Page 29 of Pucking Strong

Fuck me, nothing about this moment is how I imagined it would be. I don’t even have my somethings old, new, borrowed, or blue. I know this is a fake wedding and a fake marriage, but I want something about this to feel, I don’t know … reverent? It feels like too much of a jinx on the whole institution to not observe anything sacred.

Eyes narrowed, I scope out my options. There’s a cup of pens on the corner of the desk. I spy a blue one. Inching closer, I pluck it from the bunch and slip it in my pocket. I nearly jump out of my skin when the secretary speaks again.

“Would you like a pen, sir?”

I smile sheepishly, taking the pen from my pocket. “Sorry. I thought I might need it. I’ll just … I’ll go ahead and put this back.” I awkwardly return it to the cup as the secretary smiles.

“I only meant I can give you a new one.” He pulls out a box of brand-new blue pens and offers me one. New and blue.

I take it. “Thanks.” Spying the watch on his wrist, I get an idea. “Hey, is that old?”

Henrik and I walk down the hall towards the chapel, following the lead of the officiant. He’s an older man, very European looking, with silver hair. Instead of a tie with his blue suit, he wears a yellow silk ascot tucked into his open shirt collar.

I wonder if he’d swap fits with me, something else I can borrow. I’m already wearing the secretary’s watch on my wrist. Felix was cool about it, immediately offering it to me when I asked. Apparently, it was his dad’s, so it’s old too.

The officiant pulls open the chapel door and—

“Whoa.”

All thoughts of what I’m wearing leave my head, and my mouth drops open. I assumed a chapel tucked inside an administrative building would look a bit like a hospital chapel—a few bench seats, a spray of fake flowers in a vase, maybe a crucifix perched on a table. But no, this is a proper freaking chapel.

I half turn as I follow Henrik inside. It looks like they dismantled a medieval chapel and reconstructed it inside this long, narrow room. The walls are wood paneled, draped with what looks like real tapestries. There’s an altar set before a floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window. It even smells old in here. Now I feel even more self-conscious about my stupid Nike Swoosh tee and my sneakers. At least Henrik isn’t dressed any sharper.

The officiant says something in Swedish and Henrik responds. As I watch, the officiant steps behind an ornately carved lectern,opening a blue folder placed on top. He says something else and Henrik nods, handing him our printed marriage license.

“The ceremony will be in Swedish,” Henrik says under his breath. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, that’s cool.” I mean, what the hell else am I gonna say? Of course a wedding in Sweden is done in Swedish. They’ll just have to let me know when it’s time to say, “I do.”

Henrik takes his place in front of the lectern, hands folded. I mirror his pose, trying to keep my eyes from darting around to the carved details of the crown molding.

As soon as we’re staged, the officiant begins. His voice is low and pleasant. I don’t understand a word until I hear my name. I jolt, tearing my gaze away from the wall tapestry. “What? Oh, yeah, that’s me. Am I saying ‘I do’ now or …”

Henrik smiles. “We’re not quite there yet.”

The officiant reads a few more sentences. When I hear him say Henrik’s full name, I freeze. Oh fuck, this is real. I’m getting married to Henrik Johan Björn Karlsson.

“Wait.” Backing away, I raise a hand. “I just … can we … I think I need a minute.”

Henrik looks concerned. “Are you unwell?”

“Well, that really remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” I press a hand over the heart now racing in my chest.

The officiant says something in Swedish and Henrik shakes his head. Oh god, I have to tell him. I can’t trap him in a lie. Not one this huge. I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I’m even worse at keeping my feelings buried. He has to know. Henrik takes a step closer. “Teddy—”

“I need to talk to you,” I say over him, my hand still pressed to my chest.

“Now?”

“Yeah, this really can’t fucking wait.” I tug at the collar of my tee. “Fuck, is it hot in here?”

“You can tell me anything.”

My gaze darts to where the officiant stands, watching us. Do I really have to do this in front of a live audience? I jab my thumb at him. “Does he speak English?”

“Of course,” Henrik replies.

At the same time, the perturbed officiant frowns. “I’m fluent in seven languages, sir, including English.”

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