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We line up for the processional and, as Liam steps to my side, I notice a tenseness in his demeanor that he didn’t have when I left him this morning.
“What crawled up your ass?” I whisper, earning me a grin.
“Nothing,” he says before clearing his throat. He leans in to my side as he brings his lips so close to my ear that I can feel the heat of his breath. “Just struggling with the fact that you look like that right now and I can’t ravish you the way I want to.”
A warmth spreads over me as he resumes his comfortable distance.
Biting back my grin, I look forward, but mumble in response, “Good answer.”
A piano rendition of Barry Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic” begins to play as each pairing walks down the aisle arm in arm. Our steps are carefully rehearsed as we approach the altar. I remove my arm from the crook of Liam’s arm and step to stand behind Savannah as we await the bride.
Jackson’s eyes meet mine as I feel the waterworks start to creep forward once again. This is everything he’s ever wanted. Not a wife, butthiswife. Genevieve Bennett, soon to be Genevieve Thatcher-Miles, my best friend since childhood, the first girl—nay—onlygirl he’s ever loved.
Savannah subtly pushes a tissue into my palm as Édith Piaf’s “La Vie En Rose” starts to play through the speakers discreetly placed throughout the chapel. The chill in the air is immediately dulled as the heavy wooden doors at the end of the aisle creak open once more, this time to reveal Gen.
The beautiful bride.
My gaze follows her as she floats down the aisle with her arm looped through her dad’s, a man who has been through far too much in his lifetime but is consumed with so much pride as he gives his only daughter away.
“Who gives this bride?” the officiant asks.
“I do.” Gen’s dad’s voice shakes as he responds, only exacerbated by the dam that breaks the moment he places Gen’s hand in Jackson’s. The tears that stream down his cheeks only make me more emotional. I quickly attempt to tap away the moisture from my face.
The moment they begin reciting their vows, my eyes ghost past them at the altar, only to linger on the tall drink of water already staring back at me. While his eyes aren’t misty like mine, they’re still steeped in emotion. I want to mouth “I love you,” but based on the expression he’s sporting, I’d venture to say he’s having the very same thought.
“Do you, Genevieve Bennett, take Jackson to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Jackson Thatcher-Miles, take Genevieve to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
My attention keeps shifting back and forth between the happy couple and Liam, but his eyes never leave me. A few months ago I would have felt under scrutiny, like he’s judging me, but when our eyes meet across the altar all I feel is thisradiating warmth crawling up my stomach and pooling in my chest, where it has taken up residence for a while now.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss your bride!”
Jackson does just that as he cups Gen’s face in his hands and draws her lips to his. The crowd hoots and hollers as “This Will Be”by Natalie Cole starts booming through the room, the familiar tone from mine and Gen’s favorite movie when we were kids filling me with nostalgia.
As we pair off once more to make our way back down the aisle, I loop my arm through Liam’s. Unlike before, he rests his hand over my hand in the crook of his elbow before squeezing it gently. No one in the room notices, but something about his touch causes my stomach to jump with anticipation—of what I’m not sure.
After an excruciating hour of being maneuvered by the photographer and Savannah yelling at everyone to stand just so, I’m relieved when we finally arrive in the reception hall.
I’m in awe the moment we walk into the room; twinkle lights mixed with sprigs of eucalyptus hang from the exposed beams on the ceiling. The rustic yet industrial feel of the space is softened by the feminine decor. Cream-colored tablecloths line every circular table, topped with a variety of trinkets and florals, all expertly tied in with the same eucalyptus that lines the ceiling.
Dinner passes quickly, yet the entire time I find myself searching for Liam across the space. It’s a struggle to not be obvious. The bridal party is positioned at the head of the room at a long table, facing out over the guests. Over half of my extended family is here, most of which I haven’t seen since high school. My mom is socializing with Aunt Sylvia, and I’m hopeful this means she’ll be distracted from me tonight.
“Now it is time for the bride and groom to share their first dance,” the DJ says into the microphone, his voice booming through the speakers.
Jackson and Gen are quickly on the dance floor, Gen’s hand in one of Jackson’s as his other rests on the exposed part of her back. An unfamiliar French tune fills the space as they sway to the music, the entire room engrossed in the love of the happy couple. As the song starts to fade, I expect them to move into father-daughter and mother-son dances, but the DJ’s voice travels from the speakers once more.
“The bride and groom ask that the bridal party join them on the dance floor.”
I want to groan—my feet are killing me in these insane heels Savannah picked for everyone to wear—but as Liam steps toward me with his hand extended, suddenly all my reservations are washed down the drain.
Taking his hand, I step out onto the dance floor. He pulls me close to him, my body flush with his front. This is the closest we’ve been in public since the start of all this and I find myself wishing he would kiss me; own this for what it is; claim our relationship for all to see. However, he does none of that. While he holds me close, it’s not the same kind of adoring touch I’m used to. It’s calculated and intentional, but a shiver crawls up my neck as his lips graze my ear.
“You look incredible,” he whispers, causing a smile to paint my lips.
