by Tawna Fenske
I know Beth is hoping I’ll come back with something catty to say, but I’ve got nothing so far.
“Nice place,” Sean murmurs. “What’s the history?”
“It was built in 1912 as one of the city’s first Presbyterian churches,” I tell him. “It’s changed hands a bunch of times since then, and now it’s more of an event center than a church”
“That stone work is incredible.”
“It came from an old rock quarry beside the Deschutes River,” I tell him. “That’s why it’s called the Old Stone Church.”
“It’s amazing.” He smiles and leans closer. “So are you. Did I mention I’m nuts about that dress?”
Heat pulses through me, but I fight back a self-satisfied smile. “Once or twice.”
His knuckles graze mine in the space between us, and I hold my breath hoping he’ll take my hand. “I should probably apologize for presuming you’d need a date to the wedding,” he says. “You would have been just fine going stag or with your girlfriends, huh?”
“I would have,” I admit, catching a whisper of “so hot” from my friends seated on the other side of me. “But I’m glad you offered.”
“So am I,” he says.
A change in the music signals the start of the ceremony, so we stop talking and turn our attention to the aisle. The groom strides through the door, dashing in his charcoal tux. He’s followed by a pack of groomsmen that includes two of his brothers and a couple guys I don’t recognize. Each is paired with a bridesmaid bedecked in floor-length taffeta in sparkling cinnamon. I don’t know any of them, but the flower girl I recognize as a niece of the groom. She’s chubby-cheeked and adorable, hurling fistfuls of rose petals like a soldier chucking grenades.
Da-da-da-da-da!
The first notes of the wedding march propel us to our feet, and we turn to face the bride standing in the doorway. She grips a bouquet of peach-colored roses in one hand and her father’s arm in the other.
I’d never tell Beth, but the bride is a knockout. One of those flawless complexions that looks like she’s been airbrushed, and her dark hair cascades down her back in an artful array of ringlets. A photographer clicks off a few shots before ducking into the pew behind us. The bride sails past, her expression serene and lovely.
But it’s the groom who gets the biggest smile of all from her. He’s absolutely beaming as she covers the distance between them, her bouquet trembling in her hands. As she steps up beside Greg, his eyes glitter with emotion. He mouths the words “You are perfect,” and my chest gets tight.
It’s a beautiful moment, but I can’t help feeling the weight on her shoulders. Thinking about what it’s like to have someone look at you as though you hung the moon, and he expects you to keep holding it there until your arms fall off.
“Dearly beloved—”
The minister kicks things off in the usual fashion, with a spiel about good times and bad, about friendship and laughter and joy and sorrow. I’m only half-listening, since I’m hyper-conscious of Sean beside me. He’s wearing some sort of woodsy cologne that makes me want to devour him like a cupcake, and his thigh is solid and warm pressed against mine.
“Greg and Alien,” the minister drones. “What you’re doing here today is—”
Wait, what?
Sean leans close and gives me a puzzled look. “Alien? Isn’t her name Aline?” he whispers.
I glance down at the program in my lap, scrolling through the rows of flowery script. I slide a thumb down the page until I locate the name Aline Nicole Andrews next to the title Bride.
“I think so?” I whisper. “This font is a little weird.”
“I suppose odds are slim someone named their kid Alien.”
I bite my lip and try not to giggle. “Let’s hope.”
Sean squeezes my hand, and I wonder if he’s fighting as hard as I am not to bust up laughing.
At the front of the church, the minister drones on. He’s at least four hundred years old, and has the glassy-eyed look of a guy who may have knocked back a couple shots of whiskey before the service. From the look of the best man, they may have attended the same happy hour. I hope neither of them passes out before this service ends.
“At this time,” the minister says, “Greg and Alien wish to symbolically mark their union with the lighting of the unity candle.”
The bride and groom step forward to focus on their fiery task, and if they’re fazed by the minister’s faux pas, they don’t show it. They grip their candles with single-minded determination, moving toward the large pillar that serves as the unity candle.
