Page 69 of A Storybook Wedding

I clear my throat. My clammy hands grip the edges of the podium.

Finn opens the door to Charlie’s dressing room and sees her standing at the mirror. She’s dabbing at her black-rimmed eyes with a tissue. The lashes are obviously fake, and Finn wonders if they’re irritating her, causing the tears.

Her body is clad in faux leather, as if she is a dominatrix. It is out of character. Charlie is a sweater-and-blue-jeans girl. But not today. Here, in the lighted mirror, her breasts spill over the top of a black corset, the bodice showing off her luscious curves, and the lines of her hips bend and wind like a rolling country road awash with new asphalt. Her simple beauty is covered by toxic tar. She is fierce and empowered in the getup, but the teardrop threatening to fall tells a different story. She dabs it nervously, turns to Finn, and plasters on a smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry to startle you.”

Finn is wearing his usual: ripped jeans, a black T-shirt that’s tighter than he’d like, and a pair of black Doc Martens. His tattoo artist touched up the black on the tribal scrolling along his collarbone with a Sharpie marker, which peeks out from under the shirt and will have to do for now, seeing as how if he tried to get the ink redone while he’s on tour, he’d have to wrap himself in clear plastic under the nightly heat of the myriad stage lights. The rest of the ink cascades down his right arm, and when he sees it in the corner of Charlie’s mirror, it reminds him of his grandmother, who once told Finn that only drug dealers and other hooligans have tattoos like that.

It always surprises him that he can hear his grandmother’s voice in his head but can’t hear the screams of adoring fans while he’s onstage. One might say that he is conditioned to the din, which leaves him disquieted at the memory of an interaction as plain as one he might have had on a random Thursday evening over take-out Chinese food and a game of Rummikub no more than ten years ago.

Charlie doesn’t know the calloused side of this life yet. In fact, her nerves are still so tender that Finn can almost feel them in his own bloodstream. In her breathing, he can hear the anticipation of the spotlight, the juvenile ignorance of a roaring crowd fueling one’s adrenaline like Halloween candy.

“You good?” Finn asks her.

She nods. The doubt is palpable though.

He takes a tentative step closer. “This is what you’ve always wanted, right?” he asks.

Another nod. “Living the dream.”

“Then why the tears? Do the lashes aggravate you? I’m told you get used to them.”

“No,” she answers. Her voice becomes hollow, the void between them creating an echo chamber. “It’s not the lashes,” she sighs. He remains still, a silent invitation for her to elaborate. Her shoulders slump forward as she mumbles, “I’m afraid.”

“Of?”

Charlie sighs, and she drops her gaze to the floor. “Becoming,” she whispers.

It’s a single word. Three syllables. They penetrate him in a way that much else hasn’t been able to, at least not anymore.

Finn understands the weight of her admission, and he walks up behind her, his steps more certain now. Closing the gap between them, he places both hands on her bare shoulders, watching their reflections echo the movement in the mirror. His touch on her skin is featherlight, but the weight it carries surprises them both. She tilts her chin up and twists around to face him. Finn traces one finger up the side of her neck. The skin is soft, as expected. Here, on this sensitive spot between her jawline and her clavicle, where there is no makeup, she is exposed.

Finn leans his face down to the spot and warms it with the touch of his lips. Charlie’s pulse drums beneath the surface, a bass line that intensifies the longer he stands there. He lowers his mouth to her ear and gently licks the lobe, electrified by the intensity of their connection. She gasps faintly at the touch. “It’s too late to stop it though,” he breathes. “You already are.”

“How can you say that?” she murmurs. “They’re all here to see you. I’m nobody.” Charlie feels the heat emanating from Finn’s body onto her own, a tepid blanket akin to the midday sun. “You shine so bright,” she continues, quoting the line from his song.

“So do you,” he replies, his face buried in her hair now. His free hand slides down her other arm, and when their fingers meet, they interlock like voices in perfect harmony. “This is not something you become. The raw talent is born within you. The will to nurture it is innate.” He skims his lips along her cheek, careful not to damage the layers of cosmetic artistry that have dutifully been applied there. When he rests his mouth against hers, he knows not to move or she will smudge. His forehead touches hers, and he exhales through his nose. “Don’t you get it? A butterfly doesn’t decide to become a butterfly. It doesn’t have a choice.”

“Then why do I feel so scared?” Charlie asks, squeezing his hand into hers.

“Because you’re on the precipice, and now you have to wait. You already are a massive supernova, Charlie Jones. But the speed of light is faster than the speed of sound. That’s why when you see lightning, the thunder comes a few seconds later. Look at you,” Finn says, pulling his head back from hers to nod at the mirror. “Who couldn’t see this? You’re so beautiful it hurts my eyes.” He leans in and plants a kiss, harder, with intention this time, on her neck. “Being patient is hard, I know. But it will take time for them to hear you, Charlie. You’re caught in that very specific moment between light and sound.”

Charlie looks up at Finn, searching his stare for reassurance.

“When they finally do hear you, your music will stay with them like a drug, and they’ll crave more of it, more of you. They’ll want you almost as much as I do.”

The door to the Spiritual Sanctuary opens, and I stop reading as Lucy walks in, her loud winter boots depositing tiny chunks of ice down the middle aisle. She’s clutching a tote bag, and she stops at the third row to gather herself, but the spell is broken. The words linger in the air between CJ and me.

I feel exposed, like a fresh wound that she’s peering directly into. Part of me regrets choosing this selection, but the part that’s alive with jitters at watching her watching me wants Lucy to leave so that I can lock the door and see exactly where this moment might lead.

Unfortunately, Lucy is the first person of many to enter. Students begin to wander in, shaking off their jackets, stomping the snow out of their boots, rubbing their hands together for warmth, and helping themselves to a seat. I climb down off the stage, reminding myself that I shouldn’t appear embarrassed. After all, CJ is my lawfully wedded spouse. Nothing is illicit when you’re married.

When I join CJ on the wooden pew, we remain quiet. The energy between us is so alive, I can feel it sizzle and crackle, like cold bacon in a pan of hot oil. I want to leave with her, to skip the reading, take her back to our room, and—

“I liked it,” she whispers in my ear. I smell her, eternal summer here in the barren cold.

I nod silently, unable to act like a normal person and thank her for the compliment. I can’t look at her either, so I stare straight ahead at the podium and turn my attention to the intricate detailing along the edges of the archways on the wall behind it.

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