Max
If a wedding is a sacred union, the rehearsal is a hostile military tribunal conducted in a room full of unlit candles and ancient, judgmental stone.
The Cathedral is magnificent. It is a cavern of Gothic revival architecture, stained glass that judges your sins, and a centre aisle that is approximately three miles long. The air smells of frankincense and expensive anxiety.
"Stop!"
The command cracks through the hollow silence like a whip.
Mother stands at the altar rail. She is wearing a charcoal power suit that costs more than the average sedan. She holds a clipboard in one hand and a stopwatch in the other. She looks less like the Mother of the Groom and more like a High Inquisitor.
"Cut! Reset!" She waves her pen at the nave. "Jackson, you are walking like a duck. A terrified, constipated duck. We discussed theglide, Jackson. Why are you not gliding?"
Jax freezes in the middle of the massive centre aisle. He is a tiny, terrified figure against the backdrop of the high altar. He is wearing his new Italian leather dress shoes—specifically, the onesEnzo bullied him into buying. They are sleek, black, and have the structural flexibility of a cinder block.
"I can't glide, Catherine!" Jax protests, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "These shoes are made of wood! I have zero dorsiflexion! My ankles are currently fused!"
"Then lubricate your joints!" Mother snaps, checking the stopwatch. "You are three seconds behind the organ. If you are late to the altar, the organist will loop, and if he loops, he charges overtime. Do you want to pay union rates for overtime because you cannot bend your ankles?"
"I want to take them off," Jax whimpers, looking at me with wide, pleading eyes. "Max. Please. My feet are bleeding. I can feel the blisters forming. It’s a dermatological crisis."
"Statistically," I say, stepping out from the groomsmen’s line near the pulpit to assess his gait, "the leather will yield after approximately four miles of usage. Currently, you have walked forty feet."
"Thank you, Dr. Data," Jax growls. "That is incredibly unhelpful."
"Go back to the vestibule!" Mother commands. "Do it again. And smile! You look like you are walking to a sentencing hearing. Radiate joy, Jackson! Radiate Catholic joy!"
"I am radiating pain," Jax mutters, turning around and stiff-legging his way back down the endless aisle. He looks like a robot with a rusted hip servo.
I watch him go. Beside me, Preston checks his manicure.
"He walks like he’s holding a coin between his buttocks," Preston observes dryly. "It is very... taut. Is that the vibe we are going for? 'Constricted Holiness'?"
"It is the shoes," I defend him. "Enzo designed them for aesthetics, not locomotion."
"Enzo designed them to punish the unworthy," Preston corrects. "And apparently, it’s working."
"Quiet on the set!" Mother roars. "Cue the music! Takefifteen!"
The organist—a man who looks like he has been dead since 1950—presses a key. The pipes groan.
Jax emerges from the vestibule. He tries to smile. It looks like a rictus of terror. He takes a step. He winces. He takes another step. He wobbles.
"Glide!" Mother screams over the Bach. "GLIDE!"
Jax tries to glide. He ends up doing a strange, sliding shuffle that resembles a man on a sheet of ice.
"Catherine, stop breaking the asset."
The voice comes from the front pew. It is calm, authoritative, and carries the weight of someone who runs a Level 1 Trauma Centre.
Rosa Ortiz is sitting there. She is wearing a tracksuit and eating a bag of trail mix she smuggled in. She crunches a cashew loudly.
"He’s not a ballerina," Rosa announces, wiping salt off her fingers onto a hymn book. "He’s a surgeon. Let him walk like a human being. If he glides any harder, he’s going to dislocate a hip, and thenIhave to do the paperwork."
"We do not bounce in the House of God!" Mother spins on her heel. "And stop eating nuts in the sanctuary! The oil will stain the mahogany!"
"It’s protein," Rosa argues, throwing a peanut into her mouth. "I need strength to watch you micromanage my asset. Keep moving, Jax. Ignore the crazy lady. Eyes on the cross."
