Because we had no altar.
We had a loose arrangement of hay bale seats, an aisle of grass lined with tiny white bulbs and flowers, and synthetic rose string lights and hanging lamps in the trees. A broad tent covered the reception tables, and camping lights glowed beneath the tablecloths. Our drink coolers were old flower boxes, the gift table just a picnic table.
Everything was the way I wanted it, makeshift and rustic. Magical.
I met Dad in the hallway.
He didn’t cry, God bless him, but he also barely spoke.
“Beautiful,” he managed. “You. All this.” He gestured to my home. Matt and I had made great strides in the past few weeks, filling our rooms with tasteful country-style furniture, art, and lighting. We rushed nothing, but we brainstormed excitedly and shopped together.
Some rooms looked classically Matt: spartan and elegant.
Other rooms were all me: cluttered and colorful.
Somehow, our disparate visions melded harmoniously throughout the house.
We agonized over one particular room.
Though I knew Matt and our guests were waiting, I led Dad into the nursery. I had to show him. When we’d told Mom and Dad about our plan to adopt Chrissy’s baby, they clung to one another and cried. Then they clung to us and cried. Everyone knew Chrissy wasn’t ready for a child, Chrissy included. In that single moment, Dad’s low estimation of Matt skyrocketed and Mom’s sky-high estimation of Matt reached space.
“He won’t call it the nursery,” I said, squeezing Dad’s arm. “He calls it ‘the little room’ or ‘Seth’s room.’ I swear, he’s more put off by domesticity than I am.”
“Seth? Is that…?” Dad cleared his throat.
“Maybe. We don’t know. Too morbid?”
“No, no. So long as it doesn’t upset anyone.”
“It seems to make Matt happy. I’ve been thinking…” I watched Dad drift through the nursery, which wasn’t little at all. We’d left the walls light beige and hired a designer to paint Deco birches along one surface. Light, distressed furniture and linen curtains gave the room a bohemian feel. Matt lined a shelf with books he intended to read to the child. I placed a round crib with a pretty skirt near the window. “Um, thinking about … Seth James Sky Junior.”
Dad laughed from deep in his belly.
“You’re bringing out the big guns, huh? I’m not going to be that father, blubbering my way down the aisle.”
“Daddy.” I hugged him tight.
Matt once said to me that losing his parents was like having the authors of his story destroyed, so that no meaningful narrative could follow. I understood.
“Come on,” Dad said, offering his arm. “We’ve got a ways to go.”
The night was cool and bug-free, thanks to an early autumn frost. I could see our lights glowing in the meadow among the trees. Dad held me steady on the uneven ground. My heart thumped and fluttered, unsure whether this was the best night ever or entirely terrifying.
As we drew closer, I began to recognize guests: Aunt Ella and Uncle Rick, Mom, Jay, Nate’s wife Valerie, Pam, Laura, Kevin, Stephen. Someone gave Owen and Madison their cue; I saw their small figures moving up the aisle, Owen with a little pillow and Madison scattering petals. I smiled as I watched Nate’s children, my soon-to-be nephew and niece.
There was Mike, who’d loaded me up with intel during two intensive “marriage counseling” sessions. Matt has abandonment issues, anger-management issues, fear of static states, manic-depressive tendencies, paranoid tendencies, masochistic tendencies …
I remembered leaving his office dizzy, wondering what wasn’t wrong with Matt.
I also remembered seeing Matt at his worst, and staying.
Other aunts, uncles, cousins, and colleagues filled out our modest seating.
Nate, the best man—of course, the best man—stood by Matt.
And Matt …
I took my time in letting my gaze go to him, because I knew that once it did, I wouldn’t look away. He wore a gray slim-fitting tux with just a limning of satin on the notched lapel. A white satin tie with a Windsor knot disappeared behind his vest.
My heart can barely hold you.
The almost silver-gray of the tux, and his golden skin and fair hair, drew in the light of our lamps and candles.
Those hands of his, those long legs, that elegant frame—my eyes roamed. That chest, those shoulders, the neck and throat, his smooth jaw …
His face.
Our eyes met and I forgot the audience staring at me. His lips parted slightly, eyes widened fractionally. I wanted to run to him. Was it the surrounding darkness or the chill in the air, or maybe the presence of others? Something …
Something clicked, and I understood that no one wanted me the way he wanted me. To have and to hold, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death.
So I went to him.
That is the story: I went to him.
*
“Were we idiots to let people crash here?” I whispered.
Matt chuckled and held a finger to his lips. Right, Nate and Val were just across the hall.
For the last four hours, we’d wined and dined our wedding guests and toasted and danced. Tomorrow we left for New York—the first of many cities I needed to see, according to Matt—and then Greece. No one had dared to deface his cars with cans, which made me grin. They also spared my brand-new Mercedes, a gift from my husband.
My husband …
He ruffled his hair and stretched gloriously, opened the bedroom window but left off the light. Outside in the dark, our little wind chimes tolled.
I watched him pry off his shoes and drape his coat across the bed.
God, he still made me shy.
I went to him only when he beckoned.
“There you are,” he said softly in my ear. “Are you real? Little bird, I think we can be quiet tonight.” He kissed my mouth and spread his hand across the V of skin on my back. He found my gown’s tiny zipper and tugged it down.
The garment dropped around my feet.