But on Friday afternoon, waiting to get married, I was nervous and starting to fidget. It had suddenly occurred to me that I might run into someone I knew who might understandably be curious. After all, I was wearing a dress instead of my usual jeans and sitting with my so-called roommate, a seriously hot guy that other women definitely noticed, in the anteroom to where the wedding ceremonies took place.
Ash had been full of confidence first thing this morning, dismissing my concerns.
“You can’t spend your life worrying what if. We all die and feed the chickens.”
“You mean worms?”
“Chickens, worms, we all end up in the dirt, yeah? ‘What if it rains?’ I’ll get you an umbrella.”
But now, he looked like he was about to be sick.
It was warm inside, the old heating system cranking out plenty of hot air, and the press of bodies was making me feel sweaty and uncomfortable.
Despite the heat, Ash looked unwrinkled and chic in a pair of black chinos, crisp white shirt that he’d ironed himself this morning, and a dark navy tie, all found in thrift stores. Although his usually golden complexion was verging on green. I hoped he made it to the end of the ceremony before puking. But then I figured lots of grooms get nervous.
As he’d insisted we dress up, I’d wanted to buy him something new, but he refused. Did I mention he was stubborn?
I’d planned to wear a cute little black dress that had been hanging in my closet for such an occasion. Well, not a secret marriage, obviously, but something that required being fancy.
But Ash said we looked as if we were going to a funeral not a wedding and no one would believe it, so at the last minute I changed into a pale lemon sundress that got Ash’s nod of approval. It was completely inappropriate for October in Chicago, but he liked it.
When our names were called, Ash made everyone clear out of the way as he eased my wheelchair through the door, ignoring the pitying glances of the happy and loud real wedding party. I could tell that they felt sorry for Ash—sorry because he was marrying a woman in a wheelchair, who was obviously no prize.
No matter how many times I told myself that I didn’t care what strangers thought, I did care—just a little. Ash said nothing.
It wasn’t how I’d imagined my wedding day. Not that I was one of those women who planned everything from the dress to the food to the guests, impatient only to meet a man who would complete the picture. But I had imagined that my family would be with me.
And it was all a lie—we weren’t passionately in love, we hadn’t declared our need to live together for the rest of our lives, I’d never said I loved him.
But now . . . I swear it had started with wanting to help, but his quiet kindness, his sensitivity, his potential for sheer joy, all those emotions had tunneled toward my heart. And against all reason, all reality, I was falling for this frustrating, flawed, broken, battered and beautiful man. Why was I so careful with my health . . . and so reckless with my heart?
The ceremony was short, and Ash surprised me with a simple gold ring that must have cost him every penny of the money he’d saved from his hated construction job. Then we heard the words, “You may kiss the bride,” and I offered him my cheek.
But instead he kneeled in front of the wheelchair and carefully held my face between his hands, as if he was holding a precious jewel, and his lips came down on mine, soft at first, and then increasingly passionate until I gasped and felt my face heat up.
A camera flash surprised us both, and the wedding officiant smiled.
“Perhaps not one to show the grandkids,” she chuckled.
With a photo on my phone showing us in a very steamy embrace, we tumbled from the building into bright Fall sunshine.
“What was that?” I demanded, as soon as we were out of earshot.
Ash laughed, far more relaxed than I’d seen him in days.
“What was what?” he asked slyly, knowing exactly what I was talking about.
“That . . . that kiss!”
“Had to make it look real,” he said off-handedly.
Which was the right answer, but now it felt so wrong.
He’d slipped away early from rehearsals today, telling the director that he had a prior appointment.
Now the short ceremony was over, we had our first evening as man and wife.
“Where should we go to celebrate, Mrs. Novak?”
“Don’t call me that,” I laughed, shaking my head.
“Why not? I have a piece of paper that says you are my wife,” he teased.
“Yes, very funny.”
“There is nothing funny about the sanctity of marriage,” he said, leaning over and kissing the top of my head.
“You definitely shouldn’t joke about that with a good Catholic girl.”
“But I’m a good Catholic boy.”
“Really?”
“Yes, why are you surprised?”
“I don’t know, I just am. Do you ever go to church?”
“I used to go with Mama, at all the big festivals, Easter, Christmas. She gave me a St. Christopher for my 8th birthday. I used to wear it for her.” He frowned. “I don’t have it anymore.”
I was surprised to hear him mention his mother—he so rarely did.
“Are you close to her?”
“I was.” His voice hardened. “She died when I was 15.”
“Oh, Ash.”