Page 4 of Tales of Obsession Epilogue
“Oh, sorry, sweetie,” Maggie gushed. “I see someone had a little too much fun at the New Year’s Eve party. Do you want some water?”
Poppy frowned, and I tried to move the conversation along. “We are fine. If you don’t mind, we should meet with the officiant.”
“Oh, of course. Please, don’t mind me. I’ll be right here until you exchange vows to make sure everything’s good with the rings.”
Premier service for a premier price.
The officiant, Elvis, or the man dressed as him, rushed toward us. I stared at his powder blue suit and rhinestone glasses.
“Mr. Maxwell,” he said, glancing at the clipboard in his hands. “I needed clarification about the ceremony. Did you want to use traditional vows—to love, cherish, and obey?Most brides nowadays omitobeyfrom the vows, but I wanted to pass it by you first.”
“Obey?” I repeated, savoring the word. My mouth quirked at the idea of Poppy obeying me. Though she was in no condition to fight me on it, I wouldn’t force her to take a vow that didn’t fit her character. I imagined what Poppy would have wanted had she agreed to marry me out of her own free will. She’d claw her way out of the afterlife before she evervowedto obey me. I stifled a laugh. “Take outobeyfrom the vows. Just sayto love and to cherish.”
Elvis snapped his fingers and made a note on his copy of the script, as if this happened every day—which, in Vegas, maybe it did. He gave me a little wink, as if we shared a secret. I wondered how many men he married off this way, substituting a girl’s drunken oblivion for consent. I wondered if he cared because I certainly didn’t. I looked down at Poppy, her faceflushed, her eyes blearily fighting sleep, and felt the old familiar surge of triumph and dread in equal measure.
The photo and video were already set up around the chapel, both men anxiously waiting for my approval. “Nothing cheesy or corny,” I told them. They didn’t question the half-unconscious woman in my arms, either. “Poppy hates cutesy shit.”
“Do you want me to take some detail photos? Pictures of shoes, dress, rings?—”
I raised my hand to stop the photographer. “What did I just say? Poppy hates all of that. Take cinematic photos only, which is why I hired you. When you edit them, most of the photos should be black and white.”
He nodded just as the baker approached me. “Mr. Maxwell, I’m so sorry,” he started. “I tried my best, but I couldn’t order the ingredients to make the cake pitch black on such short notice.”
“Don’t worry about it. I already explained it to Poppy that the florist will cover the cake with black dahlias.” I glanced at the florist, who spoke on cue.
“On it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Poppy seemed coherent enough to stand, so I set her gently on her feet, though my arms were wrapped tightly around her. The vendors cooed about our cuteness, and only Farrah saw Poppy slightly stumble down the aisle.
Farrah ushered us down the runner lined with candles and floral arrangements. The camera crew scrambled to keep up, their gear glinting in the cold fluorescence. I could see them already constructing our love story in their heads, cutting between my rigid posture and her vacant eyes, the manicured violence of my hands holding her back straight.
We reached the end of the aisle. Poppy mumbled something like “Jesus fuck,” but it could have been a sneeze. The ceremony began. Elvis’s voice was richer and deeper than I expected, likehe’d spent a lifetime drinking bourbon and smoking menthols in a velvet booth. “Dearly beloved,” he intoned, “we are gathered here to witness the union of Damon Maxwell and Poppy Ambani, two souls, two parties who probably should not be allowed near sharp objects or open flames together.” A couple of the staff snorted.
Poppy’s eyes were glazed, and I silently willed him to move it along.
I felt a weird gravity in the moment, the kind of vertigo that comes from knowing you just pressed a button you can’t undo. The floral haze, Elvis’s voice, the static charge of the cameras all blended into a kind of dream logic. I was acutely aware that I was forging a chain and locking it around us. I squeezed Poppy’s hand. She squeezed back, just hard enough to let me know she wasn’t a prop.
The photographer started circling, snapping candid shots. I heard him mutter to his assistant, “More chiaroscuro. The bride’s got a murder face.” I wanted to laugh but didn’t. The rings came next. Maggie pressed the wedding band into my palm, and I slid it onto Poppy’s finger.
Poppy stared at it, and just when I thought she’d had enough, she looked at me, her pupils twin black holes. “My turn?” she garbled.
For a second, I thought I misheard the enthusiasm in her voice, but then she snatched my complementary obsidian wedding band from Maggie’s fancy tray and jammed it onto my finger.
I grinned, flexing my hand, as she stamped me as her own.
Elvis’s voice soared, the finale building. “By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, and the spirit of the king, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He paused, then added, “It’s also officially midnight. Happy New Year.”
Right on cue, the audio system kicked in with a swelling baritone of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Black petals erupted around us, fluttering to the ground in slow motion. The sound of champagne bottles popping mixed with the applause from the chapel staff was all around us.
I didn’t wait for permission. I pulled Poppy into my arms, her body folding into mine with the ease of inevitability. I kissed her like I was drowning and she was the last gasp of oxygen on the planet. She tasted like champagne and regret—hers, not mine. Eventually, she kissed me back, and I realized the drugs had entered their final stage. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the midnight hour, or maybe it was just a matter of chemical inevitability. Either way, I took it.
When we finally broke apart, her lips were red and swollen, her mascara halfway down her cheeks. “You married me at midnight,” she slurred, accusatory and exultant at once.
“Can you think of a better way for a new start? Happy New Year, Wife.”
The photographer captured every second as I fed her champagne and helped her feed me some in return. We did the same with the cake. For picture purposes, but also to seal this moment between us. The flashes froze us in time, and I already had an idea in mind of the shot I wanted to blow up for our living room mantle.
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