And I get to watch it all happen in real time, day by day.
What an honor.
Mild surprise covers Declan’s face, shifting into a look of deeper contemplation as whatever James says hits him emotionally. People who don’t know him like I do wouldn’t catch the difference, but I do, antenna picking up signals and musing about their significance.
James says something more, his arm going around Dec’s shoulder, their eyes catching in an intense look. Declan’s face changes, eyes widening, throat working hard as he struggles to control his emotions.
A hug follows. A long one, full of promise and love, with James closing his eyes and holding on to Declan like he’s savoring every second of this connection with his son.
The first in many years.
As they pull out of the hug, their faces are close, a sign of camaraderie and the tearing down of walls erected when Declan was just graduating high school. Maybe this crazy mess does have a purpose in the end. Perhaps my mother’s maniacal obsession with offering the perfect wedding has yielded a perfect result.
James walks down the long path between the pews, Andrew giving Declan a puzzled look, the officiant beginning to herd us for the ceremony. I watch Declan, knowing that some major emotional event just took place before my eyes, and that he’s still experiencing it in the moment.
Being given the gift of time with this man is a cosmic blessing.
As James reaches the main doors leading to the large walkway outside near the ballrooms, Declan suddenly shouts, “Dad! Wait!” Holding one finger up to James, Dec turns to me and says in a rush, “Can he stay? Please?”
Please? Did Declan really just say that?
“Of course he can,” I whisper, my eyes full of tears, my empathy off the charts for whatever just passed between them. I can feel Declan’s full heart.
Declan waves to James, then leans over to me and whispers, “He told me that if Mom could have handpicked someone for me, she would have chosen you. And he asked me to forgive him for—” Dec’s chest begins to shake. The rest of him is stoic, but the body leaks emotion. It has to come out somehow, somewhere.
If you’re lucky, it pours out in words and deeds.
Otherwise, it’s on a mission, and like water flowing downhill, uses the laws of physics without mercy.
“What do you need, son?” James asks. Andrew’s watching every second, his eyes blinking rapidly, and there’s hope in him. I can tell he’s holding his breath, so I breathe for him. I breathe and I breathe, as I hear Declan say one word that carries the antidote to more than a decade of pain:
“Stay.”
“Stay? For the ceremony?” James looks at me and I nod.
“Yes. Please. I want you here,” Declan confesses.
James’ eyes shine under the glow of the lights, and if he were a slightly different man, he’d let those tears spill over. Even his body leaks.
But it does not overflow.
“Of course, Declan. Of course.” He beams. Andrew starts breathing again.
And I’d like to think that somewhere, Elena McCormick is watching all of this. Sadly, the laws of physics apply to her, too. She’s here in spirit, but not body.
James reaches for my left hand, Elena’s ring shining in the sunlight that pours through the windows. “She’s here.” The look he gives me is stark and stripped to bone. Did he read my mind?
Or maybe he just read my heart.
James opens his arms wide. I have to take the first step, and the embrace is sweet and fatherly, open and informal.
As he lets me go, he whispers, “Take good care of him.”
“I will.”
“I know.” He kisses my cheek and steps back, motioning for Declan to stand next to me, as it should be.
And so the ceremony begins with me in tears. I don’t hear most of the words, my eyes reading each person’s intentions, my body and mouth moving as needed to act or speak based on nonverbal observation, a mimicry of expectations based on anticipation. I don’t need to hear the introductory words, the platitudes, the codification of sentences designed to lend stability to a tradition that stretches back millennia.
This I know: he is mine. I am his. For better, for worse, for billionaire, for Turdmobile.
For Toilet Girl and Hot Guy, there’s only one choice:
Forever.
Andrew flanks Declan on his right, and Amanda’s to my left, holding a tissue discreetly. I don’t reach for it, instead letting my emotions pour out of me like that waterfall, not caring. This is my wedding. My ceremony. My show—mine and Declan’s—and if crying like this is what happens when I realize I have so much love in my life that it truly overflows, then so be it.
I cry because the excess of love should be shared and spread, dissolved and displayed, made public so that it can be taken and absorbed where it is needed most.
“Do you—” The officiant says the words and Declan’s eyes become all that exists in the world, two green circles of life where my true self resides, my heart tucked under his, my stardust buried in his marrow, my spirit rejoicing at the touch of his hand against my finger. The ring he procured this morning at Tiffany fits just right, a simple band designed for a simple purpose:
A claim.
We claim each other. As he says I do and I say I do, we do. We are. We kiss, we hug, we rejoice, and we laugh.
Oh, how we laugh. I’ll hear the echo of that warm, rich baritone in my last moments in this lifetime, as my consciousness fades into whatever comes next, and I will smile wherever I am, for this lifetime is ours.
“I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Declan McCormick,” the officiant says, a genuine smile turning his face to hills and richness, the flat, polite look of a man whose business it is to pin down love on paper gone, swept away by the force of our bliss.