Page 168 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

My eyes burn as I scan the hall again. I blink fast, surprised by the tears welling up. My throat constricts. My chest tightens and aches.

Titus leans in, pressing a folded handkerchief into my hand. “You got this,” he whispers. “She’s gonna be beautiful.”

I nod, but I don’t correct him. I know my bride will be beautiful. That ain’t the problem. That’s not what the tears are for.

The tears are for me. For this empty ass venue. For only having one of my boys standing up here with me. For everything I lost.

And for the fact that I believe it will all be worth it.

Tori catches my eye from her seat. She tips her chin, a subtle reminder that I’m okay. I’m prepared for this.

I have the placebo birth control pills she gave me. Just in case. Pregnant women have more to lose. Plus, my family will come back around for the first grandchild.

And the neostigmine. That’s a failsafe for when Raya tries to give me the same fate as her father.

Not when. I don't know why I even thought that.

If.

Big if.

I snatched a few of those notebooks, too. They’re in my safe deposit box at the bank. Could be evidence one day.

Fuck.

I never thought I’d be marrying a woman who requires an emergency anecdote in case she tries to poison me, but here we are.

The music starts.

The doors open.

There’s my bride.

My unhinged, crazy as fuck, head over heels in love and obsessed with me bride. The one who needs me. Who does not, under any circumstances, play about me. Who sees me as her hero.

How could I walk away from that?

She’s in white, but not the kind of white you see in the bridal magazines. Her dress is sleek, clinging to her body like someone poured it on. No lace, no fluff, no princess shit. Just her. Simple.

Her veil is short and sheer and soft around her face. She’s holding a bouquet of red roses. She’s fucking beautiful, almost scarily so, and my smile at the sight of her is genuine. I’m happy. I'm at peace.

It just is what it is.

She walks alone, no father to give her away. No mother wiping her tears in the front row. Just her, with her shoulders back and her chin up. A bad bitch who don’t give a fuck. I can’t help but respect it. I’ll protect that girl forever if it means that chin never gets tucked.

She reaches me, and I take her hand, kissing her knuckles. My life wouldn’t be the same without her, I know that for a fact. Good or bad. Better or worse.

I already know it’ll get worse sometimes.

I don’t hear the vows. I don’t register my own recitation of them. My mind’s racing like buddy inThe Best Man, only I’m not seeing visions of my bride fucking my homeboy. I’m seeing flashes of the stalking, and the videos, that night at the bridge, the notebooks and the skateboard.

“I do.”

It slides out of my mouth easily, because I mean that shit. I’m in this. I tried to quit this girl before and I was fucking miserable. I thought long and hard about what life would be like without her. Even as recently as last night, I pondered. Shit just looked like a black hole to me. Empty. A mundane day-to-day with some boring bitch who eventually decides she can take me or leave me.

Who the hell wants that?

“I do.”

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