Page 2 of I Do With You

It feels like my body isn’t my own as I force myself to robotically walk to the front door. My wedding dress makes a swish-swish-swish sound with every step, but what I mostly hear is my heart racing and a dull roaring in my ears.

Outside, Mom meets me in the front yard and stops suddenly, her eyes glittery with unshed tears. “Oh, honey. You look beautiful.”

She’s already seen me all dressed up. In fact, she and my twin sister, Joy, helped me get dressed, but I imagine she’s going to be struck by seeing me as a bride all day. This is a check mark on Mom’s life list too.

“Thanks, Mom. For everything,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She waves her hands, fanning her face. “Don’t make me mess up my eye makeup, young lady. I bought waterproof mascara that makes these fancy tubes on your lashes so I wouldn’t look a mess all day. It’s supposed to be what synchronized swimmers wear in the pool. Figured if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for me.” She flutters her lashes, which do look extra dark and long.

“Pretty,” I say, figuring a compliment is always a win.

“I was coming to light a fire under your butt. Joy texted and said people are already arriving to get a good seat, so we’ve got to scoot. Don’t want to be late for your special day.”

My dad, brother, and sister headed to the ceremony site a while ago to do last-minute preparations there. I suspect it was also to give Mom and me a moment alone.

Her smile is bright and warm, proudly telegraphing how happy she is.

Mom and Dad have always been amazing. Admittedly, when I was foolishly and desperately in love the way only a teenager can be, and dreamily announced my plans to marry Roy while trying on an ivory prom dress, my parents nodded and said,Sure, honey, which we all knew meantNo way. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Roy, but that I was young, and they knew how likely things were to change as we grew up.Yet they didn’t argue with me or make me feel stupid for feeling that way. In return, I’ve never saidI told you soto them for being right, now that those youthful plans are actually coming to fruition.

Especially when they might’ve been an itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny bit right.

Mom opens the door and helps me climb into Dad’s big four-door truck, which is our only vehicle that would fit me and my dress—and that’s with the passenger seat pushed all the way back to touch the rear seat. She makes sure every inch of my satin-and-lace confection is in and then slams the door shut. In her own mother-of-the-bride dress—a gold sequined number she ordered online—she hikes around the front of the truck and climbs in behind the wheel.

“Ready?” she asks.

I almost say no. I almost ask if she had cold feet when she married Dad. I almost do something ... anything ... to give myself a minute to think because it’s so loud in my head. So overwhelmingly loud, with doubts, worries, questions, and, oddly, the song “Go Your Own Way” on repeat. But that might be because Dad was in control of the music at home this morning, and vintage Fleetwood Mac is one of his favorites.

I feel Mom’s focus land heavily on me, and I risk turning to meet her gaze. Silently, I blink and Mom tilts her head, calculations and concern filling her eyes in an instant. She can read me like a book. She’s always been able to do that, which pissed my brother and sister off when we were growing up because they couldn’t get away with anything. All Mom would have to do was stare me down and she’d know exactly what type of shenanigans they were up to. Because it was always them. I was then and still am the good kid, the good girl, the one nobody ever worries about because I’ll always do the right thing.

“Hope?” she questions gently, like she’s afraid I might burst into tears if she’s her usual blunt and bold self.

I force a smile to my lips and swipe an imaginary tear from my dry eye. “I’m fine. I’m ready.” I nod, reassuring her that I mean it, even though I’m not sure I do.

Mom puts the truck into gear, and before I know it, we’re flying down McAdams Lane toward my wedding site, where Roy’s waiting for me. Along with most of the town.

“Oh my gawd, there you are!”

Joy nearly attacks me as I climb out of the truck, which Mom parked behind a huge maple tree that must be at least three feet wide, with branches reaching up close to a hundred feet. Its leaves are broad and green, swaying in the slight summer breeze. “Everyone’s waiting for you. I think Roy’s nervous that you bailed on him.” She laughs like the thought is utterly ridiculous as she shoves my bouquet into my hand and Mom goes to find Dad.

“I’m here,” I tell her, stating the obvious, considering she’s currently fluffing my dress and scouring my face at the same time. I don’t know what she’s looking for. A wayward mascara smudge, maybe?

Should I be crying already? I don’t feel like crying. I feel like ... Never mind that, I tell myself, shoving those thoughts back into that deep, dark corner with the worries and doubts. “Who all’s here?”

It’s a stupid question, and Joy looks at me with an arched brow that says as much. “Literally. Everyone. The whole town.” With a bit of bite, she adds, “It’s not every day the sheriff’s son gets married, I guess.”

Right. Because they’re here for Roy, not me. Well, there are definitely people here who’ll be happy to see me get married. Old schoolteachers, patients from Dr. Payne’s office, family and friends. But Roy’s dad is the sheriff of Maple Creek, and that comes with an extensive guest list, apparently. Roy insisted we send an invitation to the mayor, for fuck’s sake, who of course RSVP’d that he’s coming, which means theMaple Creek Gazetteis here, too, because one of the reporters follows Mayor Haven around like a Taylor Swift fangirl, writing a weekly “What’s New?” article about his every move that’s more supposition and wishful thinking than real journalism.

I almost peek around the tree to count how many people actually came, but Joy’s fussing over my dress keeps me in place.

“Do you think I’m going to be in the paper this week?” I say hollowly, not really caring one way or another.

Joy snaps her fingers in front of my face and then gets nearly nose-to-nose with me to peer into my eyes. Her pale-blue ones are near mirrors of my own, but hers look suspicious, while I suspect mine are more apprehensive. “Are you okay? Did Mom give you a muscle relaxer or something?” She lifts my arm and then abruptly releases it, letting it fall back to my side. I almost drop my bouquet of blush peonies despite my death grip on the stems. “Shiiit, she did, didn’t she?”

I shake my head. “No, Mom didn’t give me anything. I’m fine.” One of those statements is true; the other, not so much. I am most definitely not fine, and a muscle relaxer that’d knock me out for a few hours of peace sounds like a welcome option. I bet someone out there has one tucked into their purse. If I could just get to them ...

Joy looks dubious, but Dad appears around the wide trunk of the maple tree, stopping any further interrogation. “There’s my girl!” he boasts before he winks at Joy, a running joke that she and I are basically a two-for-one package deal. Notgirls, but a singulargirl.

We’re technically not identical twins, but somehow, the DNA-mixing process didn’t quite get the memo on that and we look eerily similar for fraternal twins. Well, we did until a few years ago, when Joy got her hair cut into a long, sharply angled bob that she likes to style in beachy waves; started wearing cat eyeliner, which I can’t duplicate with a stencil, a magnifying mirror, or prayers; and began dressing like a newscaster, which makes sense because that’s exactly what she is. She’s the sports anchor for our local TV station, there every night at five and again at eleven.

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