Page 71 of Faking the Pass
Whoever married him for real one day was going to be one happy bride.
Resuming my walk, I reached the end of the short aisle and took my place beside him.
The minister began speaking, welcoming everyone.
“I’ve shared many happy occasions with your family,” he said, “starting with the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Lowe back when you were even younger than these two beautiful young people. And I was so green I could barely breathe during your ceremony. If I recall correctly, I might have even said the wrong name at one point.”
Mr. Lowe held up his left hand, pointing to the ring finger. “It still worked. So one of your ceremonies is good for at least forty years.”
Everyone laughed, and the minister continued. “I’ve had the honor of dedicating your four sons as well as both Lily and baby Theo. And now, we’re gathered here today to welcome the newest member of the Lowe family, Rosie Elizabeth James.”
It was the strangest sensation, but it felt as if the love filling the small room was an actual physical thing. His family’s closeness was palpable.
And I felt like a fraud.
I didn’t belong here. Iwasn’ta member of this lovely family, and I didn’t think I could bear to keep up this deceit any longer.
I started making peace with the fact I’d be going into the civil trial alone, unmarried, and destined for career ruin and poverty.
When the minister got to the “speak now or forever hold your peace” point, I took a sharp breath and opened my mouth.
Presley grabbed my hand, squeezing it. I looked over at him, and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
Just as he’d done at the press conference, he mouths the words, “Trust me.”
And I held my peace. I said nothing until it was time for my vows, which I repeated after the minister.
It all felt like a dream—the low rumble of Presley’s voice saying his own vows, the feel of him sliding a ring onto my left hand, the beautiful stringed quartet music drifting in through the open doorway along with the scent of hydrangea blooms and honeysuckle vines.
The one clear thought that came to me through the fog of disbelief was that this wasexactlythe kind of wedding I’d have chosen if this were all real and I’d been involved in the planning.
A small, intimate gathering. Romantic. Sacred.
And so sweet that tears did roll down my cheeks—in spite of the absence of the main ingredient in a real wedding.
Love.
But Presley’s family didn’t know that. So when the minister proclaimed us man and wife and said, “You may kiss your bride,” they all clapped and cheered.
One of his brothers started the chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss,” and the others joined in.
For a moment, Presley and I just looked at each other. And then his head bent, his hands curved around my head, and his lips met mine.
As I’d told Danielle, Presley and I had kissed quite a bit during that three weeks we’d been together in high school.
I’d thought he was a good kisser back then, but now? My knees literally buckled. Thankfully, he slid a strong arm behind my back to hold me up.
Where our chests were pressed together, I could feel his heartbeat.
To my surprise, it was racing almost as fast as mine.
The kiss went on, turning from soft and sweet into something more intense.
And then it ended, and Presley turned to accept the incoming hugs and back slaps from his family, who now surrounded us.
Danielle flung herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and tickling my face with the bouquet she was holding for me.
“That was beautiful,” she declared. “Absolutely perfect.”
