For one second, Owen looked startled.
Then my father pulled him into the hug.
“Thank you,” he said.
Owen’s eyes closed.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
The reception became the most beautiful disaster I had ever seen.
The seating chart was wrong because Caleb’s family left early.
Nobody cared.
My aunt got drunk and told everyone she had always thought Caleb had “weak ankles and weaker character.”
My mother danced with me barefoot.
My father gave a speech that lasted eighteen seconds because he cried after the first sentence.
He lifted his glass and said, “To my daughter, who taught us that canceled does not mean over.”
Then he sat down.
Perfect speech.
Owen danced with me after dinner.
The string lights glowed above the courtyard.
My dress brushed against his shoes.
I was tired by then.
Pain had started low in my abdomen, dull and mean.
He noticed.
“You need to sit.”
“I need to dance.”
“You can do both badly.”
“I hired you for emotional support, not commentary.”
“You didn’t hire me.”
“Because you’re stubborn.”
“Because you needed one person not taking from you.”
I looked up at him.
The music was slow.
Not romantic in the dramatic movie way.
Something older.
Gentler.
“You embarrassed me at the altar,” I said.
“Yes.”
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