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Fabio speaks up again. “At this juncture, Art would like to say a few words to his new bride.”
Everyone cheers as Art walks over and grabs the mic from Fabio before facing me. Unsure of the protocol, I stand up.
“Lemon, my kislik,” Art says ceremonially. “From the moment I saw you, I knew that was it for me. I knew I’d found my person. My light. That which would make the rest of my life sweet.”
My knees turn weak, and I have no choice but to plop back into my chair.
Art frowns worriedly.
“I’m fine,” I gasp. “Legs tired. Go on.”
It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
I’m not fine.
I’m screaming inside.
His words sound so fucking sincere that it hurts. And since I know they’re lies, instead of warming my heart, they make it feel like it’s ripping apart.
Damn this fake marriage. I want Art to be telling the truth. I’d give anything for him to be telling the truth, but of course, I know he isn’t.
“Looks like I’ve swept her off her feet yet again.” Art looks around, giving everyone a conspiratorial grin.
Everyone but me cheers.
“Anyway, where was I?” Art looks at me. “Ah, right. I was about to call my wife the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. The cleverest too. The—”
Mom sobs so loudly I miss what Art says next.
Since when is she so sappy? Must be the promise of grandchildren or something like that.
Dad gently squeezes her shoulder in an effort to calm her down. I wish someone would calm me down. I’m on an emotional rollercoaster and I don’t even know why. I signed up for this charade. I shouldn’t feel anything at Art’s fake speech.
Mom stops sobbing, and Art’s voice reaches me again. “—someone whose hand I want to hold every night. Someone I will honor and respect. Someone I will stay faithful to. Someone I’ll never forsake. Someone—”
Mom starts sobbing again, louder this time, and is inconsolable to Dad’s touch. By the time she quiets down, I only catch the last part of what Art says, which is, “Join me now and drink to my wife’s health.”
People down their drinks as Art heads my way. When he reaches me, a bunch of voices start shouting, “Gor’ko! Gor’ko! Gor’ko!”
“What’s that mean?” I whisper into Art’s ear.
“We trained for this,” he says. “It means ‘bitter.’”
I frown. “Is that some weird joke related to my name? Also, how did we train for this?”
“It’s just a Russian tradition. That’s what people shout when they want the bride and groom to kiss.”
So “bitter” means “kiss.” How very Russian. And I now understand what he means about our training.
Art glances at my lips. “Obviously, if you don’t—”
I stand up, wrap my arms around his neck, and rise on tiptoes to lock my lips with his. I channel all the feelings triggered by his speech into the kiss.
Distantly, I hear cheering and Mom crying yet again.
I pay them no heed. My head spins, and my heart races madly. I so badly want Art to mean those words—and I want him to take me here and now.
With great reluctance, I pull away from the kiss.
