks down the aisle alone, all of it falls away — my ankle, my scooter, my anxiety about phones — because my best friend looks like a radiant, entirely perfect angel, and she is getting married.
Max quietly passes me his handkerchief. I drench it.
