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Diego looks hot.
Like, steaming hot.
I’ve seen him in so many suits before today, but today, he’s in a tailored light blue suit that hugs every part of his muscular body, showcasing his broad shoulders and trim waist.
The shade of blue highlights the green in his hazel eyes. And the crisp white shirt with the light gray silk tie make me melt as I think about his body fitted in the suit.
But he knows.
I’ve been to many weddings. I’ve seen how the groom and bride look at each other, and they never ever hold hands until the end.
Diego grabs my hand and runs his index finger on my wrist. It’s almost as if he’s saying he owns me. So, if he knows, then why keep up the charade?
I don’t suffer from asthma, but it is as if I’m finding it hard to breath and I’m in desperate need of an asthma pump. My hands are damp, and sweat drops are sliding down my face.
He squeezes it as the priest comes to the part when we have to sign the certificate.
“You’re hurting me,” I squeal as he leads the way.
He says nothing but narrows his eyes at me and then immediately in the direction of Belén in her floral pink dress, the one I should be wearing.
If she smiled, then maybe he wouldn’t have realized so soon. No one has thought that there is anything wrong. Mamá has tears of joy in her eyes, which she tries to hide as she bows her head, showing only her green organza headpiece, which seems to annoy my cousins behind her, because they keep moving to try and see past the hat.
Mamá’s only crying because she thinks Belén’s getting married. If she knew it was me, there would still be tears, but more for my groom. When I was a teenager, I would come home with wool in my hair, and she would say, “Her future husband will help her.”
She made me feel as if I were broken and in need of fixing all the time. When Diego was supposed to marry me, I could tell she wasn’t happy, but she couldn’t do anything about it. After all, she’d lived under Abuela’s roof her whole life and never ventured out alone.
Everyone’s here and should be able to see through me, but no one does, only the man next to me.
As I sit down, he doesn’t hesitate in giving me the pen to sign. The priest hasn’t even told us where to sign.
“¡Firma aquí!1” he growls as he gives me the pen and then removes my veil.
I thought maybe if he didn’t see the fear in my eyes, then he would think I was Belén. I was wrong. He didn’t need to see my face to know. I’m met with a blank reaction. His eyes don’t turn dark, as I’ve seen them do when he’s angry. His nostrils don’t flare.
Nothing.
As he repeats for me to sign it now, I nearly write my own name, but I’m not me. I’m Belén. I hesitate as I try to remember her signature, but then his lips are pressed together and his eyes are wide, so I quickly sign. As soon as I finish, he grabs the pen out of my hand and signs himself. While he’s doing that, I put my veil back on. I know it’s silly, but part of me just feels that if I hide myself then maybe it will all go away.
Yeah, I know it doesn’t work like this, but me being the wrong bride is weighing heavily on my soul right now.
For a second, I expect him to say something. Nothing. He just grabs my poor aching hand and squeezes until it turns red.
Then we go back to the altar, and I think I’m going to be sick. I illegally signed as Belén in the library. I’ve been brought up as a good Catholic girl, and all this is against my beliefs.¡Dios mío!2
I want to run to a church and go in the confessional. Nothing about this makes any sense. I’ll pretend to be Belén, which means I can’t go to university. She has to work my job, for what? Just so that I can give him a baby?
I didn’t agree to that, or did I by being here?
Why does she make me feel like this?
I can be so confident and know what I want and who I am, and then I lose all my senses after spending some time with Belén.Mi prima Cristina3 warned me about coming to New York. She said there were good universities in Madrid to learn art or even in Barcelona if I wanted to leave.
But Diego offered more than just a place to study, stay, and work. He offered to pay my tuition fees to get the degree I desire. No one in my family has that kind of money, and only his family could do that.
No Jorge.
No marriage of convenience for me.
