Page 50 of On the Edge

For a moment there are no words, just the conversation we seem to be having with our eyes.

Come back to me, his plead.

Not in this lifetime, mine insist.

“I have a wedding to get to,” I tell him as I grab the handle of my carry-on suitcase and turn back toward the gate agent who is now waiting for me as it seems that everyone else has boarded through the business class line already. As I walk through the door to the jetway, I chance a glance back over my shoulder. Nate is standing there with his shoulders hunched and his head down, pain radiating from his entire being.

Good, I tell myself. It’s only right that he should be the one hurting now.

If only his pain wasn’t also my pain.

* * *

Paris, France

I stand next to Marco’s parents as we watch Christian’s older brother finally kiss his bride at the end of the longest wedding service I have ever attended. My back is killing me from the wooden chair I’ve been sitting on for the past two hours, and the cold stone floor of the Gothic church has my feet almost numb despite the air being warm and stuffy. Finally standing again is a relief.

While lesser known than Notre Dame, Saint-Eustache has a storied history of its own having baptized, wed, and buried some of the most famous aristocrats and writers in French history. And its Gothic exterior and Renaissance interior are among the most beautiful of any church I’ve seen.

As Lorenzo and his bride clasp hands and turn toward the wedding guests, the priest pronounces them man and wife. Or at least, I think he does. The service has been in French and I speak barely a word of it. For a brief second I wish Nate was here to translate for me—his mom was French Canadian and he speaks French passably and understands it perfectly—but then instantly I’m chastising myself for the thought. I need to get Nate out of my head. Tonight is all about being in love with Marco, or making his and Christian’s families believe I am.

From the altar, Marco catches my eye and gives me the kind of smile that the press loves. It’s not his sly, private smile that I know well, it’s his camera-worthy smile. His mom doesn’t miss a thing, so she turns toward me and squeezes my hand when she sees her son beaming at me. Which luckily means she misses the way Marco then glances over at Christian, who is standing between him and Lorenzo.

The bride and groom make their way down the aisle and Marco follows in the long line of bridesmaids and groomsmen.

I find Marco outside the church after we’ve given our best wishes to Lorenzo and Camille, his French bride who I’ve met a few times over the past year. I rush over to Marco where he stands on the stone plaza outside the church, next to Christian, and wrap my arms around his neck. He squeezes me tightly in his embrace and I whisper “Less glances at Christian, okay?” quickly before his parents come over.

He plants a kiss next to my ear as he whispers “I’m trying, but you see how he looks in a tux.” There’s laughter in his voice.

I pull back and look him in the eye, smiling at him. It’s easy to play this role because I do love Marco. I just don’t love him like his family assumes I do.

He kisses the bridge of my nose just as his parents catch up to me. “You are a beautiful couple,” his mom says. “Let me take a photo of you.”

While we pose for the photo on the plaza, with the cold blue sky, the church, and the leafless trees in the background, I try not to look at Christian. It must hurt for him to watch Marco flirt with me. I wish it didn’t have to be this way for them, and I’m glad that it won’t be this way for too much longer.

Marco’s mom texts us both a copy of the photo, and I’m certain Marco will have it posted on his social media platforms before he even arrives at the reception.

Good, I hope Nate sees it.I hate myself a little bit for this pettiness.

“Camille said you should come with us to take pictures,” Marco says, looking down at me while keeping his tuxedo-clad arm around my shoulder.

“I won’t be in the way?”

“We just need to take the big group picture. We already did photos with her attendants and the groom’s photos with us.” He uses the arm that’s not around me to reach over and clasp Christian’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

We say our goodbyes to his parents, and he squeezes my hand as we walk toward the cars waiting to take us to the reception site. It’s a victory squeeze, and I return it. We aren’t often around his family, but every time we are and they remain convinced we’re in love, it feels like a we’ve won the next battle in a long war.

* * *

I’m speed walking toward the bathroom in a desperate attempt to get there before my bladder explodes, when a hand reaches out and grabs my wrist, pulling me sideways. I spin to find Camille, encased in white lace, holding onto me. “Jackson! I want you to meet Andrea,” she says as she lets go of me and swings her arm around one of her bridesmaids.

I try not to squirm in place as Andrea tells me she was Camille’s roommate the year Camille studied abroad at NYU. There’s a long story about Andrea’s roommate deciding at the last minute to take a year off, and Andrea getting ‘stuck’ with a random, only to discover they were like long-lost sisters. But I’m only half listening because I’ve drunk too much water during dinner and now I think I fully understand the saying my Italian grandmother used all the time when I was little—I have to pee so bad my back teeth are floating.

“I was just telling Andrea how grateful Enzo’s whole family is for you,” Camille says, a coy smile on her plum-colored lips.

“Enzo’s family?” I ask, unsure why Lorenzo and Christian’s family would be grateful for me. I hardly know them.

The realization hits me a half second before she says, “Yes, for reassuring them that Christian and Marco aren’tmorethan friends.”

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