It’s possible they’re missing the minister’s name flub over the shrill wail of the vocalist posing beside the organ. She’s belting out her solo like this is an American Idol audition, and it takes me a second to figure out the song.
“‘You Must Love Me,’” I whisper. “Isn’t this a Madonna song?”
Sean listens a moment, then nods. “It’s from that movie ‘Evita.’ Isn’t it from a scene about her dying?”
“Huh.” Okay, so I’m definitely getting fodder to report back to Beth. I almost feel bad about that.
“You must love me,” the vocalist sings, then shifts to sotto voice and leans down to the organist. “Keep going,” she chirps in a nervous, sing-song voice, “something’s wrong.”
Sean looks at me. I frown at the singer, pretty sure that’s not the line.
I glance from the confused-looking organist to where the bride and groom are struggling with the unity candle. The groom shoves his hand inside the glass holder, and I hold my breath hoping he doesn’t get stuck.
“…can’t get the wick…” the groom mutters.
A groomsman steps forward and pulls out a pocketknife. I lean close to Sean and stifle a laugh. “You know it’s a farm-kid wedding when someone busts out a Leatherman.”
He squeezes my hand as the groom finishes digging out the wick, then sets the candle back on the stand.
Please light, I channel silently to the candle. And please don’t catch her veil on fire.
A small cheer goes up in the audience as the candle finally blazes to life. I look down and realize I’ve been squeezing Sean’s fingers like a goat milking machine. I loosen my grip and breathe a sigh of relief as the bride and groom turn away from the candles and move back to the front of the church.
“I like that,” Sean whispers. “That they left their candles burning instead of snuffing them out.”
I’m surprised he’d notice such a small detail. “Me, too,” I whisper back. “I wonder if it’s symbolic or they forgot.”
“Let’s say symbolic,” he says. “It’s a cool idea.”
It is a cool idea, and I feel a pinch of jealousy remembering he was engaged before. How far did he and Sarah get with the planning? Did they talk about things like snuffing their candles versus leaving them lit as a symbol of individuality?
Another ripple of jealousy moves through my chest, which is annoying. Who the hell do I think I am?
“The exchanging of rings is a symbolic ritual that dates back to—”
Sean squeezes my hand. “Uh-oh,” he whispers.
“What?”
He nods toward the front of the church. “Is it just me, or does the groom look panicked?”
I glance at Greg, and sure enough, he’s white as a ghost. But it’s not the look of a man with cold feet. He’s clutching the bride’s hands in a way that suggests something else is going on.
I wince. “Ten bucks says he forgot the ring.”
“Ooof.” Sean shakes his head in sympathy as Aline’s expression shifts. I’m pretty sure she just figured out what’s going on, and she’s not thrilled. She mouths something to him, but I can’t make out the words. Greg mouths something back and shakes his head.
There’s a soft click as someone switches on a microphone, probably anticipating the vows. That’s how the whole church is treated to the bride’s loud pronouncement:
“I am not just going to fake it.”
>
I bring a hand to my mouth, determined not to laugh. I fail when Lily leans over and whispers in my ear. “I am so including that line in my vows someday.”
I lose it then, which is fine since the rest of the congregation is now chuckling. The helpless groom looks to his best man, then digs in his pocket and hands over his car keys.
Sean turns to watch the best man sprint down the aisle. “I’m impressed by how much stuff these guys have in their pockets.”
“Oh, I guarantee at least a few people in this room are packing firearms.”
“There’s a comforting thought.”
The best man hustles out the door, while the bride whispers something to the vocalist. The organ starts up again, and the singer launches into an upbeat rendition of Meghan Trainor’s “Dear Future Husband.” It’s an interesting choice, and I feel a little fluttery when they get to the part about him loving her even when she’s acting crazy. Lord knows whoever I marry someday will have his work cut out for him.
My girlfriends are chattering quietly beside us. At one point, Lily catches my eye and points to Sean.
