Page 81 of Fake As Puck
“Nice to meet you too. West’s been holding out on us.”
“He’s very modest,” I say, glancing at West. “Doesn’t like to brag.”
“That’s new,” Jamie says with a grin. “College West was not modest about anything.”
“People change,” West says, and something in his voice makes me look at him more carefully.
“They do,” I agree. “Usually for the better.”
The ceremony starts at four-thirty, and we find seats toward the back of the guest area. West insisted on sitting in the back, something about not wanting to be too visible in the pictures of the photographer.
As we settle into our chairs and the music starts, I can feel him relax next to me.
The bride is stunning in that effortless way that only seems to happen at beach weddings. Flowing dress, hair loose and natural, barefoot in the sand. The groom, Jamie, looks like he might cry the moment he sees her walking down the aisle.
“They look happy,” I whisper to West.
“Yeah. They do.”
The officiant is saying something about love being a choice you make every day, about commitment being more than just feelings, and I’m trying to pay attention when I feel West’s hand slip into mine.
Not dramatically. Not like he’s making a statement.
Just quietly, naturally, like it’s something he does without thinking.
I stiffen slightly, not because I don’t want him to hold my hand, but because the gesture feels automatic. Real. Like we are a couple who reaches for each other during emotional moments.
But then his thumb traces over my knuckles, and I relax into it.
Because it feels good. Because his hand is warm and steady and familiar now.
The bride and groom are exchanging vows now. Personal ones they wrote themselves, and I can hear people around us sniffling.
I glance at West and realize he’s not really watching the couple.
He’s staring out at the ocean, but there’s something distant in his expression. Like he’s thinking about something else entirely.
Like he’s feeling everything.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He turns to look at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just... they seem really sure.”
“Sure about what?” I ask.
“About this. About each other. About forever.”
“They do.”
“Must be nice. Being that sure about someone.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me study his face more carefully, but before I can figure out what he means, the couple is kissing, and everyone is cheering, and the moment passes.
The reception is held on a terrace overlooking the water, with round tables draped in white linens and centerpieces of white flowers and greenery. It’s elegant and romantic and exactly the kind of wedding that makes you believe in love.
West and I are seated at a table with some of his other college friends and their dates, and I immediately slip back into girlfriend mode.
