Own Me

by Lexi Scott

You’re strong. You’re passionate. You’re beautiful.

  And I absolutely cannot wait to kiss you.

  Adam

  Tears prick at my eyes as I lay the card neatly on top of the flowers. I run my fingers over the mass of perfectly gorgeous, faintly pink petals and lean down to smell the summertime fragrance contained in that little white box.

  I’ve been concentrating so much on how to fool everyone into thinking that Adam and I care about each other that I didn’t take the time to realize that maybe…maybe we actually do. But Adam is a scientist. Everything he does is so calculated and purposeful. Was the gift just for show?

  No. I can’t believe Adam doesn’t mean every word in this note.

  Instead of obsessing, I get ready for my wedding.

  I slip my feet into my sandals and buckle the rhinestone-covered straps. These aren’t the five-inch stunners I concocted in my dreams. My plain, eyelet dress isn’t the bead-adorned mermaid gown I cut out pictures of as a teenager.

  But the man who will be waiting at the other end of the aisle is the best surprise I’ve ever been lucky enough to have.

  I head around the front of the shack, where my mother and Marigold are in full panic mode. When they see me, they stop and squeal, gasp then tear up, and finally take out their cameras and snap a million pictures until I’m blushing and crying right along with them.

  “I’m going to be late to my own wedding,” I protest, but it’s half-hearted at best. I can’t remember the last time I saw my mother look at me with this proud shine in her eyes, and I want to drag it out as long as I can.

  “Late to your wedding?” my mother scoffs, coming over to fix my veil. Her hands are gentle on the lace, and her eyes are glassy with tears. “You are the wedding, tsatskeleh.”

  My father comes around the corner and clutches at his heart. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful girl,” he says, gathering me in his arms while Mom and Marigold cluck over how he’s crushing my veil and wrinkling my dress. I don’t care. His arms feel so good and strong.

  “Thank you, Dad. I love you,” I whisper, my face pressed to his neck.

  “Mi corazón, you don’t have to marry this boy if you don’t really want to.” He pulls me back, his dark eyes serious, his mouth a tight line under his neatly groomed moustache. “Are you sure?”

  I bite my lip, not wanting to fight with either of my parents at this moment, but so deeply sad another member of my family is trying to warn me away from marrying Adam.

  “I’m sure, Dad. He’s amazing. He’s the one for me.” I take his strong hands in mine and squeeze tight, letting him know I’m serious about this.

  He nods, straightens his suit—complete with his best bolo tie and fancy cowboy hat—and offers me his arm. My mother takes my face in her velvety hands and presses a kiss on each cheek. Her gray eyes, identical to mine, communicate a deep respect and happiness. I feel a glow from the pit of my stomach. My mother, at least, is proud of me and the decisions I’ve made. She winks and walks to the reception, her black skirt swaying as she goes.

  Marigold steps up, draped head to toe in yellow. Of course. Could Marigold come to a wedding in any color other than pure sunshine?

  “I’m so happy for you, sweetie. I can see from the look on your face that this is the right path for you. I love you so much.”

  I watch her pause to fix a garland as she hurries to her place, and then I look at my father, whose eyes are held open wide to stop the tears.

  “Daddy?” My voice is choked, and he yanks out a handkerchief and covers his eyes. He looks at me, his mouth trying to make the words he wants to say. I laugh wetly and shake my head. “You don’t have to—”

  “No,” he insists, holding my hand tightly. “You were always the one I worried over, Genevieve. Your sisters? Tough as nails, both of them. But there’s something more sensitive about you, always. That’s not a weakness. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that’s a weakness. Your strength is in the way you love.” He tightens his fingers around mine. “This boy—this man—I hope he realizes what a gift your love is. Never forget what a gift is it.”

