“Maybe you should consider offering a legal-service-plus-wedding package,” Lareina suggests. She’s quite kissable when she’s serious, so why not just skip all this and go straight to the part where I kiss the bride? This ceremony is already a mess. Might as well just do the good part—
Sinatra waves his hand. “Forget it. I’m feeling generous, so I’m gonna accommodate you.For free.” He turns to me. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in good times and not so good times, for richer or poorer,and not take any of her shit, as long as you both shall live?”
What the hell? This issooooonot legally binding. I should tell him so, but somehow my mouth won’t obey. Besides, saying yes seems like the best idea ever, especially when Lareina looks up at me with shining eyes and a pretty smile, like she actually is a happy bride. A teeny voice in my head says I might as well burn my law degree if I say yes, because I’m being stupid and leaving myself exposed to all sorts of legal issues down the road. Yeah, that’s true, but the urge to please Lareina is irresistible. It’s just a simple yes, not castration. “I do.”
“And you”—he turns to Lareina—“do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sicknessand in health, in good times and not so good times, for richer or poorer,and not take any of his shit, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do!” she says with more enthusiasm than I expected. “But is it really okay to just add that to the question?”
“No,” I mutter.
At the same time, Sinatra booms, “Of course. As your celebrant, it is within my power. Also, it’s a solemn promise between you and God.”
I stare at the man. There’s nothing godly about his presence or talent or the ceremony.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
A beat. Where’s the “you may kiss the bride”? That’s the most important part of the wedding.
Before I can bring up my objection, Lareina says, “Where are the rings?”
“Oh. You paid for those?” Sinatra’s eyes shift left and right. “Gimme a sec. Most people don’t buy ’em here.”
Jonny runs up with two rings. They look more silver than gold. “Genuine white gold!”
“And I’m Santa Claus,” I say.
“Are you saying this isn’t gold?”
“If the shoe fits…”
“It’s real gold. We guarantee it. Everything sold here comes with a week-long warranty.”
I should argue that the law governing merchantability requires that they guarantee it for more than a week. But why debate the point when I’m going to buy a set of better rings anyway? Even if it does annoy me that Jonny and the fake Sinatra are selling me fake goods…
I lower Lareina, hating how suddenly cold I feel without her in my arms. My mouth tight—she really deserves better hardware, platinum at least—I put the smaller ring on Lareina.The size is just right, and the entire event of the day since I met Lareina feels destined. Like the way I met Queen.
Wonder how she’s doing? Hopefully her aunt and uncle are treating her well, better than how Lareina’s being treated. At least no one would be hurting Queen for an inheritance, given how poorly she was dressed and nourished.
Lareina slides the ring onto my finger. The thing is so cheap it’s painful, but seeing the matching one on her finger somehow makes it okay.
Sinatra signs the certificate and jots down a few things on the lines. Then he flashes it at us. “See? All legal and proper. And now”—he makes an elaborate flourish with one hand, building the moment—“you may kiss the bride.”
Finally.
I start to dip my head to taste her mouth. She looks up at me, her eyes shining.
“I’ll serenade you as the photographer commemorates the moment,” Sinatra says.
The moment shatters. “Please don’t.” I link my hand with hers, then dash out before he can finish “Fly Me to the Moon” and permanently scar both of us for life. No amount of therapy could cure us.
Jonny doesn’t try to stop us this time. “Happy wedding night!” He waves with a huge grin.
I kick the door open, and we run smack into a pasty man standing right outside. Short, strawberry-blond hair is gelled to his skull. Hyperpigmentation mottles his nose and face, and pale lashes surround reptilian green eyes. His shoulders are somewhat narrow underneath an ivory tuxedo complete with a white peony boutonnière.
“Hey!” he yells, then starts to shove us away. His eyes widen when they land on Lareina. “You!”
“Yuck,” she says.
