Page 70 of A Storybook Wedding

Dillon Norway enters the space and drops his coat off not far from where we are stationed. He makes some small talk about the storm, confers with Lucy, and before I know it, the pews are filled with bodies, and he’s up at the podium, introducing me.

I rise and walk up the three stairs to the altar. I adjust the mic, set my pages on the podium, and take a quick sip of water before placing the bottle on the shelf beneath my papers. I tap the mic once out of habit and thank Dillon for his kind words. “As many of you may know, I’ve been working on a new novel, which I’ll be reading an excerpt from tonight. It’s about a man who is the picture of success in American culture; he’s a young, attractive, wealthy, famous, and extremely talented musician. He meets a woman who is the picture of striving, which is to say she is everything that he is and more, minus the fame and fortune. This is the part in the story where they begin to examine their relationship with each other, not only personally but from a professional perspective as well. The overall theme of the piece is that often the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, and there are reasons why celebrities are some of the unhappiest people in America. It also explores the notion of how we define accomplishment. I hope you like it.”

And then I read. As each word drifts into the airspace between us, I imagine that the audience is blissfully absent, and it’s just me, CJ, and this work that she inspired: my deeply private profession of adoration, gratitude, friendship, lust, and yes, love. I lose myself in the words, enjoying their ability to dance along my tongue and pleased at how the sounds call out to each other.

When I’m done, there is applause. I look up as if waking from a dream. I nod at the students and faculty and offer them the chance to ask any questions they might have. There are a few, and they’re mostly standard. What’s my writing practice like? How long have I been drafting this for? Do I edit as I go, or do I prefer to draft the whole thing and then edit when I’m done? I dutifully answer these and a few others before stepping down off the altar. We dismiss from there. Lucy takes the mic and shares details regarding the party, which is set to begin at 9:30, giving everyone a chance to change into festive clothing should they so choose. People stand and stretch, bundle themselves up against the impending outside air, and trudge across the pathway, which is now completely covered in the thick curtain of heavy wet snow, from the Spiritual Sanctuary to the North Wind or up to the main house. The wind is violent; it shrieks off the sea and makes it impossible to hear. The few trees that dot the grounds sway to the point of snapping in half. The sky is painted in striations of pink, orange, purple, and a deep shade of navy blue that might be peaceful if the ocean below it wasn’t a roaring, ominous black. But we can’t stay outside long enough to experience it at all. The storm is not the quiet blanket of a Christmas morning snowfall; it’s the dangerous Wizard of Oz weather that results in insurance claims. We have to get inside and stay there.

CJ and I cut through the North Wind to get back to the main house in an attempt to remain as dry as possible. Still, our coats and boots are soaked through by the time we get to the door of our room. The main house feels cold, but it’s still a far cry from outside, because at least there’s no wind to contend with. My fingers tremble as I reach into my pocket for the room key. CJ is dance-jogging in place beside me, trying to warm up.

I get the door open just as the lights flicker.

And go out.

“What the—” CJ begins.

“Shit,” I say. I look out our window, back toward the North Wind, where all of the windows are dark.

“Do you think it’s a breaker or something?” she asks, pulling off her boots.

“I think the power might be out.”

“Really? Fuck. That’s not good.”

I pull back the curtain to show her. “Yeah. The other buildings are dark too.” I illuminate the room with the flashlight on my cell phone.

“Do you think there will be any hot water?” she wonders. “I was hoping to have a shower.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. There might still be a little hot water, but you don’t want to get your hair all wet and then not be able to dry it. Who knows how long this might go on for?” I say. “But I think I can get the fireplace going. Hold this for me?”

I hand her my phone, and I get down on the ground in front of the cast iron hearth in the corner. CJ shines the light so that I can see. On the side of the hearth, there’s a knob and a button with the word pilot stamped above them. I fiddle with the knob and begin pushing the button. It takes a few tries, but I manage to get the thing lit. I turn the knob to open up the gas line more, and the fire gets bigger, offering both heat as well as a devilish red glow. CJ gives me back my phone, and she hums appreciatively, stripping off her wet socks and hanging her wet coat in the bathroom. When she emerges, she smiles at me. “Thank you for saving us from death by freezing.” She wraps her arms around herself and rubs them up and down, searching for warmth.

I remove my own coat, shoes, and socks, following suit with CJ, hanging my coat in the bathroom, placing the wet boots in the bathtub, and laying my socks in front of the fireplace.

“You think they’ll cancel the party?” CJ wonders.

I shrug. “Not sure. Maybe.”

“Oh my God,” she says, her face dropping.

“What is it?”

“If there’s no power, we won’t have any internet. I won’t be able to send out my letters at midnight. And I can’t even use the data on my phone because it’s dead!”

“Hang on. Calm down. The letters are scheduled, right? Like, off your email?”

She nods.

I’m not a tech guy, so I don’t know if you even need to be online in order for scheduled e-mails to go out. But I know CJ. This is going to send her into a tailspin, and she’d rather be safe than sorry. Thinking on my feet, I ask, “Does your laptop have any juice?”

“It should be good, yeah. I always leave it plugged in when I’m not using it.”

“Then, no worries. I’ve got you covered.”

Her expression becomes curious. “How?”

“I’ve got seventy percent battery left in my phone,” I say, checking it on the nightstand. “We can run the internet off my hotspot. We’ll just configure your laptop to run that way. I’ll leave the hotspot on, and the letters will go out as planned.”

“Really?”

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