So this is fine. Everything is fine. Even if this isn’t the dress I expected Delores to pick, it’s still the dress for my persona to wear to get married. It’s not me. Not really. Legally, sure, but deep down? No.
To make it seem even less like a real wedding, we have no attendants. No guests. Delores will be the only witness, and she’s assured me that we’ll be in a private section of beach that’s usually reserved for small, outdoor events. It has a view of the water, but is walled from view of the public. She has the marriage license, the rings, everything. And a photographer to document the day so she can sell the pictures to the highest bidder.
As I’m putting the finishing touches on my makeup—simple and subtle aside from my signature crimson lips per Delores’s instructions—a knock sounds on my door. Before I can answer, the mechanical lock whirs and disengages, the door opening to reveal Delores.
She scans me from head to toe. “You’ll do,” she says and sets a medium-sized white box on the bed. Opening the lid, she reveals a simple bouquet of pink and red roses, their stems bound together with white ribbon. “Here’s your bouquet. Colt’s on his way down. You ready?”
Picking up the bouquet, I take a moment to smell the flowers, focusing on their scent, the feel of the ribbon in my hands, the carpet under my bare toes. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I am. There’s no backing out now. I look at Delores. “Ready.”
With a nod, she heads for the door. I slip on my flip flops and follow. We’ll be barefoot on the sand, so my shoe choice isn’t important, but Delores insisted on white designer flip flops. “You have to look the part,” she said when I asked why it mattered.
I hope I look the part. At least enough to sell the story. Because that’s all we need from today.
In a daze, I follow Delores in and out of the elevator and through the maze of the hotel to the door that goes into the private beach area. There, framing the sunset, is a white archway, flowers and vines twining around it. A few tiki torches burn on either side, casting a warm glow in the shadowy alcove filled with palms and other broad leafed plants and brightly colored flowers. A blond-haired man of indeterminate age stands directly under the arch. And next to him stands Colt.
A smile stretches across his face when he sees me, full of excitement and affection. If he’s feeling conflicted about going through with this, he’s not broadcasting it. Delores moves off to one side, and I stop to kick off my sandals before walking slowly and deliberately to the arch. There’s no music, no processional, no typical trappings of a wedding. Just me, Colt, and the ocean to bear witness to this.
“Welcome, Alexis,” intones the officiant. And he launches into a short speech about love and marriage while Colt wraps his hands over mine around the bouquet. It’s so surreal that I can’t even force myself to pay attention. Colt’s hands on mine, his presence, are the only things keeping me grounded.
I should be paying more attention. I’m getting married.
But it doesn’t matter. The service doesn’t matter. The vows don’t matter. None of this is real.
I repeat the standard vows when prompted, this isn’t real, echoing in my head the whole time.
I mean, it is, legally. But it’s not, in my heart. Not really.
Even though the way Colt looks at me makes it feel like it might be. The affection and concern, the genuine happiness of his smile, the way he is when we’re together—enthusiastic about my music as much as his, offering me comfort when I freaked out. Everything about him makes me think this could be real, if I let it.
Before I know it, Colt removes his hands from mine, leaving me reeling a little, and accepts a ring from the guy. Then he peels my left hand from around the bouquet. “With this ring,” he repeats at the officiant’s prompting, “I thee wed.” And he slips the ring onto my finger, wiggling it the last few millimeters until it rests in its place.
I adjust it with my thumb, looking down at the simple gold band. Since we skipped the engagement, he never did get me one of the rings I sent him for inspiration. Something about that strikes me as unbearably sad right now.
“Alexis?” the officiant prompts, and I turn my camera-ready smile on him, painfully aware that though our audience is currently tiny, it includes a professional photographer here to capture every moment. That these pictures will be sold and published, and I have to play my part. The officiant holds out his hand, and another gold band just a little thicker than mine rests on his palm. “Take this ring, place it on Colt’s left ring finger, and repeat after me.”
Colt takes the bouquet, leaving me with free hands to finish this part of the ceremony. I hold his left hand in mine, tracing the lines of his long, tapered fingers that play the guitar beautifully. Repeating the same words Colt said a minute ago, I slip the band onto his finger. He grins when it gets stuck just short of its spot, wiggling his fingers and using his thumb to move it the rest of the way on.
Then he passes the bouquet back to me and wraps the fingers of my free hand with his.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” says the officiant, his voice clear and strong. “You may kiss the bride.”
Colt grins at me, like a little boy on Christmas morning, and closes the space between us, one of his hands cupping my jaw. And then his mouth is on mine. My eyes close as fireworks go off along the surface of my skin, bursts of light and heat that make me lose my mind.
But he ends the kiss far too soon, and I don’t know which way is up or down. He smiles at me, sweet and affectionate as always, still holding me as I come back to awareness of what’s around me. We’re not alone. Once again, that kiss was for show. And the fact that I unconsciously wrapped my hands around his shoulders just helps sell the act.
It’s all an act, I remind myself as I peel my hands away from him, clearing my throat and looking down at my bouquet. Some of the flowers on the edge are a little smushed from where I held it against him during the kiss. With my free hand, I fluff them up a little, trying to repair the damage. I’m not sure it does any good, but at least it gives me something to do.
“Congratulations,” says the officiant, holding out a hand for Colt to shake first, then me.
I nod and smile my thanks, and then Delores is at my elbow. “That was perfect,” she gushes. Leaning in close, she whispers, “Maybe we can get you some acting credits too. You’re a natural.”
Nodding, I force my smile wider. “Sure. Yeah.” But I’m not. I’m not acting. No matter how much I tell myself this isn’t real, it is. We’re legally married. I have real feelings for Colt. Or I could if I let myself. Nothing between us is an act.
And that’s the problem.
Chapter Fifteen
Colt
“I’ve had your things moved to the Honeymoon Suite, and a brunch will be up for you shortly,” says Delores as we walk back to the hotel. She holds out a small paper folder to Alexis, but when Alexis doesn’t take it, Delores hands it to me, her face inscrutable, but the way her eyes dart between me and Alexis tells me she’s concerned. The Botox probably keeps her from wrinkling her brows together like a normal person.
Keeping one hand on Alexis’s back to guide her to the elevators, I accept the keys to our room and nod at Delores. “Thanks for all your help.”