Chapter 2
Her hand came for me.
The bride's fingers were still reaching through the air, manicured and shaking, aimed straight at the plastic in my fist. I didn't move. I couldn't. My sneakers were stuck to the wet stone and my sweatshirt was dripping onto the floor and my whole chest was heaving so loud I could hear it.
She didn't get there.
My dad stepped sideways. Just one step, but it put his shoulder between her and me. His arm came up, not touching her, just blocking. A flat palm in the space between us.
"Don't touch it," he said. His voice was low and it cracked.
She froze with her hand in midair. Her mouth was open. For a second her eyes flashed to him, and I saw something different than shock. It was sharper. Anger, quick and tight around her lips, before she smoothed it back.
"What is she talking about?" she said again, louder this time, for the pews. "She's confused. She's just a kid."
Nobody answered her. The whole chapel had gone still except for the rain hitting the stained glass.
The officiant was standing behind the altar with his book still open. He was an older man in a gray suit and his glasses had slipped down his nose. He looked from me to my dad to the bride like he didn't know where he was supposed to look.
"Folks," he said finally, quiet. "Let's take a pause. Let's just... let's take a breath here."
A murmur went through the pews. Chairs creaked as people turned to stare. A woman in the second row had her hand over her mouth. A man near the back stood up halfway and then sat back down when no one else did.
That was when the coordinator moved. She was a woman in a black dress with a headset, the one who'd been lining up the bridesmaids by the door. She came down the side aisle fast, trying to look calm, her hands out like she was going to shepherd me away.
"Honey," she said to me, soft and practiced. "Let's step outside and let them talk, okay? Come with me."
I stepped back. My wet hair stuck to my neck. I pressed the parcel harder against my jeans with my right hand. The plastic crinkled. It was warm from my palm.
"No," I said.
My dad looked down at me. Really looked at me for the first time. His brow was still furrowed and his mouth was still parted like he couldn't get air.
He stared at my face. At my hair. At the dirt on my cheek.
"Mom kept every payment record. She's dying tonight."
My voice didn't shake on that one. I'd practiced it on the bus, on the walk from the highway, the whole three miles in the rain. I needed him to hear it exactly like that.
The coordinator stopped a foot away from me, her hands hovering. The officiant took a half step back from the altar, giving us space. The bride made a small sound, almost a laugh.
"Payment record?" she said. "What payment record? There is no record. She was sick, she died, everyone knows that."
I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on him.
He swallowed. I saw his throat move under his bow tie.
"Show me," he said to me, quiet. He held out his hand, palm up.
The bride shifted. "Don't do this," she said to him, her voice dropping. "Don't. She's lying to you on our wedding day."
She reached again, faster this time, trying to go around his arm to grab the plastic from me.
He blocked her again. This time his hand actually caught her wrist. Gently, but firm. He didn't grab hard, he just stopped her.
"Stop," he told her. Not loud. But every person in the pews heard it.
Her wrist stayed in his hand for a second too long. She pulled it back and tucked it against her white dress. Her chest was rising fast.
The coordinator looked between them, unsure what to do, and then slowly backed toward the pews.
I looked at his open palm. It was shaking a little.
I shook my head. I curled my fingers tighter around the parcel. The plastic was slippery with rainwater.
"Not like that," I said. "You have to look. Yourself. Not her. You have to open it and look."
He stared at my hand. Then at my face again.
"Lucy?" he said. The name sounded strange in his mouth, like he was testing it.
I nodded. Water dripped from my hair onto my sweatshirt. It left another dark stain spreading across the pale blue.
"Please," I whispered. "Before she takes it."
Behind him, the bride's hands were now fists at her sides. The white roses on the pews were bright against the dark wood and the wet floor kept reflecting the light from the window, making everything look doubled.
The officiant closed his book. The soft thump echoed.
May you like
"We're going to pause the ceremony," he announced, turning slightly to the guests, his voice steadier now. "Please remain seated."
No one moved. No one even coughed. My dad still had his hand out, empty, and I still had the parcel locked in mine, and the bride stood just behind him, staring at the plastic like she could burn through it.
