Page 93 of Consummation

Jonas grins, his eyes sparkling.

“Okay, motherfucker,” I say warmly. “Time to bag yourself a wife and me a sister.”

“Fuck yeah, it is.”

“Fuck yeah.”

We smile at each other.

“I’m so happy for you, Jonas,” I say softly.

“I’m so happy for me, too,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Enough yapping—it’s time for me to get married to the divine original form of woman-ness, the goddess and the muse, the magnificent Sarah Cruz.”

Twenty-Seven

Josh

Jonas and I take our positions in front of the audience, standing to the left of the wedding officiant. The distinctive scent of gardenias—my mom’s favorite flower—blasts me all of a sudden. I turn around to glance at the spectacular wall of white flowers towering behind us—and, yes, although there are certainly roses and lilies and all sorts of other unidentifiable white flowers comprising the blooming wall, gardenias are by far the most prominent. Did Sarah do that on purpose? Did Jonas tell her how Dad always said Mom loved gardenias?

I look at Jonas and he’s gazing anxiously toward the back of the room, his cheeks flushed, his breathing labored. I can almost hear his heart beating from here. Or maybe that’s my own heartbeat pounding forcefully in my ears. Why the fuck am I nervous? I’m not the one getting married.

The music shifts to a Mozart-Beethoven-type thing, a pleasant piece of elegant music I’ve heard a thousand times at various black-tie events, and Kat appears at the back of the center aisle.

My heart skips a beat at the sight of her. Holy fuck, she’s absolutely stunning.

“I’m getting fat,” Kat said yesterday when she tried on her bridesmaid dress to make sure it still fit. “I should have had the tailor leave a little extra room through the midsection—my belly’s totally pooching out.”

I laughed. There was literally no hint of a pooch in the dress—which makes sense because, despite our kumquat in the oven, there still hasn’t been even the slightest change in Kat’s figure since the day I first laid eyes on her in Jonas’ living room.

“Babe,” I said to her yesterday. “You’re not showing at all. Like, literally, not at all.”

“You’re blind, babe,” Kat said. “Look.” She pointed at the perfectly smooth midsection of her dress. “It’s like I’m hiding a volleyball under there.”

“Do you have body dysmorphic disorder?” I asked.

I grabbed her shoulders and moved her in front of the full-length mirror on the other side of our bedroom, and then I stood behind her, staring at both our reflections in the mirror, my palms resting on her smooth, bare shoulders.

And that’s when I completely forgot whatever the fuck I was gonna say. I’d meant to drag Kat in front of the mirror to prove my point she’s not showing yet (and that she’s batshit crazy, too, which certainly isn’t news to me), but for some reason, staring at us together in the mirror, looking at her in that blue dress—even with her hair in a ponytail and her face completely bare of makeup—she took my breath away.

So, of course, I proceeded to get my Party Girl with a Hyphen the fuck out of that dress and myself inside of her.

But that was yesterday.

Today, Kat in that same blue dress isn’t merely taking my breath away—she’s stopping my heart, too. The dress fits Kat the same way it did yesterday, of course—like a glove. But, today, she’s not justwearingher bridesmaid dress as she glides down the aisle, she’sstruttingin it like a peacock—or, rather, I suppose, like a peahengraced with a peacock’s tail. (Thank you, Jonas.) And Kat has every reason to strut like she’s on a catwalk—lord almighty, does she ever. Her golden hair is falling around her shoulders in perfectly formed tendrils. Her skin peeking out of her sweetheart neckline is glowing. Her sky-high heels accentuate the glorious length of her lithe frame. And, oh my God, Kat’s gorgeous face, always radiant, always mesmerizing, is downright spectacular today. It’s the face that could launch a thousand ships, bring a grown man to his knees, make a man believe in God. And at this moment, lucky me, the blazing eyes lighting up that supernaturally beautiful face are trained onme.

By the time Kat reaches the end of the aisle and takes her position to the officiant’s right, my heart’s bursting, my cock is tingling, and my brain is utterly scrambled. I beam a huge smile at Kat and she winks.

The musical selection changes and everyone in the audience stands.

For a moment, I can’t identify the song the musicians are playing. I knowthe melody, but it’s not a song normally played by a harp, cello, and violin, so I’m having a hard time placing it. Oh, wait. I’ve got it. It’s “Melt With You” by Modern English. Great song—cool arrangement. I glance at my brother. He’s about to burst into a trillion tiny molecules and scatter into the sky.

I fix my gaze at the end of the aisle, my heart in my throat, and there she is—our beautiful bride for the occasion. Our George Clooney. Jonas’ handler. My brand new little sister. The great love of my brother’s life.Sarah Fucking Cruz.

I glance at Kat to find her lower lip trembling and her eyes filled with tears. I look at my brother again and my breathing hitches at the unabashed demonstration of joy and love on his face. Oh my God, Jonas is clearly on the verge of crying.

Keep it together, man,I think.

But, really, I should be using all my keep-it-together mojo on myself. For fuck’s sake, I’m shaking like a leaf as I try to contain the emotion welling up inside me.

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