Page 11 of Bartholomew
“Yup. This is really it,” Levi answered, fixing his tie for probably the tenth time in as many minutes. The man was a perfectionist to a fault.
“And I’m really going to have to… after…” I trailed off, not wanting to speak the words aloud. Levi turned towards me, his hand clapping me sharply on the shoulder as his eyes met mine.
“You need to be able to say it. If you can say it, you can get through it. And if you can get through it, the two of you can grow from it.” His words were insightful. Insightful and possibly full of shit. Who knew, really?
“I’m going to fucking watch the goddamn Elders of this church touch my new wife. Then I will have to fuck her in front of all of them. Jesus Christ! And there isn’t fuck all I can do about it,” I spat out derisively.
“You may have to go to hell for cursing that much in a church nursery, but yes. That is what is going to happen after the ceremony. But Ollie, you are a good man. You are an incredible Dominant. When you get home, just care for her. Don’t pressure her in any way. Just care for her.”
“I think I know how to lay down some aftercare, brother,” I sighed with an exasperated eye roll.
“I’m serious, Ollie. Just care for her. It’s not an easy thing to go through,” Levi pushed on.
“I know. None of this is,” I grumbled, fixing my own tie, only because I needed something to do at that point other than continue this line of conversation.
I wasn’t like Levi. He followed the rules. Came out of the womb that way, honestly. He lived by a code of conduct that many could never live up to, and he did it with skill and precision. Me, I was a goof. I was a lover of all things fine in this life, and that’s all I wanted. To enjoy life. To laugh and learn and grow. To just be Ollie and exist in my own way instead of who everyone expected me to be.
And now, I was about to become a husband. Expected to be a husband. Expected to care for and nurture a marriage I did not want. But it was the right thing to do.
Christ, that day at Mother and Father’s when they had been verbally lashing Malachi trying to get him to break his resistance to marrying Delilah — the things they said about this woman. They spoke more poorly of her than they would speak of a rabid dog on the side of the road. Seriously, a dog would garner more compassion from my parents than this woman did.
And why? Because she was older? Okay, who cared? Age was just a number.
No, it was because she was apparently garish to look at. Heavy set and sinfully ugly was the way my father had worded it in his study, long after Mother had gone to bed that evening.
It was appalling and made my stomach roll. Malachi had nothing ill to say about the woman, mind you, but he just did not want to marry anyone. That was Malachi for you. Stubborn to a fault.
But I could not listen to a moment more of it. So, I spoke up. I told Father I would take on the task of wedding Ms. Delilah Christian.
And now, here I was. Standing in front of a too short full-length mirror surrounded by half broken children’s toys in our church nursery, waiting for the moment that I would have to bury Ollie away and take on the placard of Bartholomew Temple: husband.
“Ahem. Are you boys ready?” Father spoke from the doorway. I glanced at the clock again. Ten minutes until showtime. Time to face the music. Time to face my soon to be wife.
Those ten minutes sped by in a blur and suddenly I was at the front of the church sanctuary, facing what felt like a hoard of thirsty onlookers.
Look right this way! The latest Temple son weds a woman he has never laid eyes on!
Quick, before you miss the spectacle!
It felt like a grotesque, circus-like masquerade. We all played a part. And none of us were honest.
The idle chatter raised in volume like a swarm of locusts on a mid-August day. I felt hot. Sweaty. Uncomfortable.
Levi’s hand on my shoulder steadied me.
“You’ve got this,” he whispered so softly, I was surprised I could hear it above the buzzing, droning sound of the cicada-people I called acquaintances in this town.
The music began, the loud organ chords drowning the sounds of the crowd and making me wince at the false cheeriness of it all.
The smiling faces of the congregation shone proudly as they looked on in wonder at the spectacle before them.
I felt sick.
Suddenly, the doors at the back of the church opened and in walked Elder Christian, his daughter’s arm tucked into the crook of his elbow tightly. I couldn’t see much of her face, hidden away by the veil. At least it wasn’t that monstrosity that Ruth had worn on Levi’s wedding day. But that wasn’t what had me perplexed.
“Fix your face,” Levi mumbled from between clenched teeth. I realized that my mouth was open, and I had to have the most ridiculous look on my face.
I was confused.
