Page 101 of Married in Michigan

I laugh under my breath, because all this is happening in front of a packed-out crowd of high-profile guests, the minister, and even media.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, giving her a genuine smile, all shit-eating gleeful revenge gone, now. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have never met Makayla. So, I really do hope you stay.” A thick, stifling pause. “You’re the guest of honor, after all.”

She bites down on her lip, sighing deeply. “You’re too cruel, Paxton.”

A shake of his head. “I mean it. You did this to force my hand, and I did it to get back at you, in a lot of ways—from it being Makayla, to the dress and the ring. But now, I’m doing it out of love, and all it’s because of you.” He leaves me at the altar, descends to stand in the middle of the aisle in front of his mother. “Stay. Please.”

A tear slides down her cheek, and she has enough steel in her spine and pride in her soul that it makes her more elegant, stronger for the emotion. “My mother’s dress, Paxton,” she whispers.

“And Grandma’s ring.”

Camilla stares at him. It’s a frozen tableau, not a sound to be heard—not a cough, not a sniffle, not a breath. “Truly, Paxton? It’s not all some elaborate game?”

Instead of answering himself, he looks to me. “Makayla?”

“I would marry him even if he didn’t have a penny to his name, and I would marry him in front of a justice of the peace, just the two of us.” I catch my breath, looking around for the first time at the enormity of the gathered audience hanging on every moment of this drama. “I’d probably be happier with that, honestly,” I mutter under my breath.

She stares at me, examining me, searching me, and then turns back to her son. “If this is a joke, I’ll never forgive you, Paxton.”

He holds her hand. “Look at me, Mom. You know me as well as anyone besides Makayla and Liam. Do I look like I’m faking this?”

He lets her search him, and it’s another long, silent moment.

“Only you could pull this off,” she says, summoning her pride. “Very well.”

And with that, Camilla deBraun takes a seat in the first pew on the left side of the aisle, folding her hands on her lap, spine straight, head high; she is poised, elegant, and polished, as if nothing had ever happened.

Paxton returns to me, gathers my hands in his, and smiles at me. “That went well.”

I huff. “Is that sarcasm?”

He shakes his head, eyes wide. “Not at all. I expected more of a blowout, honestly.”

The priest/minister clears his throat meaningfully. “If that’s all settled, shall we begin?”

I look out at the crowd again, and my breath hitches in my throat: I see A-list Hollywood actors, men and women whom I’ve grown up watching on the silver screen, and I see powerful, influential politicians looking polished and professional in thousand-dollar suits, and I see rock stars and musicians decked out in dramatic leather and dripping jewelry and tattoo ink, and I see a coalition of deBrauns in the rows behind Camilla watching with bored curiosity; both sides of the aisle are full, and not one person is here forme.

The only person here for me is the man I’m standing with.

I suck in a sharp, harsh, fast breath. Nod once. “I’m ready.”

Paxton squeezes my hands—three times; I never told him about that, but he figured it out, watching me with my mother.

God, I miss her.

I wish she could be here.

My eyes water, and I blink hard. Paxton doesn’t have to ask. “I know, Mack. It’s okay.”

The minister begins speaking, droning in a stentorian voice about the power of love and the weighty responsibility of marriage, and the importance of God being the center of any relationship.

I think perhaps the minister catches a whiff of Paxton’s impatience, because he stumbles once, and seems to skip ahead in his prepared remarks.

Then, finally, we’re led through canned, recycled vows, and I say them dutifully, even though there’s so much else I wanted to say, vows I’ve been writing in my head for days now. But Paxton just seems to want to get through this as much as I do, because he repeats the vows without looking away from me, and then the minister asks the fated, heavy question:

“Do you, Makayla, take this man, Paxton, to be your lawfully wedded husband, now and forever, for better and for worse, till death do you part?”

I swallow hard, swallow a shaky breath, and nod. “I do,” I whisper.