Chapter 8 - Out of the Arch Light
Dad didn't let go of my hand. Not once, not even when the room started moving around us. Chairs scraped. Someone coughed too loud. The light from the arch was still too bright, all white flowers and heat from the spots, and it made my eyes water.
He kept me behind him. His left shoulder was in front of my face, the black tux jacket pulled tight when he shifted. His bare finger looked pale where the ring had been.
Claire stood maybe six feet away. Her veil had slipped a little to one side. She had both hands out, palms up, like she was trying to hold something that wasn't there.
"Daniel," she said. "Please. Just give me five minutes."
He didn't answer her. He turned his head just enough to scan the first row.
"Where's your sister?" he asked me, low.
I pointed. She was still sitting at the end of the second row, where Claire had told her to stay during the vows. Her legs didn't reach the floor. She was holding her paper program folded in half, folded again, her knuckles white.
Dad stepped sideways, pulling me with him. We moved together, my shoes sticking a little on the polished floor. He stopped in front of her chair and bent down.
"Hey, baby," he said. "Come here."
She didn't move at first. She looked past him at Claire.
"Now," Dad said, softer. "You're coming with me."
She slid off the chair. Dad got her hand with his other hand, so we were one on each side of him. I could feel my sister shaking through his arm.
That was when Claire moved forward. Not fast. Her dress made a sound on the floor, lace dragging. "Don't do this like this," she said. "You're scaring them. Let me explain in the back room."
Dad straightened. "You had six months to explain," he said.
We started walking. Past the arch was harder than I thought it would be. The flowers were thick and sweet-smelling, white roses and something else, and the light was hottest right under it. For a second we were inside it, the three of us, shadows falling across the white runner.
People watched. An older man in a suit stood up like he was going to say something, then sat back down when Dad looked at him. A woman near the aisle had her phone in her lap, screen dark. Nobody stopped us.
Claire followed. I heard her heels, then the swish when she had to lift the front of her gown to keep up. She stayed about ten feet back.
"Daniel, you don't understand what I've been dealing with," she called. Her voice bounced off the high ceiling. "She told — Sophie ran off. You didn't see the messages she sent me."
Dad kept walking. His pace didn't change.
"Dad," my sister whispered. "Is she coming too?"
"No," he said. "Just us."
The double doors at the back of the ceremony room were closed. A young guy in a black vest with a staff badge was standing by them, his eyes wide. He looked from Dad to Claire to us, wet hair and damp shirts and all.
Dad nodded at him. "Open it, please."
The guy fumbled for the handle and pushed the right door open. Cooler air came in from the lobby, smelling like carpet cleaner and rain. It hit my damp top and I shivered hard.
We stepped through. The lobby was dimmer, quieter, vending machines humming by the restrooms, a table with a guest book nobody had signed. The door swung shut behind us, cutting off most of the bright arch light, but Claire caught it before it latched.
She held it with one hand, breathing fast. "Please," she said from the doorway. "Don't walk out with them like I'm some —"
Dad stopped near the middle of the lobby and turned just enough so we were still behind him. My sister pressed into his side. I pressed into the other.
"We're going outside for air," he said. "You stay in there."
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Another staff woman near the front glass doors looked up. Dad nodded toward the parking lot. She moved quickly and pushed the outer door open for us, and night air came in, real air, with wet asphalt and car exhaust.
We walked toward it together.
