Page 2 of Chasing Clouds

I tear my eyes from the sight before me and see my father standing next to the last pew with his hand outstretched. The magic of the moment fades away as I realize the beauty is only surface deep, and this wedding isn’t what I’ve dreamed about. It’s for show, not for love. His face doesn’t shine with adoration and happiness for his daughter on her wedding day; it’s full of arrogance. He’s not smiling, but his lip is curled in a way that appears more like a sneer, and it’s this tiny expression that reminds me I’m just a pawn for others to move as they please. My heart sinks.

Maybe Clare is right. Maybe my loyalties to my family are misguided. Being loyal implies the presence of support, trustworthiness, and faithfulness, but not a single family member reciprocates those things to me. Instead, they antagonize, lie, and boss me around.

Not wanting to waste any more time, my father walks over to me, wraps his arm around mine, and pulls. As if on autopilot, I let him lead me down the aisle. I was at peace with my decision, but now, after one conversation, I feel like this might just be my death march.

The entire church is packed, both sides of the sanctuary and the upper balcony filled to the brim. Along with the ghosts of my ancestors, I can feel every set of eyes on me. The weight of judgment falls upon my back and shoulders, and although some look happy for me and are probably thinking, She looks so beautiful, I know others are mocking me behind fictitious smiles.

From left to right, up, down, and all around, I’m assaulted by a stampede of emotions. Panic becomes the strongest, and then nausea sets in.

“I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” my father says just loud enough for others to hear as he squeezes my trembling hand. Maybe he is, or maybe he isn’t; I don’t know. I lost the ability to really believe anything he says five years ago. What I wouldn’t give right this moment to have the man in my memories and not the man currently walking me down the aisle.

Patrick moves into my line of sight. Terror streaks through my body, and the crowd becomes a blur. He isn’t exactly smiling—more like smirking—and my legs begin to shake.

Feeling the change in my steps, my father wraps his arm around my waist to steady me, and my breathing picks up. The air won’t come in fast enough, and my lungs feel as if they’re on fire. Squeezing the bouquet, I pull it against my chest and press as hard as I can.

Can’t people see there’s something wrong with me? Can’t they see this isn’t normal bride behavior? But then again, I’ve never been one for crowds, and they must think it’s just nerves.

Sliding my eyes off Patrick, I find Ali, my best friend from New York, and Brittany, my cousin. Ali’s eyes are sad, and she’s smiling at me in a way that screams pity. Brittany isn’t smiling at all—she’s crying. It’s then I realize I’m crying, too.

Moving my gaze back to Patrick, he sees the tears, and his expression falls.

For months I’ve been telling myself I can do this. I know how to do it. I was born and raised in this life, and I really don’t know any other. That doesn’t mean I don’t secretly want more, the thing every girl dreams about—true love—but right now, right this moment, looking into Patrick’s eyes, I feel nothing but fear. This can’t be all there is for me, can it?

I do deserve more, don’t I?

Then I remember.

I remember the real reason I’m here, and regret sinks in.

I know why. He knows why. Hell, everyone in this room probably does. And, here I am.

With his eyes locked on mine, his carefully constructed wall slips, and staring back at me is the boy I’ve known most of my life. Before all of this—the expectations, the planning, the political aspirations, the lying—we were friends, and underneath it all, even after all of this, he still wishes I were someone else, and he knows I desperately want to be anywhere else but here.

As my father and I reach the end of the aisle, the strings stop, and a deafening silence blankets the inside of the church. Patrick and I continue to stare at each other, lengthening the moment until my father clears his throat. This is his way of letting us know it’s time, and Patrick’s eyes slide from me to him as if commanded. The muscles around his eyes tighten as the two men communicate nonverbally, and I watch Patrick’s wall re-erect as he slips into the role he’s meant to play. His lips twitch at one corner, the telltale sign of a smirk, and just like that, whatever emotional moment we were having is over. He smells victory for the one thing he wants most in his life—his career.

“Who gives this woman to this man in marriage?” the minister calls out.

“Her mother and I do,” my father says.

Turning me to face him, he gently lifts my veil, kisses my cheek, and then returns the sheer curtain to its proper place. He avoids making eye contact, and given our opposing stances on this marriage, I understand why.

Stepping toward Patrick, my father shakes his hand and then places my right hand in his left. Patrick’s hand is cold, and I find this fitting since he’s become so coldhearted and disconnected. A shiver runs through me.

My soon-to-be husband leads me up the steps to the altar. Ali reaches over for my bouquet, my other bridesmaids fluff out the back of my dress, and we come to stand in front of the minister.

“Please be seated.”

There is a soft chorus of clothes rustling behind us, but not a single person says a word. Brittany sniffles from over on my left, and Patrick’s grip on my hand tightens.

“Dear friends and family, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Patrick Easton Walker and Camille Odette Whitley in marriage. Over the years, these two have built a friendship and a commitment to each other that grew, matured, and eventually turned into love. Today, they have decided to create a new bond together, a new sense of family as they become husband and wife. If any of you has reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Silence fills the sanctuary, and it’s at that moment I realize this is truly wrong and I desperately don’t want it. I thought I could do it. I thought I’d come to terms with the situation and could be loyal to my family, but as the lump in my throat grows larger, I know I can’t. Waves of panic crash into me, each one stronger than the last, and my heart pounds so hard it’s as if it’s trying to beat right out of my chest. The fallout will be excruciating and irreparable, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

I don’t want to get married to him. In fact, I don’t want to get married at all.

Looking for a way out, I glance around the altar toward both of the side doors. Patrick pulls on my hand to grab my attention, and his dark eyes sharpen just enough to tell me he’s onto me. His fingers tighten around mine even more, as if his hold alone could keep me from fleeing, and his whole body tenses. There’s a warning in his stare, and it causes me to pause. An unprecedented feeling courses through me: fear. I’m afraid for more reasons than I can count.

The minister flips a page in his book, and the silence that follows seems to stretch for years. Is this extra time my chance? Am I being given one? Can I walk away? My eyes again shift to the side door, and I can’t help but wonder how many steps there are from the altar to freedom. If I took this chance, would anyone try to stop me? Or would they let me go?