His expression was so serious he looked like he was preparing to negotiate a peace treaty.
Underneath, Adrian wrote:
He has asked what time it is twelve times.
I replied:
Tell him I haven’t escaped.
A minute later:
He says good.
Then:
He says you should not be late because he practiced for the correct time.
That sounded exactly like Ethan.
When the ceremony finally began, I waited in a small room near the rear entrance of Cedarbrook Chapel.
Music floated through the stone hallway.
My hands shook.
Not because I was afraid to marry Adrian.
Because Dad should have been there.
Grief is strange that way.
It can stay quiet for months.
Then one smell, one song, one empty space beside you and suddenly eleven months have disappeared.
The door opened.
Ethan entered.
He stopped.
Looked at me.
And forgot whatever he planned to say.
I smiled.
“What?”
He stared.
Then:
“You look like Mom’s wedding picture.”
That destroyed me.
My mother had worn a simple lace veil.
I had borrowed part of it.
“You look like Dad.”
Ethan immediately touched one cufflink.
“I know.”
We both cried.
Then he became serious again.
“Don’t cry too much.”
“Why?”
“Pictures.”
I laughed.
If only he knew.
The music changed.
Ethan straightened.
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