Page 80 of A Storybook Wedding

My bouquet is a stunner. White calla lilies and deep burgundy roses. The kind that might remind you of bloodshed, of deep wounds that never quite heal all the way.

At the altar, I face him for a split second, just long enough to search his face for any traces of regret, and then I offer him my best, most genuine smile, because like I said, I’m working on becoming a better liar.

It’s a split second when we face each other. Something unspoken passes between us. I don’t know exactly what it is—whether it’s regret, apology, or something entirely different—but I carry it with me as I veer to the left to line up alongside the other bridesmaids.

As my sister glides down that same aisle on my father’s arm, the “Wedding March” drowns out the Macklemore in my brain.

Daddy lifts her veil and gives her a kiss on the cheek before sitting down in the front row alongside my mother, who daintily dabs at her happy tears.

My sister weaves her fingers into Ryan’s, and there they are, just like I said.

Promises and lies.

Hand in hand.

I look up from my pages, surprised to find my heart pounding but no tears. I no longer feel the pain of this story. Nate beams at me, and the smile I offer him springs directly from my heart.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and the room explodes in applause as I retreat back to my space in the front pew, exhaling a cleansing breath.

I did it.

My first accolade is now entirely official, and the hard part’s over.

As soon as I get back to my room, I will update my query letters.

My phone buzzes. It’s my mom. I shake my head silently. Leave it to her to pick the most inconvenient time to call me. I quickly hit the red button to silence it.

Dillon Norway goes back to his role as emcee. He introduces the winner for creative nonfiction next—a woman who is unironically named Hester. She’s about two minutes into her reading when my phone vibrates again. This time, it’s my parents’ home phone number. The buzzing is loud, and I feel like it echoes in this space, so I change the phone setting from vibrate to silent.

I’m tempted to text my mom or dad to make sure everything is okay, but the last thing I want to do is be rude to another reader when I just finished my own reading. Talk about poor taste. I slide my phone under my thigh, and I leave it there until the end of the ceremony, which is only about forty-five minutes later.

The rest of the ceremony is really quite poignant. The graduating class has chosen a student speaker and a faculty speaker, both of whom do a wonderful job reminding all of us that the journey of education doesn’t end once you graduate. It’s one of those few moments in life when the whole world seems shiny and new, just waiting for you to step out into it like a fresh pair of sneakers. I’m a sucker for this kind of stuff. I love being here, in the world of academia, absorbing information like a sponge, shaping my future. I can’t imagine how overcome with emotion I’ll feel when it’s my turn to wear the flat square hat and the polyester gown.

When everything is said and done, I’ve choked back tears twice. The graduates disband to find their guests, and I stand up and check my phone.

Holy shit. I’ve missed five calls and three FaceTimes, all from my family.

My stomach drops, like in that way that it would if you were preparing for your worst nightmare. My mind spirals. Dad’s been killed. They’re getting a divorce. Something happened to one of the babies.

The back of the sanctuary is crowded, between graduates and their families and students trying to file out. The faculty and Dillon Norway are all still toward the front of the room; I guess they’re seasoned enough to know that it will take a few minutes to clear out, especially in the dead of winter. Nate approaches me as I type out a quick text. What’s up? Is everything okay?

Immediately, a FaceTime call comes in. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I turn to Nate. “I have to take it. Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.”

He nods, but concern weighs down his brow.

“I’ll be right out there,” I explain, jutting my chin out at the corridor just outside the sanctuary. There are people everywhere, but at least back there, folks are on their way out. I squeeze my way past a family with a baby and a couple walking an elderly woman toward the exit. “Excuse me,” I mumble, trying to avoid being rude. The phone in my hand shines with the light of urgency.

I swipe at it, trying to huddle as far away from the grads and guests as possible.

“Cecily?” my mom says. Her face is red, splotchy, and definitely not right. Has she been crying?

“Hey, Mom,” I say in a hushed tone. “You okay? What’s up?”

“I can’t believe—”

The phone—theirs, not mine, drops to the ground with a thud.

“Cecily Jane, are you there?” This from my father, whose voice booms extra loud in the reverberation of the cold corridor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nate approaching behind me.

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