A stream of men and women in tuxedos and lovely gowns keep coming and muttering reports to Armand.
“All guests seated,” one blue-haired woman announces. She gives me a thumbs up before walking off.
“This is it,” Armand murmurs as a young man runs up and stands at attention holding a bouquet of peach colored roses. My bouquet. “You ready?”
“Yes,” I touch the controls to direct the wheelchair. They built a ramp from the front door all the way to the wedding ceremony area, and sprinkled it with rose petals. My own red carpet.
Armand is still fussing with my hair, arranging each individual curl to his satisfaction. “The rose petals won’t be a problem? We can clear the ramp—”
“The rose petals are fine.”
“All right, babygirl.” One hand swipes at his eyes as he lays the bouquet in my lap. “You look beautiful.” He bends and air kisses either cheeks, ever careful to not smear my makeup. “Your mother would be so proud.”
“Thank you,” I whisper and he steps away, dabbing his own eyes.
My limbs feel weak as I face the long, long ramp to the ceremony area and the waiting guests. Soft symphony music wafts over the lawn.
There’s no one to escort me down the aisle, and I like it that way. I live my own life. I come to Logan of my own volition. I will navigate my own way into the life of my dreams.
I roll myself down the newly made ramp. As I get close, a hidden signal warns the musicians to end their song with a long, lingering note. And then a harp starts to pluck a delicate version of The Swan by Saint-Saëns. The heart-breaking melody flows out from under the hanging garden.
For a moment, the notes and the scent of flowers swirl together, like something out of a dream. This moment is so beautiful. So longed for.
The perfection is painful, and for a second I feel as if I’m going to crack in two.
My mother’s angel statue is off to the side. The way the sculpture’s face is angled, it’ll look like she’s watching the ceremony.
“Love you, mom,” I mouth. And as I roll the final few feet to the first row of chairs, the sun breaks from the clouds, warming my back.
I urge my chair faster. The guests all rise as one, but I can’t look to the left or right. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I see Logan. He stands, a monolith in black. I think he’s the only one not wearing a tux. He joked he was going to wear a lab coat, and he did. Armand almost had a heart attack.
There’s a sprig of green pinned to his jacket. I focus on it as I get closer. It’s a clipping from a bush, an evergreen of some sort, frozen in resin. Needles and a single red berry.
“Yew,” I whisper to myself, and am rewarded by my fiancé’s smile.
I reach the end of the aisle. The priestess motions for the audience to be seated. The harpist ends one song and starts another.
I take a moment to view the guests. There’s Armand, just settling into his seat. He was probably rearranging the final floral flourish himself.
Beside him, Cora Ubeli glows in a sky blue dress. Her two children sit straight and solemn between her and her husband. I give Cora a little wave and she beams at me. Her adorable young daughter tugs her mom’s sleeve and points at me, and Cora leans down to whisper in the little girl’s ear. Both mother and daughter have bright blue eyes.
I could have planned on rising out of my wheelchair for the ceremony—I am strong enough—but today is going to be long and I want to conserve my strength. I hesitate with my hands on the armrests, wavering on the decision. Sit or stand?
Logan makes it for me. Gracefully for a man of his size, he lowers himself to one knee. The look of love in his blue eyes washes over me, and I have to turn away. Judging from a few sniffles in the audience, I’m not the only one blinking away tears.
“Daphne,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, blinking rapidly. “You’re gonna make me cry.” I half laugh and breathe deep, trying to push my tears back.
“It’s okay, baby.” His big hand hovers at my cheek, dabbing my made-up face with a white handkerchief. “I’ve got you.”
“So I look all right?” I can face him now. The tightness in my chest has eased, washed away as his scent surrounds me. There’s just Logan and me here. Nothing else matters.
“You look beautiful.” His deep voice is balm to my soul.
“Thank you.” I keep my eyes down, fastening onto the sight of our hands entwined. The ceremony proceeds. Most of it’s a blur, but a few moments I’ll remember forever.
The breeze stirring the flowers overhead.
The slanting sunlight illuminating my mother’s statue, haloing her peaceful mien.
The way Logan’s voice stumbles on the words “in sickness and in health.”
The way his hands squeeze mine. He doesn’t let go—even to slide on the ring. It was as if he expected me to disappear mid-ceremony.
“In sickness and in health,” I repeat, covering his big hand with mine. “‘Til death...and beyond.” It’s my turn to grip him hard.
I’m never letting you go. Death be damned.
I barely hear the priestess’s final words. Logan is smiling at me. He leans in and brushes his lips over mine.
I blink at him, suddenly dizzy. “We did it?”
“We did it. Come here,” his arms are around me, pressing me closer as he gives me a deeper kiss. He scoops me up, his lips never leaving mine as the crowd rises to their feet and roars their approval.
Logan carries me through a shower of rose petals—shot from a cannon manned by Armand himself. We end up in the reception tent where there’s a huge white throne for me to sit on to receive guests. The Ubelis are first in line.
“I feel like a queen,” I whisper to Cora Ubeli.
“Queen for a day. You look beautiful.” She bends and kisses my cheek. “Congratulations.”
The next few hours are a blur. I greet guests and shake hands until I feel like my hand is going to fall off.
Then a five course dinner—which I can barely eat because every other second people clink their glasses and Logan and I have to kiss. Not that I mind.
After the last course, before the cake cutting, a band called The Muses strikes up their top hits. And I have enough energy to rise and walk on my own to the elevated dance floor—which is a glass case filled with a carpet of ferns and roses, exactly as Armand described.
I squeal as Logan lifts me into the air and whirls me around. But he doesn’t let me back down to the ground. He keeps me in his arms as we sway to the music.
“I’m walking better now,” I whisper in his ear, my arms around his neck. “You don’t have to carry me everywhere.”
He just nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck. “Now that you’re Mrs. Logan Wulfe, you’re nuts if you think I’m ever letting you go, even for a single damn minute.”
I don’t expect the absolute explosion of joy in my chest, and not expecting it makes it all the sharper. This was never supposed to be my life. I’m not the girl who gets the fairytale ending.
But being surrounded by our friends and loved ones, at the wedding straight out of my dreams, being held by a man who loves me with his whole heart, what else can you call it?