  I let my father crush me in another hug then the music starts up, the slow, sweet wail of Lydia’s violin leading me down the long aisle. My father walks slowly, proudly. His pace helps me keep time, and I lean hard on his arm. The tiny group made up of every beloved family member and all our friends stands and smiles, but their faces are a blur. Every face is a blur.

  Except his.

  Down at the end of the impossibly long aisle, Adam waits for me under the chuppah, his hands clasped behind his back, his face blank with terror.

  Until he catches my eye.

  His forehead furrows and he dips his head. He rubs a hand over his face and looks up, eyes wide. And I realize my scientist husband-to-be was wiping away tears.

  Over me.

  My father hands me to Adam, and all I can feel is the press of Adam’s hands over mine. All I can see are his eyes, so beautifully green, locked on my face like he can’t drink me in fast enough. He dips his head close to mine.

  “You look amazing,” he says softly, and I watch his lips form the words like they’re moving in slow motion.

  I feel a rush of heat wash over me and hold my flowers to my nose, breathing the scent of my bouquet deep. Adam glances at the flowers, and I smile, letting him know how much I truly appreciate his gesture. Lydia’s violin quiets, and Cece clears her throat.

  My sister got some kind of quick legal certificate and the blessing of a very liberal local rabbi so she could officiate the wedding, and she’s taking it so seriously, it clenches my heart. Since the second I asked her, she’s been holed away in her room, doing research and putting this all together.

  Just like we practiced, I let go of Adam’s hands and walk around him once, watching the way he turns his head so he never loses sight of me. Goose bumps prickle up and down my spine and arms, and I’m afraid our guests will hear the way my knees knock together.

  Cece reads from the book of Hosea. “And, as our ancestors did in the past, so we do today. The bride circles her groom three times as Hosea proclaimed. ‘And I will betroth you to Me forever, and I will betroth you to Me with righteousness and with justice and with ever-loving kindness and with mercy.’”

  I complete the third circuit and find myself facing Adam again. He takes my hands and his smile vibrates through me.

  “Adam, do you have a ring to present to Genevieve?” Cece asks, her dark hair flitting in the cool, salty wind that blows in from the ocean.

  Enzo steps forward and drops a shiny gold band into Adam’s palm. Adam takes my hand in his and recites the words Cece made him memorize.

  “Behold, you are consecrated to me with this ring, according to the laws of Moses and Israel.”

  He slides the band onto my left ring finger. I glance down, my body shaking with the reality of this moment. I meet his eyes, barely hearing Cece ask if I have a ring.

  Lydia must hand me Adam’s band.

  I must say the ancient Hebrew words from the Song of Solomon: “Ani l’dodi, ve dodi li.”

  I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.

  The same words we had inscribed on my band by the shaky-handed old jeweler who sold us our rings.

  I must slide Adam’s ring on his finger.

  But I don’t remember doing any of it.

  We exchange the vows, ancient and formal. Nothing sentimental, no personal anecdotes or little stories about how and when we knew we’d be together forever.

  But that’s good. It’s exactly what we need. We’re not interested in the flowery, mushy stuff. Adam and I want this to be legitimate, believable. The words are the same ancient words Jewish couples have been reciting for generations. No one can question the validity of this ceremony, no matter how quickly it was thrown together.

  “Cohen, the lazo,” Cece says, her voice solemn. I look over at her, and she winks at me, a secret smile on her lips, and my heart blossoms with happi
ness.

  Cohen walks forward and loops the long strip of white satin around Adam’s wrists, then mine, securing it in a complicated figure eight pattern.

  Cohen takes a second to rub his hand on my arm. “I love you, Gen,” he says quietly, clearing his throat and avoiding my eyes. He gives Adam a long, hard stare, and goes back to his place—ironically—at Adam’s side.

  My throat closes up and I stare at the glinting white fabric binding my hands and Adam’s together. Cece reads the rest of the verse from the Song of Solomon.

  I watch Adam’s lips move in sync with her reading.

  “‘My beloved speaks and says to me: Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance,’” she reads, and I look at Adam, his expression so completely serious as he listens.

