Holy…
The air rushes out of my chest. A wave of goose bumps cascade down my body. I have to resist the urge to clutch my hand over my heart.
“Ian! Why are you breathing hard! Are you having a heart attack or is she there?!”
“Both.”
“How does she look?”
“She…her…I think…”
My mom is exasperated with my lack of brain-to-mouth connection. My synapses have all disappeared.
“What is she wearing?!”
Sam and I lock eyes from across the room and she freezes when she sees me. There’s worry there—worry and amusement. She presses her lips together to hide her smile. Her head tips to the side and she shrugs like, Yup, I’m here, even though this is absolutely insane.
I’ve cried twice in my adult life. The first was when I fractured my tibia during an intramural soccer game. It was so painful, I passed out. This is the second time. I’m a complete schmuck as I watch her start to walk toward me. She doesn’t have a clear path. She has to veer around kids who are running wild and adults who completely miss her. One lady steps back and nearly topples into her before apologizing.
“IAN!” my mom shouts, desperate. “What is she wearing?!”
I scan down her body. “A white dress…lace.”
“Poofy?”
“Straight.”
I’m not sure how she managed to find it so quickly, but it looks like it was made just for her. The top of the dress is fitted and the V-neck dips down across her chest, her creamy skin glowing under the night sky. The bottom half flows around her legs as she walks.
“Is her hair up?”
“No. It’s down and wavy and long, the brightest thing in the room.”
A few kids stop and stare at her as she passes. One girl asks, “Mom, is she a fairy princess?”
I wipe the back of my hand across my cheeks, jerking away the tears in the manliest way possible. It’s no use. Sam’s crying too, crying and laughing as she nears me. When she gets close, I finally notice she’s holding the red rose I left on her desk with a blue handkerchief tied around it.
“Hi,” she says shyly.
“Hi.”
“I like your tuxedo.”
“I love your dress.”
Her eyes widen at the compliment, and then she glances down, smoothing her hand over the fabric. “I found it at a consignment shop. $30.”
“Nice.”
“I bet you look so beautiful, Sam!” my mom shouts.
Sam jerks up and looks around, trying to figure out where the voice came from. I pat the breast pocket of my tuxedo. “My parents wanted to be here too.”
She laughs and tips forward until her mouth is aligned with the phone. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher!”
“Call us Mom and Dad!” they shout in unison. “If you want!”
The rabbi steps forward and introduces himself to Sam. He and I talked logistics and he knows the drill. We can’t loiter here for very long. This can’t be a full-length ceremony.
“Rabbi?” Sam mouths to me as he gets started.
I smile and shrug.
“You two might not know,” the rabbi says, “but a traditional Jewish wedding ceremony takes place under the chuppah, or a canopy, which symbolizes the home the new couple will build together.” We must look confused, because he continues. “So, getting married beneath the entire Milky Way might mean the two of you have quite the future ahead of you.”
“Even if we aren’t Jewish?” Sam asks.
He laughs. “Even then.”
I keep one eye trained on the entrance to the room as he continues. If we’re careful, we should be able to pull this off. He tells Sam and me to join hands, and I see a security guard lock eyes on us then speak hurriedly into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder. I swear I hear him whisper, “We’ve got a Code Matrimony, all units please respond.”
“Oh god.”
Sam follows my gaze. “What?”
“I think we’re busted.”
“Busted? What do you mean?”
I turn back to the rabbi. “Plan B.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulls the rings I gave him out of his back pocket and asks us quickly if we take the other person as our lawfully wedded husband and wife. We quickly say yes and Sam’s hand is shaking as I fumble to put her ring on. I had to guess the size, but it fits and she’s really my wife now. I’ll have time to revel in that fact later.
“Ian, what’s going on?! Why are we rushing?”
I don’t have time to fill her in because the security guard is onto us and we still have to sign the marriage certificate. I hand her the pen and turn around so she can use my back as a desk to scribble her signature just as another security guard joins the first. They start making their way toward us. I sign as fast as I can.
“GO!” the rabbi shouts, yanking the certificate out of my hand. “I’ll drop this in the mail for you guys! GO! HURRY!”
I grab Sam’s hand and take off toward the exit across the room from the security guards. She trips over the hem of her dress before she reaches down and hoists it up to her knees.
“Why are we running?” she shouts, but I don’t slow down. “Ian!”
“Hurry, c’mon. The museum has a strict policy against unsanctioned ceremonies!”
“What?!”
“It’s like $20,000 to get married here. We aren’t millionaires!”
Security is rushing toward us and calling for backup. I pull Sam to the left, using a group of preschoolers as little human shields as we rush out of the room. The entrance to the museum is in sight, but we still have to make it through the entire front lobby. There’s a large fossilized T-Rex standing between us and freedom. I want to run between his legs, but then we’d really be in trouble.
I veer around it.
“Hurry! HURRY! They’re coming!”
“HEY! YOU TWO LOVEBIRDS! HALT OR WE’LL CALL THE POLICE!”
Sam screams then breaks out in a fit of laughter. “Oh my god! They’re going to lock us in museum jail!”
We break free of the museum and I keep running once we’re outside, tugging Sam after me. I didn’t necessarily know we’d need a quick getaway when I was planning today, but this arrangement works out nicely. We’re across the street and inside the lobby of a swanky hotel before the security guards even make it out of the museum. I turn and glance back just as they dart outside. They jerk their gazes this way and that, scratching their heads like we up and vanished into thin air.
“Are we going in here to throw them off our scent?” Sam asks as we rush through the lobby.
Everyone stops and stares at us, not only because we’re running in a fancy hotel but because we’re very clearly dressed like we just got married. Sam’s still holding her rose.
We’re at the elevators and I press the up button incessantly.
“We probably need a room key to use the elevator,” Sam says, clutching her chest like she’s about to keel over.
It’s in my wallet.
The elevator dings and slides open. We step inside and I press the button for floor 4.
Her eyes slice to me and I unfurl a slow smile. “Happy honeymoon, Mrs. Fletcher.”
It’s the first time we’ve stopped since I initially saw her in the museum. It’s our first moment to breathe.
“No way! Only rich people stay here! Mafia Dons and foreign dignitaries and Beyoncé!”
“If anyone asks, we’re from the Russian consulate. Let me hear your accent.”
“Iz theez the ótel Zaza?”
“Too French.”
“Right. Let’s just say I’m the Queen of France.”
“Wasn’t Marie Antionette the last queen of France?”
Then, her hand flies to her chest and her eyes go wide. “IAN!” Her chest is rising and falling dramatically. She’s gulping in air like she hasn’t breathed in a decade. “We didn’t kiss. We didn’t have our first kiss!”
She says it as if it’s a deal breaker, as if because there was no kiss, we aren’t really married.
The elevator ascends and I only have seconds to make it happen, but it’s enough. I cross the elevator and push her up against the handrail. My hand cradles her cheek as I lean down. I can feel her pulse beating wildly. Her tongue wets her bottom lip in anticipation. She sucks in a sharp breath and her hand tightens around my wrist.
“You may now kiss the bride,” I whisper before pressing my mouth to hers.