I want to run to him and be done with this charade, but Ezra’s hand stops me. A squeeze of his hand on mine and his deliberately slow walking urges me to follow his lead. The walk is torture. It’s long. It’s miserable.
But despite the pitiful looks, with every step I take, myshoulders seem to grow wider. My head seems to sit straighter. And my smile wider.
By the time we reach the arch, I’m owning every single moment of my situation. Of my awful outfit. Of my rat’s nest of hair. Ezra’s blazer on my body gives me the confidence I forgot I had. It reminds me that everyone is here because of me. Us. This is my wedding, even if it’s fake. And I’ll be the one dictating the mood.
I flip my hair back, brush sand from my groom’s arm, and finally turn to the official.
“We are ready,” I say, proud to be still standing here after everything. If not for Ezra, I’d be hiding with hens somewhere under a bungalow until everyone leaves the island.
The official smiles, looking around, and starts talking.
A small, soft hand grabs mine. Just for a second. And squeezes. A tiny encouraging gesture I didn’t know I needed. My sister showing me that she’s here.
The official starts his speech, but my father interrupts him in the rudest way possible.
“Yes, we’ve heard that before. Skip to the good part,” he snaps, rotating his wrist in the air with a motion for the official to continue. The poor official starts sweating even more. He takes out a tissue from his pocket, dabs his forehead, and flips a page of his notebook.
“Alright. Okay.” He looks lost, trying to focus on me and Ezra. “Ezra King, do you agree to take this woman, Beatrice?—”
“It’s Maeve,” Bea chimes in as a few chuckles erupt through the small crowd.
“What?” the official asks, blinking.
“The bride’s name is wrong.”
“Yes, that’s what it says.” The official shakes the book in Bea’s face. “Beatrice Wrong.”
“Yeah, that part is right,” she explains, leaning closer to him. “But the bride is Maeve Wrong, not Beatrice.”
“But it said?—”
“Just fix the damn name and keep going,” she hiss-whispers back to him.
“Okay, alright.” His eyes widen as he looks between her and me. “Alright then. Ezra King, do you agree to take this woman, Maeve Wrong as your rightful wife? And cherish her in?—”
“Yes,” Ezra interrupts the official, who seems to be one breath away from fainting.
“Okay. Good, I guess. Where were we?” He starts riffling between the pages again.
“Ask her now.” At Ezra’s order, the official’s eyes focus on something in his book, and he quickly lifts his head to me.
“And you, Beatrice Wro?—”
“It’s Maeve!” This time, more voices come in a chorus, making the poor man sweat like a sinner in church. He dabs his handkerchief over his forehead, trying to even his breathing at the same time.
“Yes. Right.” He dabs his forehead some more. “Ms. Wrong?—”
“Call her by her name,” Ezra interrupts him once again. “I want everyone to know that it’s the right woman being called my wife.”
A loud exhale escapes my mouth at his words as I stare ahead, refusing to look at him. Because if I do, I might end up climbing him like a tree.
“Right. Of course. Ms. Maeve Wrong.” He pauses, quizzically looking around in case anyone else has objections. When none come, he nods to himself with satisfaction and continues. “Ms. Maeve Wrong,” he repeats, looking at me. “Do you agree to take this man, Ezra King, as your rightfulhusband? And che—” He stops himself after a quick glance at Ezra. “Do you agree?” he addresses me again.
I look at Ezra’s face. At his eyes focused on my face. At his intensely pressed together lips. And for a moment, it feels real. Or maybe I let myself believe that.
His brows slowly draw together, and I realize I still haven’t replied.
“Yes.”
