Page 39 of All In
Does he hate me?My stomach drops with that thought.
A hand lacing his fingers through mine breaks up my thoughts of Sam. I look up and my husband is giving me a small smile. I glance at our interlaced hands. Ihave to admit that Nate does look handsome in his black tux and white bow tie. Every strand of his dark blonde hair is flawlessly styled, and the lingering scent of his signature aftershave fills my nose. It’s earthy, like a forest.
I look down at our joined hands as he traces his thumb along the top of mine. Nate’s hands are soft. But they don’t feel like Sam’s.
I force a fake smile back at Nate. A habit at this point. He squeezes my hand. “You ready for this, Maria?” he asks, his eyes brimming with excitement. Nate has never given me any kind of term of endearment. No ‘honey,’ no ‘babe,’ no ‘love.’ I mean, I would have taken a ‘pookie.’ It’s always just been Maria.
Maybe I don’t deserve one.
I nod at his question and turn my attention to the dance floor and what is about to happen. Nate must pick up on my uneasiness because he leans in and whispers in my ear. “Relax, Maria. Let’s just eat, dance some, and appease our parents. Then we can get out of here and have some real fun.” I turn to look at him, and he waggles his eyebrows.
Suddenly, the lights dim. A strobe light coming from—I don’t know, somewhere—starts sporadically pulsing different-colored rays over the hall. Then, out of nowhere, an urge to cough fills my lungs. Is that smoke? Dear Lord, a smoke machine. Am I at a club or at my wedding?
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Are you ready to make some noise?!” the DJ screams into the microphone. He’s holding onto his headphones with one hand, the other on a turntable. Our guests roar and clap over C&C Music Factory’s “Everybody Dance Now.”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU! I said, are you ready to make some noise?” Louder screams and claps this time as C&C’s volume increases also. I glance at Nate, who is no longer looking at me. Instead, he is pointing, laughing, and engaging with his already too drunk groomsmen. These guys started drinking at the wedding venue, which continued in the limo. Then the booze made its way to the park for pictures. All of them, including Nate, are three sheets to the wind.
Without warning, one of them sprints towards Nate, leaping onto his back and shaking him violently.
“Let’s get this party started, man!” He exclaims as he high-fives my husband.
The DJ announces our bridal party couples one by one. Nine couples total. Normally, it’s the girl that wants a huge bridal party. Nope, that was Nate. The DJ introduces one frat buddy after another to our wedding guests with their escort. Girls I had to pretend to be friends with to fill our bridal party quota.
Now it’s our turn.
“THE MOMENT YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! Without further ado, it is my honor to be the first to introduce you … MR. AND MRS. NATE CONNELLY!”
With those words from the DJ, Nate and I sashay onto the dance floor. My too-tight dress is swooshing and swaying with each step. The room explodes into hoots and hollers. I see my mom, her table-issued disposable camera in hand, snapping away in our direction. I give her a huge smile that I know she will love. My dad is standing next to his new girlfriend, grinning with pride. Nate raises our joined hands up into the air and lets out a huge, “WOOHOO!”
We make it to the center of the room for our first dance, and I know Nate is thriving. His smile reaches ear to ear as he waves at everyone. Never once looking at me. And that’s because Nate loves attention. Any and all attention. Now, it’s on him, and he is relishing it.
His proposal was proof of how much he adores people focusing on him. And what is the most attention-grabbing proposal out there? Asking your beloved to marry you at a NBA game, on the big jumbotron. So, what do you do when you are a people pleaser and an arena full of twenty-thousand Cavs fans are screaming ‘JUST SAY YES! JUST SAY YES!’ over and over as your boyfriend is on bended knee?
You say yes.
Even if you gave your heart to someone else as a teenager. I was supposed to meet Sam the next morning at Bistro 1845. We made the plans via our letters. As soon as Nate got on one knee, I knew that date wouldn’t happen, and the letters that I loved so much would stop.
Sam wrote to me immediately after. His letter and letters that followed were begging me for an explanation. And I never replied. I couldn’t. But I should have.
I wasn’t ready to marry Nate. Far from it. I knew he wanted to get married. He talked about it all the time. But for him, it was more wanting the life that his parents had. A wife waiting on her husband hand and foot, doting on her man twenty-four seven. A spotless house that doesn’t look lived in. Piping hot dinners waiting on the table at the stroke of five, not a minute later. A wife who looks dinner party ready when her husband walks in the door. Not a hair out of place. A wife who can never speak her mind or seek her own interests. Why? Because her sole focus in life is her husband.
He wanted Mayberry. And for some godforsaken reason, I led him to believe that I would give him that. And worse yet, I wanted it too.
That’s how I ended up in the middle of this reception hall, my husband holding me in his arms as we sway and dance to Faith Hill’s “There You’ll Be.” Our bridal party is lining either side of the dance floor. Nate is, of course, nodding, waving, and smiling at the entire audience of people. He’s beaming.
Good grief, he thinks he is a celebrity.
Without warning, he spins me. The crowd eats it up. Camera flashes surround us. We are dancing in sync, not missing a step. Never faltering. Perfection.
Nate’s soft hand is on my lower back. His touch, which at one time felt like something I needed, now feels empty and foreign. And it has for a long time.
It makes me think of Sam’s arms from last night. They felt warm, comforting, and full of promise.
I turn my attention up to Nate. The song is halfway over, and our first dance as husband and wife is almost a memory … and he still hasn’t looked at me once.
I turn back to our friends and family, plastering on the fakest smile I can muster. Trying my hardest to push down the raising need to scream.
The photographer taps Nate on the shoulder. “Let’s get a close-up. Nate, lean into Maria and press your cheeks together.” We do as instructed. “Perfect,” she says as she takes a few steps backward. She places the camera up to her face. “Now, on the count of three, look right here”—she points to the camera lens—“and smile as if this is the happiest day of your life!”
