I feel the absence of those who aren’t here today.
Cole has kept in touch with James Stepper. They talk on the phone once in a while, and James spends most of the calls yelling at Cole for all the bass mistakes he’s apparently making at Sherbrooke Station concerts. He booked a flight up here for the wedding, but his doctor decided his health wasn’t up to it at the last minute.
He did have a gorgeous bouquet delivered to me this morning, with a message that read, ‘You’ve got yourself a good man, Miss Nadeau, and a half-decent bass player too. Give him hell for me, won’t you? I’m sure you look beautiful today, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to see it myself. Have a wonderful wedding.’
Cole’s brother got an invitation, only to tell us he couldn’t make it. The email was two sentences long. He didn’t even bother coming up with an excuse. I thought Cole would be devastated, but all he did was shrug and say, “I tried. I knew he wouldn’t come, but I just wanted to be able to say I tried.”
I thought about tracking my mother down, but after some half-hearted attempts to find her online, I realized I was only doing it for the sake of appearances. I didn’t want today to be about the two of us. I’ve healed those wounds already, and I honestly hope that she has too, but if the day we face each other ever comes, I didn’t want it to be at my wedding.
Today is a fresh start. It’s about building something new. It’s about the ring on my finger and the one worn by the man who’s got his hand wrapped around my own.
“You ready?” Cole murmurs in my ear.
Cole Byrne. My husband.
“Not at all,” I whisper back.
He laughs just loudly enough for me to hear as he grips my waist. I slide my arms around his neck. We sway slightly as we wait for our song to start.
Nothing happens.
The silence stretches on long enough that people start to mumble, and I scan the crowd for the MC. A voice starts speaking through the sound system, but it’s not the one I’m expecting.
“Oh, come on,” Ace drawls. “Did you really think we were going to let you dance to arecording?”
That’s when I see them: Matt, JP, and Ace, all in their matching tuxedos and boutonnieres. They’ve somehow managed to set their instruments up on a makeshift stage in the corner of the warehouse in the span of the last few minutes.
“Sorry we don’t have a bassist to fill in,” Ace continues, “but it’s just the bass, so it’s not like anyone will notice.”
The crowd hoots, and Cole good-naturedly gives him the finger.
“Did you know about this?” I whisper.
He shrugs and avoids my eyes. “I might have had an idea.”
“We’ve had a request,” Ace tells the room at large, “for a song from a little old band called The Killers.”
The crowd whoops again. JP starts up the synth intro, and I feel the goose-bumps rise on my arms. At the first clash of Matt’s cymbals, I turn back to Cole.
We spin around the dance floor as Ace rasps the words of ‘Read My Mind.’ Every lyric feels like it echoes through my body, through my skin where it meets with Cole’s. He twirls me out to the end of his arms and back in to hold me tight to his chest.
“Never thought I’d see you dancing in public,” I tease him.
“Never thought I’d see you wearing white,” he teases right back.
“You’re not the first person to say that today,” I admit.
I feel his chuckle more than I hear it.
Another verse finishes, and we’re back to the chorus again.
“You know,” I tell him, as people clap and call out our names, “even through everything that happened, I kind of always hoped we’d make it.”
His lips move to my ear. “I kind of always knew we would.”