  “‘Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of the cliff, let me see your face, let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet, and your face is comely. Set me as a seal upon your heart and seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy cruel as the grave.’”

  Set me as a seal upon your heart and a seal upon your arm.

  Cece’s voice is sweet and sure, and I feel like dropping to my knees right here at the altar. What are we doing? Why are we doing this? Can I be the seal upon his heart?

  I search Adam’s face, wishing the answer were there, right in front of me.

  “‘Its flashes are flashes of fire, a most vehement flame,’” my sister reads, her voice rising and falling with the emotion of the beautiful words. Adam yanks the lazo tight, pulling me close to him, and he murmurs the words as Cece does.

  His voice drops so only I can hear, and his words are the only thing my ears catch. His eyes are blazing, and his voice is raw, and so hot it sizzles against my ears.

  “‘Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. If a man offered for love all the wealth of his house, it would be utterly scorned. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.’”

  The words echo from the depths of time, but the way he says them makes them feel immediate. Like he means them now and is the first man who ever said them to any woman. Like he’s letting me know that he possesses me and that I own him completely.

  And I want it. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything else.

  Ever.

  Cece is reciting the Sheva Brachot, the Seven Blessings, and I try to listen, but my head is full of Adam and this marriage and what it means to be his.

  To be his beloved.

  And to have him as mine.

  I watch him drink from the wineglass Cece hands him, and I turn it so I drink from the same place. Which is tricky, with our wrists bound, but I want that. I want to bind myself to him in every way, even the tiniest one.

  Cece wraps the empty glass in a white napkin and places it near Adam’s foot. He raises his leg and drops his foot down, smashing the glass with an explosive burst.

  “Mazel tov!” the crowd shouts, cheering and clapping.

  Enzo taps Adam on the shoulder just as my husband is about to lean in to kiss me. My brother shakes the arras—the thirteen gold coins given from a groom to a bride in Mexico—into Adam’s hand, and Adam passes them to mine. I close my fist around them.

  “I trust you,” he says, and I can read in his eyes that he means it. He means it with his entire heart. “I trust you with my life, Genevieve.”

  “I won’t let you down,” I promise, my lips shaking with the weight of the words I’m saying.

  “Can I kiss you?” He tugs me closer, drawing the silk rope around our wrists so tight, it bites into my skin.

  “What have you been waiting for?”

  The words are hardly out of my mouth and he has his mouth on mine, his lips pressing hot and sweet. I’m sure the crowd is cheering. I think Lydia promised to play music for us to walk out to. I’m guessing my family and friends want to congratulate us.

  But all I can feel, all I can focus on, is Adam—his mouth so sure on mine, his body so close, his heart handed over to me with no regret, no hesitation.

  In this moment I realize I want him, not for convenience, not as a bonded friend. I want him to be my forever husband, my beloved, my soul mate. I know right now he’s just holding up his end of a promise, but I want him to see that we can be more to each other. I want to convince him we’re meant for each other.

  I will just have to make him fall in love with me. I will. There’s no other option.

  And it shouldn’t be that hard—like Marigold has told me a thousand times, friends make the best lovers.

  Chapter Nine

  Genevieve

  “We maybe should have just sprung for the hotel room?” I say, looking around at the room I’ve lived in since I was a child. It seems even smaller with Adam’s large frame in the doorway and his duffel taking up half of my full size bed.

  “It’s fine. I mean, we’ll be moving into our own place tomorrow. It’s just one night,” he says, trying to reassure me that he isn’t the least bit disappointed that he’ll be spending his wedding night at his bride’s parents’ house.

  In a room that has a snow globe collection and stacks of dog-eared romance novels with half-clothed couples on metallic covers.

  “Yeah, it would have just been a waste of money, really. We’d have to stay all the way across town and get up even earlier to drive to the apartment…and…” I look up at him, his green eyes still bright in the dim room. I swallow and squeak out, “We’re just going to crash anyway, right?”