“Hot,” she mouths, giving me a thumbs up.
I turn to see Sean smiling down at me. “I love that everyone’s being cool about this,” he says. “Even the bride and groom are pretty chill.”
I swing my gaze back to the front of the church, cheered to see he’s right. Greg and Aline are holding hands and sharing the sort of private laughter you only see from couples who really, really dig each other. I’ve watched my parents do it, and I always hope someday I’ll have that for myself.
I don’t realize I’m squeezing Sean’s hand again until he leans close and brushes the hair from my ear. “That’s what I meant,” he whispers.
I turn to face him, stomach flipping over at the sight of those green eyes. “What?”
“When I said the secret is work,” he whispers. “Getting mad right now would be the easiest thing in the world for them. Blaming someone else? Simple. Doing the opposite is what’s hard. It takes work to decide you’re going to love someone even when things aren’t as perfect as they were in your head.”
I swallow hard, not sure when my throat swelled up tight. My eyelids prickle, and I don’t know if I’m more moved by this ceremony or by the words Sean’s just spoken.
Or maybe it’s Sean himself. How long can I keep pretending I’m not falling for him? That this is just a casual flirtation?
I grip his hand, wondering if he feels the same.
The best man comes racing up the aisle with a ring box clutched in his fist. Everyone applauds as he hands it to groom, and the ceremony continues.
I’m sure there are vows in there somewhere, and maybe even another Alien reference from the minister, but I hear none of it. All I hear are Sean’s words echoing in my mind.
It takes work to decide you’re going to love someone even when things aren’t as perfect as they were in your head.
I swallow back the lump in my throat, wondering when I got so emotional. I’m not a crier, not by any stretch of the imagination. I glance at Sean, and he gives me a smile that makes my whole chest feel like a puddle of melted candlewax.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the minister announces. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Mr. Gregory David Lucas and Mrs. Aline Nicole Andrews-Lucas.”
“Oof,” Sean whispers as we get to our feet to watch the newlyweds sail down the aisle.
“What?” I ask. “He said it right that time.”
“Yeah, but she hyphenated.”
“So?” I’m bristled to argue about a woman’s right to keep her name when Sean taps the program in front of me. “I’m guessing they didn’t think through her initials.”
“Wha—oh. Oh, dear.”
Aline Nicole Andrews-Lucas.
ANAL?
I stifle a groan and wave to the newlyweds as they float down the aisle. “Maybe she’ll ditch the middle name,” I suggest.
The mother of the bride steps up to the pulpit and grabs the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Greg and Aline—” heavy emphasis there “—would like to invite you all to proceed to the Father Luke Hall just across the street. The newlyweds will join us just as soon as they’ve taken their first photographs as husband and wife.”
One by one, we file down the aisle and out the doors. I keep hold of Sean’s hand, telling myself it’s only because I know where we’re going and not because I want the excuse to touch him.
“Well that was something else,” Angie says as she falls into step beside us.
Kelsey laughs and rubs a hand over her mound of incubating baby. “That’s nothing. Remember at my wedding when the best man passed out and knocked that big candelabra into the flowers?”
Blanka groans and shakes her head. “I never got the fire extinguisher goo out of my favorite shoes.”
Lily grins and looks at Sean. “You’re a real trooper. Amber says you have brothers.”
I roll my eyes at my friend’s lack of subtlety, but Sean just smiles. “Yep. Gobs of them.”
Lily licks her lips, and I wonder if I should warn the Bracelyn brothers that my friend is a verified man-eater.
“Here we are,” I announce, pushing through the doorway and into the cozy reception hall bedecked in cream and cinnamon. I survey the tables, each one artfully adorned with tasteful vases of lilies and sand-filled dishes of tealight candles. It’s a beautiful setup, and I’m jotting mental notes for Beth when something explodes.
Glass shards ricochet off the walls, and someone gives an ear-shattering shriek. I’m turning away just as something slams into the center of my chest.
I look down and suck in a breath.
