“So what’s next?” asked Wes. He knelt down to my level, keeping an eye on the paramedic as she wrapped gauze around my shoulder. “Where do we go from here?”
“Home,” said Orson, shielding his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. He tightened his grip around Lauren. “We go home.”
36
On the morning of our wedding, Wes and I got ready in the same room of our refurbished apartment. I tied his bowtie, straightened his collar, and helped him with his cuff links. In return, he fastened each and every button that ran the length of my cream-colored dress.
“Would it have killed you to pick one with a zipper?” he griped.
“You’re nearly done,” I said, ducking my chin so that he had better access to the buttons at the back of my neck.
“And… three hundred,” he joked, finishing the last button.
As I carefully swept my hair—curled, pinned, and sprayed into place courtesy of Lauren—over my shoulder, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I called.
Lauren pushed open the door. She wore a navy blue, floor-length gown that I had let her pick out herself. It was going to be a small wedding, and I figured that Olivia and Lauren, as my only bridesmaids, had earned that right.
“Ugh.” She groaned at the sight of me and Wes together. “The two of you realize that this practically screams bad luck, right?”
“Lauren, I think we’ve had enough bad luck to last several lifetimes,” said Wes. He chucked a jordan almond at her, which she dodged successfully, before popping another one into his mouth.
“Where did you get that?” I demanded.
Wes hid the candy behind his back. “Nowhere.”
“Did you steal that from the wedding favors that I spent hours putting together last night?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said innocently. “Lauren, help me out here. I can’t get this boutonniere on for the life of me.”
As Lauren pinned a cluster of cherry blossoms to Wes’s lapel, she asked, “Are you guys ready? Everyone’s seated and waiting. We’re a little behind schedule.”
I gave her a thumbs-up. “All set.”
“Me too,” said Wes.
She dusted a piece of lint from the shoulder of Wes’s black tuxedo. “Follow me, lovebirds.”
It was a gorgeous summer day in late May. The Waverly campus was painted in bright colors. Everything was in full bloom, from the green grass of the lawns to the pink cherry blossoms that lined our route to our improvised wedding venue. We had wanted something simple and inexpensive, so Lauren had pulled some strings, and I let out audible gasp when everything came into full view.
On the wide lawn between the dormitories and the classroom building, a small seating area had been erected with enough room for Wes’s extensive family, Natasha and Henry, and the rest of our friends. Our wedding officiator waited beneath a white trellis decorated with fairy lights and baby’s breath. A string quartet sat to the right of the trellis, playing a gentle melody. When the musicians spotted us, the song reached a coda before morphing into a light wedding march.
Olivia, in her own navy dress, met us at the head of the aisle. “Ready?” she asked, handing me a bouquet of cherry blossoms and pale pink roses.
I took Wes’s elbow. We had bucked tradition in a couple of different ways, ultimately deciding to walk down the aisle together.
“Ready,” I said.
The music swelled, and the modest crowd turned to face us. Lauren walked first, accompanied by one of Wes’s friends from the police force. Olivia followed, accompanied by Henry, who looked surprisingly sharp in his suit. At last, Wes and I proceeded to the other end of the aisle, the warm breeze playing with my wavy hair.
As we turned in to face each other, I took a moment to appreciate the grace of the day. The sky was blue, the scent of the flowers was sweet, and Wes’s lopsided grin had never made me so happy. Everyone that mattered was there. My mother sat in the front row. Next to her, Eileen O’Connor—my history teacher’s wife—smiled widely at me and Wes. A few rows back, I spotted Orson Lockwood. He caught my eye, winked, then returned his gaze to where his daughter stood behind me.
I reached back to squeeze first Olivia’s hand then Lauren’s. A light woof reached my ears, and the audience laughed as I turned to pat Franklin’s head. Ever since Lauren had picked him up from his temporary home, he’d taken quite a liking to her. He sat obediently at her feet, sporting a black bowtie in lieu of his usual collar.
The ceremony went smoothly. Wes and I had gone with a traditional set of vows to avoid writing our own corny ones. We kept it short and sweet, goofing off a little as we traded rings, and soon enough, the officiator began to wrap up his spiel.
“Nicole and Wes,” he said, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. “You have vowed, in our presence, to be loyal and loving toward one another. You have formalized your bond with the giving and receiving of rings. Therefore, it is now my pleasure to pronounce you husband and wife.”
“Finally,” said Wes, and as the crowd broke out in applause, he picked me up, spun me around, and kissed me.
The reception was held in one of Waverly’s smaller ballrooms. Again, Lauren had outdone herself with the planning. A long buffet table and an open bar decorated one side of the room, while a jazz band played swing music on stage. Wes and I took turns dancing with everyone. I waltzed with Wes, quick-stepped with Lauren, and even made a poor attempt at a tango with Henry. We laughed throughout the band’s rendition of “Sway” before giving up and heading to the bar for another glass of wine. There, Lauren was deep in discussion with her father, who nursed a glass of whiskey neat.
“Ah, my dear
