Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“You look beautiful, kiddo,” Mom told me, and I saw tears at the corners of her eyes. I made a note not to look at her during the ceremony, if I wanted to win the bet over who would cry first. As the elevator opened and everyone made a concerted effort to get my dress out without the doors closing on it, I remembered my vows, neatly printed out and folded in my purse upstairs.
“Oh no!” I gasped, turning to bolt back into the elevator.
Holli waved a square of paper in my face. “Looking for these?”
“I…” My voice stuck in my throat, and I threw my arms around her thin shoulders. “You’re the best friend in the world.”
“In the universe, bitch,” she corrected me. “Now, stand up. You’re not going down the aisle hunched over like an Igor.”
“Right, right.” I straightened and fanned my face, trying to dry my already prone-to-watering eyes.
The curtained entrance that had been parted for guests to enter and find their seats was narrower now. Shelby bent her headset mic closer to her mouth and said in a lowered voice, “Groom to walk the mother of the bride…” She paused then motioned to the two uniformed attendants standing by. They flanked the opening in the curtain. Mom went in, and they closed it up behind her.
I resisted my urge to peek at Neil. I wanted to know how he looked. I wanted to see him, so the ocean of nerves sloshing in my stomach would control themselves. I clenched my fists and unclenched them. Sweaty palms were a good sign, right?
“Sophie?” Holli asked, pressing my bouquet of burgundy-black calla lilies into my hands. Simple gold ribbon mummified the stems, with a long braid down the front. I stared at them until Holli gently shook me. “Sophie, breathe.”
I thought of my fear the night before. I thought of my trepidation the first time Neil had told me he loved me. And I remembered the day in the hospital, when his health had turned and his survival had seemed improbable, at best. I’d wanted to run, then. I’d wanted to run so many times.
The music fell quiet. Then, it started again. And my heart seized.
It wasn’t the song we’d decided on. This was undeniably Neil’s doing. Though the tempo was slightly picked up, and there were no lyrics, no mournful piano, I knew, and Neil knew, what it was. “Fljótavík,” by Sigur Rós. We will come out the other side of this, Sophie. And we’ll be stronger for it. He’d held me that night, after our abortion, after our break up, days after he’d revealed that he had cancer, and he’d translated the Icelandic lyrics for me as I’d lain in his arms. He’d stayed with me that night, and all the nights after. He’d made the choice to stay with me, even though we’d only been together for a few weeks. Even when I had betrayed him.
He could have run.
“Ready?” Shelby asked, but the curtains were already drawing open to form the gilded proscenium from which I’d emerge. As they did, I saw him. Down in front, beneath an elegant, gold-tinged white chandelier, was the only man I’d trusted with my heart. The man who would never, ever run.
His tuxedo was the truest black I’d ever seen. It was a custom Brioni he’d agonized over almost as much as I’d agonized over my dress. The perfectly tailored jacket and the peaked lapels emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. The man could somehow make a bow tie look perfect, even when I thought they looked doofy on everyone else.
But it was his face as he looked at me that melted away any last silly doubt in my mind. He took a breath that visibly raised his chest, even from so far back. His lips parted; his throat moved above his collar. He looked nervous. He looked incredible.
He looked like my future.
Our eyes met, and in that moment, I didn’t want to run from him. I wanted to run to him. The joy in me broke over the dam of reason and respectability, and I couldn’t stand to be so far from him. Damn the pictures, damn the propriety, and damn the wedding planner’s possible heart attack. I didn’t walk down that aisle.
I ran.
Ignoring Holli’s yelp of surprise and the brief tug at my train as it slipped from her grasp, I threw caution—and my fear of falling—to the wind. The speed of my steps increased until I was finally at his side. He intercepted me before I could crash into the officiant, thank god, and crushed me in his arms.
The murmurs of surprise, low chuckles, and a few cheers from our guests broke through my happy fog, and I blushed self-consciously.
“I don’t suppose we need to ask if you do,” the officiant quipped, and there was more laughter. I dipped my head, and Neil took my hand, winking at me over his pleased half-smile.