Question. Which hand shakes Adrian?
Adrian called him.
They spent ten minutes discussing the problem that I would be standing on Ethan’s right side when he needed his right hand free.
Ethan finally solved it himself.
“I let Claire go.”
“Then shake.”
“Then hug.”
Adrian said:
“Perfect.”
Ethan replied:
“I practiced.”
The morning of the wedding, I was surprisingly calm.
Until my mother brought Dad’s cufflinks.
She held them in her palm.
“I thought Ethan should wear these.”
I stared.
They were silver.
Simple.
Dad wore them at every wedding, funeral, graduation, and formal dinner because they were the only cufflinks he owned.
I began crying so hard my makeup artist quietly left the room.
Mom cried too.
“I thought it might help.”
“It does.”
“It also absolutely does not.”
We laughed through tears.
Ethan got ready with Adrian and the groomsmen.
At 11:04, Adrian texted me a photo.
Ethan stood in a dark suit.
Hair combed carefully.
Dad’s cufflinks visible.
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.
