Page 104 of Married in Michigan
The pastor’s words to Pax and me are simple, and brief. “Today is about union. It’s about love. There is no audience, here, only two witnesses. Others have written with greater eloquence than I’m capable of on the topic of love and marriage, so I’ll just refer you to First Corinthians, the thirteenth chapter, which many consider to be the single greatest passage on love ever written. I’m tempted to read you the whole chapter, but I won’t. I’ll just quote you verses four through eight, and ask you, Paxton and Makayla, to consider them every day as you embark on this journey of marriage: ‘Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.’”
He lets those verses stand in the silence, resounding in our minds.
Then, he looks to Paxton. “You have something to say, I believe.”
Paxton nods, inhales slowly, holds it, and then smiles at me—it’s a Paxton deBraun Special, proud and confident, arrogant, but now also leavened and softened by love. “I’m still not sure how this happened. How I managed to fall in love with you, and how you fell in love with me. I don’t get it.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I’ve been avoiding love and vulnerability my whole life, and then, right when I thought was safe, when I wasn’t looking, love came and snuck up on me and…here we are. Four months to the day after I was forced into accepting an arranged marriage, here we are, marrying for real. For love.”
The minister smiles at Pax. “You have vows, do you not?”
Pax laughs. “Yeah, I was getting there.” He sucks in a breath, lets it out shakily. “Makayla, my vows are simple. I promise to love you as best I know how, and to spend every day learning how to be better at loving you. I promise to be open, honest, vulnerable, and faithful.” A pause, a grin. “I also promise that life will never be boring.”
I’m choking back tears, because it’s my turn and everything I had in my mind to say has fled. “Pax…” I breathe in, steady myself. “I promise to spend the rest of our lives learning how to love you the way he—” I point at the minister, “just said love is supposed to be.”
“Those are St. Paul’s words, not mine,” the minister says, gently correcting me with a soft smile.
“I promise to be faithful. To never give up. To forgive you when you piss me off. To be your best friend, your partner in everything. I promise I’ll never stop calling you on your shit—” I glance at the minister. “Ooops, sorry. Your crap.”
He just grins. “I’m not offended, and I don’t think God is either. He loves everyone, even potty mouths.”
I laugh through tears. “Good. Anyway. And I also promise that life with me will never, ever be boring.”
This time, it’s meaningful, deeply and personally intentional and moving, when I say the words.
“Do you, Makayla Poe, take this man, Paxton deBraun, to be your lawfully and spiritually wedded husband, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
I sniffle, squeeze both of his hands three times. “I do.”
“And do you, Paxton deBraun, take this woman, Makayla Poe, to be your lawfully and spiritually wedded wife, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
He inhales deeply, smiling at me with the full force of his bright, dominant, forceful, beautiful personality. “I do.”
“Then, by the power vested in me by the state of Michigan, and, more importantly, by God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, I now pronounce you man and wife.” He pauses, hesitating with a grin. “You may kiss—”
Paxton’s got that part down, his lips on mine, hot and searching and demanding.
“I guess you know,” the minister says.
I laugh even as Paxton kisses me breathless.
It is in no way a kiss appropriate for a wedding, but I don’t care, and neither does Paxton. It’s a kiss that speaks the words he’s still learning how to voice, that I’m still learning how to hear. It’s a kiss that encompasses the wild, insane, reckless way we fell in love.
It’s a kiss that speaks of our future.
When the kiss finally ends, Paxton is still holding me in his arms, bent over backward in a deep dip, his hand on the back of my head, the other at my back, his lips brushing mine.
“Can I say it now?” he whispers.
I laugh, nod. “Yes,” I breathe. “You can say it now.”
He kisses me again, briefly. His eyes twinkle, sparkle, dance. “I love you, Makayla.”
To hear those words, meant with such sweet, soul-deep sincerity, breaks my heart into a million pieces, tangles the pieces and twines them and braids them and weaves them into the pieces which make up Paxton, and reforms me into a new whole, one with Paxton, in a way I would never have considered possible, until now.
“I love you, Paxton.” He lifts me upright, and I can finally breathe again. “Now what?”
“Now we spend a few minutes with your mom, and then we fly back to Manhattan for the reception, and then from there we fly to the Seychelles, where my wedding gift to you awaits.”
“The where, and your what?” I blink at him. “My what?”