He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “Really. Why? Do you want me to close it so you can do it yourself?”
“No,” I say, the corners of my lips twitching. “I was just surprised.”
“Well, come on, then,” he says, holding out his hand.
Finally.
I put my hand in his and get out of the car, but he doesn’t let go of me when the door is closed behind me. I’m glad for it. But it’s also a unique form of torture. What does this mean?
“We’re holding hands,” I say, just like I did when we were locked in that horrifying secret room in that ridiculous asylum. I don’t look at him. I stare at my feet instead, focusing on the sound of my heels clicking across the pavement.
“We are,” Cohen says. He sounds significantly calmer than I feel.
I swallow. “Is that something we do?”
Cohen sighs. “I don’t think so.” He pulls his hand out of mine.
I swallow again—this time to get rid of the lump in my throat. I refuse to cry when my makeup looks this good, so it’s just going to have to wait until later. I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.
The door of the cathedral is massive and old, and I’m annoyed at myself for being so distracted that I can’t even appreciate it fully. I love old doors—old buildings, really. I love imagining all the things they’ve experienced, the people they’ve seen. Little historic accents bring character to otherwise generic piles of stone. That’s something I would love to explore more if I went with the interior design thing.
Cohen lets me enter ahead of him, and I feel his hand on the small of my back as he follows me in. My insides jump pleasantly, but the feeling is followed by a sinking in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it’s a good thing that we’re going to college soon. Being around him, feeling the way I do, knowing that he doesn’t feel the same way—that hurts. A lot.
We slide into a pew, and I’m still hyperaware of his hand on my back—I’m even more aware of its absence as we sit. There’s organ music playing, and the crowd is chattering quietly. I can’t make myself look at Cohen, so I look at the cathedral interior instead. The ceilings are high and vaulted, and stained-glass windows line the upper half of the walls to our left and our right. Light filters through the windows on the wall across from us, casting Cohen and I and the people around us in a vaguely colorful light.
I finally look to my right at Cohen, and I jump when I see him looking at me. He has an odd look on his face. I tilt my head and wait for him to speak, because I can tell he wants to say something.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he says finally. His eyes are moving intently over my face.
I can’t say any of the things I really want to say, so I force a smile instead. “I’m just here for the stained glass and the food.”
He smiles back at me, but his eyes look sad. He reaches over and touches my right ear. “You’re orange here. And sort of yellow here,” he says, moving his finger and touching my nose. His touch is light, but it burns wherever it goes.
He hesitates, and then he puts a finger on my lips. He runs his thumb softly over my lower lip, and I close my eyes, swallowing hard.
“Mina,” he says, his voice low. My eyes snap open, and when they do, his face has moved closer to mine. His thumb is still tracing my lips, and his amber-flecked gaze is locked on mine.
“I know you’re with—” he begins, but he breaks off as the organ music changes, and I barely hear what he says, anyway; I’m still too distracted by the way his thumb is softly stroking my lips.
He yanks his hand away from my face with the change in music, and we watch as his dad enters the room from a side door, making his way to the front of the massive room.
I only spare Mr. Alexander a brief glance; I look at Cohen instead. He’s stiffened where he sits, and his eyes are trained on his father. Then I watch as Mr. Alexander’s gaze searches the crowd.
When he finds Cohen, he smiles. And in that moment, with that smile, he looks even happier than he did in the wedding announcement.
I forego the fact that apparently Cohen and I don’t have a hand-holding relationship, and I take his hand in mine and lace our fingers together. I give a start when Cohen squeezes my hand, his fingers tightening around mine, but I don’t tell him to loosen his grip. I don’t care. I just need him to know that I’m here. I tuck my left hand into the crook of his left elbow and give it a quick squeeze.
He glances at me, and I’m somehow not surprised to see his eyes looking over bright. I’ll never say anything about it. I just smile encouragingly.
The ceremony is short and sweet—the way all ceremonies should be, especially if food is being served after. Mr. Alexander and his bride exchange vows that may or may not make me a little bright-eyed myself. All I can think about through the whole thing is the wedding I might have someday.
And how my groom isn’t faceless anymore. He’s tall and muscular and sweet. He works hard to achieve his goals. He believes in me. He makes me laugh.
Oh, and he was apparently miserable after we kissed.
Right.
…Right?
