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Her groom’s eyes widened, and he motioned to where I stood, fully miked. In the back of the room, I caught Lear wincing, and knew the sound system had picked up her words perfectly. I looked from him to the couple quickly and gave them what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
I began the ceremony, reading more than normal with all the last-minute changes from the night before. The couple relaxed, and I read the passage they’d selected to open the ceremony, something from a book they’d read together in college. It was offbeat but moving, and the crowd seemed to forget about the earlier issues. I shifted to the next thing the couple had added the night before, the reading of a poem by a family friend. I followed my script, noticing the bride’s eyes widen and tears well as I read the friend’s name and asked them to come forward.
In the back, Lear was waving his arms and shaking his head, and the room fell into another moment of hushed and awkward silence. “We took that out this morning,” the groom hissed, leaning forward. I had the forethought to cover the mic this time, but my heart hammered. I was used to navigating the unexpected. I was even used to people crying in my presence—it happened often—but the combination of Lear trying to signal me from the back of the room, the bride’s tears, the groom’s concern for her, and the shift in the room because of what I’d said made me anxious.
For the second time that evening, heat burned my face at the embarrassment as I walked back and jumped to the next portion. I’d examined my notes, going over everything they’d changed the night before, and they’d added that poem. In the back, Lear threwup his arms, his mouth in a firm line, and I went from my normal reaction to his presence—wanting to kiss him—to wanting to punch him, to not wanting him to look so disappointed in me. I knew how to improvise, and the ceremony went on, but I clenched my toes until I was offstage and could let my anxiety show in other ways. I’d messed up, and I didn’t know how exactly, but a thread of guilt wound through my veins. It wasn’t a feeling I was used to.
Lear was in the alcove when I went to retrieve my things after the ceremony ended. His broad shoulders made him look imposing, and his jaw was set as I walked toward him. “Hey,” I said quietly, my brain still pinging. I was pretty sure I’d messed up big-time, and I felt something crack when I approached him, something I didn’t try to hold together. I waited for him to read my face or uncross his arms so I could hug him and apologize. I bit my lip because I didn’t just want that, I needed that. I parted my lips to say it, to admit I was upset, but he spoke first.
His voice was pitched low. “What the hell was that?”
I stiffened at his tone and at the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree difference from how I’d wanted this to go. He was poised for a fight, and if I knew how to do one thing, it was that. I tucked away the thread still niggling my brain, and I closed off the idea that I wanted to find comfort in Lear. “You’ll need to be more specific. I seem to recall a lot of things going wrong.” I crossed my arms over my chest, staying as far back from him as I could in the small space, my mind running back to all the small spaces we’d crowded into since we’d first met.
His eyes narrowed, but the hushed tone of his voice sounded more powerful than any yell. “Maybe we start with you asking someone to walk to the stage who is currently in the ICU.”
“What are you talking about?”
He took a step closer to me, the smell of his aftershave filling mynostrils and my brain with the sense of him, of his body heat so close. “I texted you and emailed you and tried to talk to you before the ceremony. Their friend was in a bad car accident this morning, and you brought it up in the middle of their damn wedding ceremony.”
Blood drained from my face as the bride’s twisted expression suddenly made a lot more sense. “I didn’t know that,” I said, uncrossing my arms and stepping closer, shoulders back and on the defensive. “I didn’t read your texts or emails. I didn’t want to hear your excuses or pity. Why didn’t you bring it up in person this morning?”
His eyes were hard when they met mine. “Because you’ve made it very clear you don’t want to talk to me, and I thought a grown professional would read their damn emails.”
“Don’t take that condescending tone with me.”
“You don’t get to police my tone. Do you even feel bad about this? You’re so set on putting me in my place. Can you step outside your ice palace long enough to even accept an iota of culpability?”
“My ice palace?” We were almost toe-to-toe, the sounds of the crowd around the corner. “I didn’t say I wasn’t at fault. I should have checked the messages. I didn’t want to deal with your apologies, so I didn’t look.”
“You think I was going to apologize for not playing your endless game of hot and cold on the worst day of the year for me? You make it so hard to—” He held up his palms, stepping back and leaving the sentence unfinished.
“I make it hard to what?”
Lear let out a slow breath and his expression was tight, features dark and severe in a way I’d never seen before. “Forget it, RJ.”
“No, say it.” I stepped closer and into his space, daring him to confirm what I already knew.
“I said what I needed to say about the ceremony.” He took another step back. “The rest doesn’t matter.”
“That’s never stopped you from saying something before.” I crossed my arms over my chest, wishing they could cover all of me. I felt naked, as if the only way to stop his words from sinking in was to stay on the offensive, even though I heard the words coming out of my mouth and tasted how wrong they were.
When he stepped forward again, the movement took me off guard, his body centimeters from mine, our faces so close I could kiss him if I wanted to. I didn’t want to. “Fine. You’re so afraid someone else is going to leave you that you push everyone away.” His features were sharp, more defined than usual, and his jaw was set as he stared at my face. “I didn’t come up to your place because I couldn’t trust you’d want me the next day. It’s like you need me to be small so you wouldn’t miss me if I left, and maybe you wouldn’t, but I can’t subject myself to those games.”
“I was clear about what this was.” I pressed my finger to his chest. In the small space, our voices were hushed but felt loud and permanent. “You caught feelings after I told you not to.”And gave them to me.“The endless game of hot and cold? That was me reminding you what we agreed to and you pushing for more.”
“You’re going to stand here and tell me you didn’t feel things?” Lear motioned between us. “That I imagined what it was like when we were together?”
“Believe me, I regret entertaining those feelings.” My heart beat heavy and fast as if this were fight or flight, and I wanted to flee, but I couldn’t back down. “Feelings lead to pain and betrayal. You might remember that better than anyone.” I bit my tongue hard after I said it, seeing how the hit landed like a slap and his eyes widened. I regretted it immediately.
“I guess I should.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Is thiswhen you drag me into a back room to fuck while you tell me how little you care about me? Give me a few minutes. I can’t turn off my heart as fast as you.”
I held his gaze, commanding my face not to give away any sign of how much his words had cut me.
“I thought there was something special about you, but you make it impossible to—”
“Care for me?”Love me. Like me. Take a chance on me.Familiar heat and anger and embarrassment prickled over my skin. I held his cold stare, heat behind my eyes at his silent response. He didn’t say anything. I’d asked him to love me, indirectly, in my own way, but I had asked, and now his mouth was set in a straight line. “Don’t worry. I will never ask you to again. In fact, I’ll ask you to forget you ever knew me.”
I walked fast to get out of there before the tears broke through my armor. Between the wedding ceremony and the mounting shame and regret I felt over opening up my heart to Lear, I needed out. I needed to be away from the maybes this wedding stuff had made me consider. I was almost to the exit when I caught the eye of Dina Mayfield standing near a tall man, their hands brushing casually, fingers grazing in a flash, but in the intentional contact only ever found between lovers. I doubt anyone else would have noticed it, but it was one of those clear milliseconds, and the man was not Andrew Mayfield. It was the chairman of the board for the Avente Foundation.
