There once was a girl who never dreamed of a wedding. Weddings, and marriage, and commitment were for people who wanted the same thing for a long period of time. The same person. I mocked that sort of mindset, the basicness of it. Those dreams were sweet vibrations of stability that lulled you into a deep, psychological sleep. I didn’t want sleep. And it all started with flowers, and silk, and stiff-faced cake toppers holding hands. I knew that I wanted to be awake. I wanted my wit and my sense, and by God, I wanted to own my own heart. So when David asked me to marry him, I was surprised when I said yes. And not just any yes, but the type of yes a girl who’s always dreamed of a wedding would say. I let him slide the ring on my finger, and then I threw my arms around his neck, climbing his body in excitement until my legs were wrapped around his waist. I held up my hand behind his head so I could see my new ring. And then I rewrapped my arms around his neck and squeezed and squeezed until he told me I was choking him.
“Get used to it,” I’d said. “This is your life now.”
We got matching tattoos the next day to celebrate. David suggested it and I liked the permanency of my mark being on his body. They happened on our shoulder blades, his right and my left.
“Now there is love marked on your skin,” he said to me after, kissing the spot.
“Are you sure?” I kept asking him.
For weeks after he gave me that ring I was still asking, “Are you sure?” on a daily basis like he was the one doubting rather than me. Our tattoos scabbed and healed, and I’d ask him, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he’d say—steady, anchored—completely and unequivocally sure. We decided we didn’t want a large wedding. I didn’t have much in the way of family, just a few close friends I’d collected over the years, and David had a very large family, most of whom he said would either get too drunk or not drunk at all.
“I’ve seen them ruin weddings before,” he told me. And then he listed them off like he did every time: “My cousin Lydia, my brother, my great aunt Angela…they get drunk off their asses, or judgmental off their asses, and start fighting about stupid shit. And then there’s Sophia, but that’s a whole other issue.”
And then like always, fascinated by the concept of family, I asked: “And what did they fight about? What did the bride and groom say? How long did it take for them to reconcile?” I was most interested in Sophia, so I asked about her too.
He answered all of my questions patiently, his voice rumbling in his chest, even though I’d already asked them a dozen times before. As his full lips formed words, he traced the spaces between my knuckles with his fingertips. We were always touching, we couldn’t stop touching. I’d never been in love before, not like this. I thought I had, but everything before felt like a lie.
“My cousin Sophia had an abortion when she was twenty, she marches in pro-choice rallies,” he explained. “My aunts are Catholic. Sophia’s own mother has disowned her. Sophia refuses not to come to family things because of them. I think you’d appreciate her—she has the same I don’t give a fuck thing you have going on.”
“How do they treat her when she shows up?”
“They ignore her, whisper, make rude comments.”
“And how does she react?”
“She doesn’t. She just lives her life.”
Sophia was stronger than me, I decided. I wouldn’t even bother going. If my family treated me that way—with conditional love—I’d disown them too. She was the one showing real love: showing up, not retaliating.
“And what do you say about all of that?” I asked him.
“I don’t think there’s anyone right or wrong. We have to let people be who they are. Sophia does a good job of that, you know? She doesn’t fight with them or condemn them. She leaves them be.”
“But, what about your aunts? To them she committed an atrocious sin. You can’t ask them to come down to her level, a level they don’t believe in.”
“I’m not. No one is. I’m asking them to come up a level actually. To show love instead of judgment. Because if they’re right about their belief system, there is an ultimate judge anyway, isn’t there? We don’t need human judges.”
Fact: I liked him more every day. Usually the more time I spent with someone the less I liked them. A good sign. By the time we were sixty I’d be so full of love I’d be ready to burst.
I bought my wedding dress from a consignment shop in Queen Anne: white lace with long sleeves and a deep V-neck that almost reached my belly button. There was a spot of blood on the hem—two dark red droplets. When I told Ann she made a disgusted face.
“Gross, get it dry-cleaned.”
I nodded, but there was no way I’d wipe off someone’s history from my dress. How did it get there? Was it in love or lust, anger or joy? I spent so many days imagining that scenario that I was almost tempted to go back to the store and ask about its original owner. I decided not to dry-clean it, to wear it as is with all the bad or good still attached to the fabric. We planned on marrying in Vancouver, a favorite city for both of us, just a few friends in tow. David found a blue velvet suit in the back of his aunt’s closet and told me he would wear it. David told me that Lazarus Come Forth would sing a cappella as I walked down the aisle.
“What aisle?” I asked him, and then he told me that he booked a church and a restaurant for after we’d taken our vows where we could all celebrate. I hadn’t done a thing, hadn’t lifted a finger. It was like he could sense my hesitancy and rushed into action making the plans.
“Is there anyone you’d like to invite from back home? Like a friend…some distant family?”
“No,” I said quickly. “My life is here now, my people are your people.”
“Yara,” he urged. “You can’t just cut people off when you feel done with them. They’re part of your tapestry.”
I watched his lips as he spoke. It was mesmerizing the way they moved. He licked his lips often and I always wished he were licking something else.
“I don’t want anyone else to come,” I said with finality.
I felt guilty. I thought of Posey, who didn’t even know I was getting married. She still texted me once a week and I told her about everything but David. There were a handful of others I could call. They’d all be excited and shocked to hear the news—some of them would even offer to fly out for the wedding. But, in the end, I chose to tell no one. What I had with David felt private, like it needed to be protected from the outside.
And then it was time to meet his parents, who were angry with David and suspicious of me. I didn’t blame them. He asked a girl to marry him, a girl they’d yet to meet. They didn’t know it was my fault and not his, that I’d been dodging their dinner invites and weekend trips for almost a year. But I took the ring, and bought the dress, and now it was time.