Blood. Blood everywhere, though the pain is only a dull ache.
There’s another explosion and Lily screams, too. There’s blood on her, blood on the tablecloths, blood on the carpet—
“Get down!” Sean doesn’t wait for me to obey. He drags me to the floor, throwing himself on top of me so he’s shielding my body with his.
There’s another explosion and I close my eyes, waiting for the gunfire to stop.
Chapter 10
SEAN
It’s not gunfire.
That’s what I keep telling myself over and over as I wait for the explosions to stop.
I’ll admit that’s what I thought for the first few seconds, especially after Amber’s comment about wedding guests packing heat.
But here’s where it comes in handy that I’ve worked my fair share of weddings gone awry.
“Marinara,” I murmur, and Amber opens her eyes.
“What?”
I should probably get off her, since the explosions have stopped. She feels warm and lush beneath me, and I figure I need to stay here a few seconds longer. For safety and all.
I pick up a meatball that’s landed next to her head. “Just a guess, but I think a couple chafing dishes exploded. I’ve seen it before.”
Amber stares at the meatball like I’m holding up a human eyeball, then blinks at me. “You’ve seen this happen?”
“Not this, exactly. It was pulled pork instead of meatballs. Are you okay?”
She nods, looking uncertain. “I think so. Are you?”
“Yeah.” Better than okay with Amber’s body pressed against mine like this.
She looks down like she’s wanting to check herself for damage, but that’s tough to do with me lying on top of her.
I roll to the side, then hop to my feet and pull her with me. Her arms are smeared with marinara, and she has gobs of it in her hair. But aside from that, she looks unscathed. She also looks so beautiful my chest aches, and I can’t resist the urge to fish half a meatball out of her cleavage.
“Thank you,” she breathes.
“You’re welcome.”
I move toward the table where the food has been set up. Sure enough, there’s a charred mess that must have been a pair of old school, retro chafing dishes. “The candles must have overheated. Probably u
sed some that were too big.” I turn and survey the room. “Is anyone hurt?”
I get a few dazed head shakes and some serious looks of confusion. My heart is thudding in my ears, and I need to be sure everyone’s okay. Since Amber was at the front of the crowd, she bore the brunt of the explosion. I shift my gaze back to her and feel my heart twist in my chest. “You sure you’re okay?”
She nods, looking dazed but unhurt. God, if anything happened to her—
“What was that?” someone asks again.
“Chafing dish explosion,” I say again, pretty sure I’ll be repeating that at least a few more times.
I survey the room and all its pretty décor. There are meatballs smashed against the wall. Meatballs on the ceiling. Meatballs tangled in the curtains. There’s even a meatball wedged in the corner of a framed photo of the bride and groom. I pick it off and turn to see a wide-eyed teen in a white apron holding a giant bowl of spinach salad.
“Are you with the catering team?” I ask.
She nods and gapes at the carnage around us. “I swear everything was fine a minute ago. What h—”
“Where’s your manager?”
“I—uh—” The kid swallows. “She’s not here. She had another wedding to do. We’re just supposed to serve the food.”
Amber steps up beside me and looks around. “I can’t believe no one’s hurt. That could have been so much worse.”
I survey the rest of the buffet line, surprised to see the carnage isn’t as bad as I thought. “The rest of the food looks fine. Good thing everything’s covered.”
The mother of the bride walks in at that moment, then gasps like she’s been punched in the face. “Oh my God! What happened?”
“Chafing dish accident,” I tell her when the catering kid says nothing. “The meatballs are a total loss, but everything else should be good. If we can just get some new tablecloths and clean up the glass and—”
“But the meatballs were the main dish.” The mother of the bride is close to tears. “We’re on a tight budget, so we didn’t do the prime rib or the chicken cordon bleu or even the kebabs.”
“Right.” I survey the room again, wondering how quickly we could get this cleaned up. I turn back to the mother of the bride, who doesn’t look too steady on her feet. “What kind of meatballs?”