Page 29 of A Wedding in a Week

Remembering that he only postponed it stills me—silences me—leaves me behind as Marc moves on, heading for a sign on one of this garden’s shattered walls that he reads out, explaining why this part of the garden looks so bomb-damaged.

“Huh. It was built by some ex-soldiers. They lost a comrade in an explosion. Left this wreckage here to remember him, but they also planted it to help his squadron move on.” His hand is still on his pocket, his phone with that app another unexploded shell inside it, but this time it’s aimed at me. Or that’s what thinking about Marc meeting someone else does to me, only my implosion is internal.

This is exactly what Lukas warned me would happen.

It’s what he also told me to watch over, telling me that it was my role to help Marc choose someone worthy of him.

I straighten up like I’m in uniform, a soldier called to attention even though I’m reeling because that’s the last thing I want after we haven’t only kissed but reconnected.

Choose someone worthy of him?

That’s got to be me.

Marc leads the way out of an alcove as wrecked as I’ve felt lately. It’s also filled with plants that flourish despite the wreckage those soldiers left here, and the moment Marc moves his hand away from his pocket without contacting that stranger, a vine of hope climbs from the depths of my stomach.

He doesn’t pull out his phone.

He reaches back, and I might be a lot of things according to my brother, like too quiet to say what I want. Or too slow to ask for help, according to my mother. But I’m also like Dad who pushed himself for his people.

That means I grab Marc’s hand and pull him back.

He’s still pink, but that rosiness is fading.

“Have dinner with me?”

“Me?” he asks as if I have a phone full of other options like he does.

There isn’t a single other person I’d want to take out. They wouldn’t be him, would they? Wouldn’t have come back to help me like he did. Wouldn’t have got behind my project so wholeheartedly they’d print business cards for me. Plus, no one else could have kissed me back from the edge of a flashback panic.

He’s all that and more.

He’s also surprised into silence, which means I have to keep going.

“Yes, you, Marc. Have dinner with me.”

“When?”

“Tonight?”

He shakes his head, and easily stopped hearts must be a family failing no matter that I’ve been cleared of having the same defect. They must be, because mine stutters until Marc adds, “I have to email in the first set of slides for my presentation. They’re really keeping up the pressure. I want to impress them but I haven’t even started.”

Of course he hasn’t. He’s been doing my work for me. “Tomorrow night then? Let me take you out.”

“Out? Why?” He tilts his head, and it doesn’t matter that I’ve got half a head on him let alone a whole lot more breadth. I squirm.

So you don’t meet someone who isn’t me.

I scramble for a less desperate-sounding reason. “To see what local produce we get served? Maybe meet chefs who do event catering?”

He’s silent for several long and drawn-out seconds before asking, “For market research?” He sounds dubious. He also pulls his hand free.

It strays back to his pocket, and I get honest in a hurry. “I just…” I take his hand again, hoping mine isn’t clammy. “Not only for market research. I just want to take you out, Marc. Spend more time with you. As much as I can while you’re here.” I’m not prone to flushing like Marc. Apparently I can stutter. “I-I missed you so much.” But seeing him turn rosy all over again?

It makes pushing myself more than worth it.

11

We stay at the fair until it closes, working our way around stalls run by caterers and florists, and chatting with a wedding officiant. She’s funny, winding a colourful rope around my wrist first and then around Marc’s while explaining the difference between the rules around legal weddings and some of her more pagan services. “There,” she says, pulling on the rope to bring our hands together. “All I’d have to do is say the right words, and you’d be handfasted forever.”

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