Chapter 1
The finger came first. Before the words, before I understood what my father was doing, his hand was up and pointing straight at Mark's chest under the white flowers. We were supposed to be taking photos. The pergola was dripping with white roses and greenery, the stone pavement warm from the sun, the light coming through in little shifting squares on my dress. I had my bouquet in both hands. My veil was still pinned right. And then my dad stepped out from behind the stone arch and ruined the picture we hadn't taken yet.
It didn't make sense. The contradiction sat right there in front of me. This was my wedding day, the day he'd walked me halfway down the aisle and kissed my cheek and said I looked beautiful, and now his face was red and his maroon tie was crooked and he was shouting at my husband as if Mark had stolen something from him. His boutonniere had come loose. Mark's white rose was still perfect.
My name is Lauren, and that morning I thought my father came to give me away.
It was just after eleven thirty. The ceremony had ended at eleven. We'd done the kiss, the applause, the recessional back under the pergola for photos while the guests milled with champagne on the stone courtyard. The photographer had said hold there, look at each other, and Mark had his hand on my waist. I could feel his wedding ring against the lace of my dress. My dad was supposed to be with my sister Jessica by the arched doorway. Instead he crossed the pavement in three hard steps, stopped two feet from Mark, and jabbed his finger forward.
"Give your sister the check. She needs the more."
He said it loud enough that the guests heard. Every head turned. I felt my mouth open and no sound came out. Mark didn't move right away. His left hand was on my back. His right was near his jacket pocket, where the envelope was. It was the check from my grandparents, made out to both of us for the house down payment, and Mark had tucked it there after the best man handed it to him because I didn't have pockets in my dress. My dad was staring at that pocket like he could see through the dark suit.
I looked at Jessica. She was by the stone wall in a pale blue dress, not looking at me, looking at the ground, her arms crossed tight. She didn't nod. She didn't shake her head. She just stood there and let him speak for her.
"You just made this easier."
Mark said it quiet, but his voice carried. He stepped half a step forward and sideways, just enough to put his shoulder between me and my dad. I saw the white rose boutonniere on his lapel come into sharp focus, the petals and the little green leaves pinned there, his pocket square folded underneath. His face was tense and his jaw was tight and he was looking right at my father. The guests behind us went completely still. Someone's champagne glass stopped halfway to their mouth.
My dad's hand dropped, then came up again, pointing. "You think you get to decide? That's family money. That girl is pregnant and drowning and you stand there pretending you don't know."
I brought my hand up to my mouth without thinking. My bouquet shook. The white roses blurred. I didn't know Jessica was pregnant. I didn't know she was drowning in anything. My dad had never told me. And for a second I doubted Mark, doubted if he'd known and hidden it from me, if this check was something I should have offered without being asked. The thought was quick and ugly and it sat in my chest like a stone.
He lied.
I whispered it, not to my dad, to Jessica. "You didn't tell me."
She didn't answer. Her eyes finally lifted to mine and they were wet and angry and begging me not to do this here.
Mark didn't look at me. He kept his arm extended slightly toward my dad, not touching him, just making a wall. His other hand was still near his jacket. He breathed once, slow, and I saw his chest rise under his white shirt and dark tie. Then he said it, low and hard, to my dad.
"Who did you call?"
May you like
My father's mouth twitched. He didn't answer right away. The dappled shadows from the pergola moved across his black suit. Behind him the archway framed empty sky. Behind us I could hear one of the guests whisper and then go silent again. The envelope in Mark's pocket felt suddenly heavy, like everyone could see its outline. My hand was still over my mouth, my bouquet crushed against my chest, and I was crying without any noise. Mark held his blocking position, his shoulder firm between me and my dad, his white rose right in my line of sight.
My dad's hand was still raised, ready to point again, and Mark's phone buzzed once in his pocket, and no one moved.
