His face transformed.
There is no other word for it.
One second he looked cautious.
The next, pure joy.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
He jumped up so quickly his chair scraped backward.
Then hugged me.
Hard.
“I won’t go too fast.”
I laughed against his shoulder.
“I know.”
“And I won’t step on your dress.”
“Good.”
“I need to know which side.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He pulled back.
“I have to practice.”
That became Ethan’s mission.
The following morning, my mother called me laughing.
“Your brother is walking up and down the upstairs hallway.”
“What?”
“With his arm bent.”
I already knew.
“He’s practicing.”
“Apparently.”
In the background, I heard Ethan counting.
“One.”
Pause.
“Two.”
Pause.
“Three.”
Then:
“Mom, you’re talking too loud.”
I nearly cried again.
Practicing at home wasn’t enough.
Without telling me, Ethan called Cedarbrook Chapel.
The chapel sat on the older side of Bellmere, a stone building with narrow stained-glass windows and dark wooden pews polished by generations of weddings, funerals, baptisms, and Sunday services.
The minister called me afterward.
“Your brother phoned.”
I closed my eyes.
“Oh no.”
“No, no.”
“He was wonderful.”
“What did he want?”
“A complete description of his responsibilities.”
I laughed.
The minister continued:
“He wanted to know whether he releases your arm before or after shaking Adrian’s hand.”
“Of course he did.”
“He also asked whether he is supposed to say, ‘I give her away.’”
I groaned.
“That sounds like Dad.”
“I told him nobody owns you.”
“What did Ethan say?”
“He told me his father said that was the traditional line.”
“Again, Dad.”
Eventually they agreed on a process.
Ethan would walk me from the rear doors.
At the front, he would stop.
I would release his arm.
He would shake Adrian’s hand.
Then hug me.
Then sit beside our mother.