  Adam nods, but looks less than sincere in his agreement.

  I feel alien and exposed in this space I’ve known intimately for my whole life, but now will never sleep in again. My nerves are jittery from having Adam in this space that holds all the raw ghosts of the girl he doesn’t know anything about. The girl I’m not sure I want him to know anything about.

  “We could still go, though? If you want? We can find a hotel with a vac—”

  He takes a step into the room.

  The room that once housed my extensive collection of pony figurines and a secret stash of photos of Deo. The room that once had posters of boy bands tacked to the walls and has the same bed that I buried my face in when I cried over too many stupid high school dramas, too many times. The room that I’ll be sharing tonight with my husband.

  “Gen, it’s really okay. We’re both spent as it is. Let’s just call it a night.”

  It’s my turn to nod. “Okay. I’m just going to brush my teeth. And change,” I say, awkwardly.

  This is the man I married today. I should be able to strip this dress off in front of him without feeling nervous. Instead, I’m stealthily trying to dig a camisole and pair of shorts out of my dresser drawer so I can change down the hall.

  It shouldn’t be so weird.

  I like Adam. If I’m completely honest, I more than like him. Much more.

  There’s a part of me that’s dying to know what he’s hiding under all of those lab coats, a part that’s dying to touch him. But he hasn’t made a move, so I guess we’re just not there…yet.

  I brush my teeth, then debate whether or not to wash the makeup from my face. Adam’s never seen me without a full face of makeup. I guess it’s too late for him to back off based on that, though. So, I pull my hair back into a sloppy ponytail and scrub off the thick layer of wedding makeup.

  After I’ve changed, I tiptoe back down the hall to my room, hoping I don’t wake anyone else in the house. That’s all I need: a run-in with Mom on my wedding night.

  Mom and Dad were the ones who suggested Adam and I stay at the house to begin with—and promised they’d stay out of our way. Lucky for them, this is probably going to be a wedding night that goe
s in the record books for having the least action ever.

  I pause outside my bedroom door, which is now closed. Even though it’s my own room, I don’t know if I should knock, or just go in.

  I crack the door enough to see Adam, in a pair of jogging shorts and white V-neck T-shirt, sitting in the purple polka dot armchair in the corner. Seeing him dressed down, not in a lab coat, or a shirt and tie, finally makes me get why he’s always mentioning my outrageous outfits, and how I look better when things are simpler. His feet are propped up on the matching ottoman and his eyes are closed. I clear my throat and his eyes flick open.

  “Hey, sorry about that,” he says. He rubs a hand across his cheek and then his eyes. “Guess I was more worn out than I thought.”

  “That’s okay. I’m pretty beat, too.”

  I pull back the blankets from my bed and slip my legs under the familiar sheets. As awkward as this is for me, it has to be a thousand times worse for Adam, forced out of his element—the lab, where he knows exactly what’s going on and what to do—and stuck instead in this house full of virtual strangers with a wife he barely knows.

  He watches me reposition the pillows behind me before asking, “Did you want me to turn the light off for you?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  So polite. So timid. So not how I envisioned my wedding night.

  He gets up from the chair and crosses the room. I can see the outline of his firm chest under his thin shirt, and wonder why I never really noticed how fit he is.

  He turns the lamp off. I see his dark frame move back toward the chair.

  “Adam, you can come to bed with me. I mean, I know it’s my parents’ house, but we’re married now, so it’s okay. I mean, if you want to.”

  He doesn’t reply, but I feel his weight shift the bed as he slides in next to me.

  “We are married now.” His voice is quiet, and I think I hear a smile backing it. My heart hammers so hard, I’m afraid he’ll feel it pulsing through the mattress springs.

  The darkness acts as our safety net, the shield that stops us from confronting a line we aren’t ready to cross. It makes the conversation lighter. Easier.