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“Sometimes that woman also adds peas.”
My mouth drops open as I look at my best man. “I’m sorry. Why?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? The real question is why did a container end up at my house… Anyway, I think you’re going into withdrawals.” He tightens my tie and brushes off my dress shirt before straightening the orange flower in my pocket. “Brigid tells me you and Marci haven’t left each other’s side since Thanksgiving.”
“That’s not true.” When Marcella asked if I needed to shower with her, my brain shut off. By the time I escaped the coma, she had a towel turban and was kissing my nose. “We’ve respected each other’s privacy.”
“Privacy.” Cody frees a heavy sigh. “I remember privacy. Privacy disappears once you’re married. Brigid has entire conversations with me while I’m on the toilet. I don’t understand why she thinks that’s the appropriate time to chat, but with my odd hours, I guess I’m just glad she wants to spend whatever time she can with me.”
I don’t foresee Marcella and I ever sharing a bathroom, but I also didn’t foresee her being such a cuddler. This morning, she was so latched on, her feet didn’t touch the ground until I was finished brushing my teeth. Shortly after, she remembered we were getting married today, so she kissed my cheek, unwound, and was gone.
I haven’t seen her since she swiped a serving-size spoonful of ice cream for breakfast.
Hm. Okay, fine. Maybe this is withdrawals.
Or maybe it’s easier to blame my nerves on something I don’t actually feel the need to worry about. I’ve never been anxious where it concerns Marcella. I’ve never been afraid. From the start, she’s been a well of overflowing safety. Focusing on my raging codependency means I don’t have to think about how vacant my side of the aisle will be, how my father and mother…won’t be here.
My attention lifts to the mirror, finding myself, Cody, Mark, and Jeff. My always stoic bodyguards nudge one another and chat at the back of the room. Even with their low voices, it’s quiet in here. And I’m not smiling.
The ache inside my chest isn’t what I expected to feel right now. I hoped I’d be overcome with joy. I’m marrying Marcella. The woman I love. I get to spend my life with her, but there’s still so much pain I can’t shake. I don’t know how many days my mother has left. I don’t know if she’ll be gone by the time we return from our honeymoon. I don’t know if I’m a terrible son for not knowing how to face these final moments.
She’s not recognized me since October.
She’s stuck with a picture of me that I haven’t been for years.
Knowing that Marcella won’t let me be alone doesn’t mean I won’t miss my mother so much more than words can explain. It helps, knowing I have her, but it still hurts.
A knock sounds on the door, and Brigid calls in, “It’s time for you, Marshi. Get outside, stat.”
My chest hurts.
Cody says, “Are you ready?”
To marry my best friend? “Yeah, I think so.”
Together, we leave the groom preparation room and find our way to the decorated venue. Marcella didn’t opt for what I’d consider a luxury wedding in the sense that the charges I saw come through added up to less than a hundred grand, but…
Wow.
She picked a grove at the height of autumn. Brilliant leaves scatter the grass, landing on her friends and family, landing on my empty chairs. The sparse, bright trees aren’t thick enough to block out the sun, which winks off the silk butterflies adorning everything. I stop myself beneath the arbour, in front of the officiator, and do my best to keep my heart inside my chest as I look down the lane of bright cloth marking the space between the two clusters of chairs.
Frozen in place, I wait.
Once the processional music begins, I find it in myself to smile.
The first glimpse of Marcella in her wedding gown steals all the air from my lungs.
On my side of the aisle, Leslie elbows her husband in the gut and beams, letting me know that, perhaps, I have her to blame for designing the dress Marcella is wearing. The extravagance certainly lends itself to the Amare brand.
I have never seen anything so beautiful before in my life.
As everyone stands and the music shifts into what I swear is one of Marcella’s therapy songs adapted into a wedding march, I find myself fixated.
Barefoot, Marcella floats up the aisle, over the soft orange petals I barely registered one of her younger cousins throwing moments ago. Her gown—white, spun with autumn vines, and dusted around the hem with the vague idea of spices—billows in a breeze that teases the cape around her shoulders.
My hands are shaking when her father passes her to me.
To me.
