Page 40 of Fake As Puck
“Good for you, man. She’s way too good for you.”
“Thanks for… that.”
“Anytime.”
Reed claps his hands together. “Alright, boys. Time to head over to the Airbnb. Ceremony starts in an hour.”
We pile into cars, and I end up driving Liv, Hurley, and Marcus to the venue, which turns out to be a large house with a backyard that’s been transformed for the wedding.
String lights are hung between trees, folding chairs are arranged in neat rows, and there’s an arch made of flowers at the front where Reed and Chelsea will exchange vows.
“This is beautiful,” Liv says, and she sounds like she means it.
“Chelsea did all the decorating herself,” I tell her. “She’s been planning this for months.”
“It shows. It’s perfect.”
We find seats in the third row, and I’m hyperaware of every point where we’re touching. Her shoulder against mine. Her hand resting on the armrest between us.
When the music starts and Chelsea walks down the aisle, I should be watching the bride. She looks beautiful, radiant, happy, everything a bride should be.
But I can’t stop looking at Liv.
The way she smiles when Chelsea reaches Reed. The way her face softens during the vows. The way she bites her lip when Reed starts talking about how Chelsea makes him want to be a better man.
Without thinking, I reach over and take her hand.
She smiles and doesn’t let go.
Reed’s vows are unexpectedly emotional. He talks about finding someone who challenges him to be better, who feels like home.
Chelsea’s crying. Liv’s tearing up. And I’m sitting here holding the hand of someone who’s being paid to pretend to care about me, wondering what it would feel like if this were real.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says, and the small crowd erupts in cheers.
Liv squeezes my hand, and when I look at her, there are actual tears in her eyes.
“That was beautiful,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not talking about the ceremony.
After Reed and Chelsea head off for photos, we help move chairs and clean up the ceremony space before heading to the community center for the reception.
The community center has been transformed with more string lights, simple centerpieces, and a DJ set up in the corner playing music that’s just loud enough to create atmosphere without drowning out conversation.
When Reed and Chelsea arrive at five, the small crowd of maybe forty people cheers like they’re arriving at Madison Square Garden.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announces, “Mr. and Mrs. Reed Hendrix!”
They do their first dance, and I keep my hand on Liv’s lower back as we watch from the edge of the dance floor.
“They look happy,” she says.
“They are happy. Reed almost lost his career over her.”
“Really?” she asks, surprised. “I’m glad it worked out for them.”
“Me, too.”
