“Dear friends and family, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Patrick Easton Walker and Camille Odette Whitley in marriage. Over the years, these two have built a friendship and a commitment to each other that grew, matured, and eventually turned into love. Today, they have decided to create a new bond together, a new sense of family as they become husband and wife. If any of you has reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Silence fills the sanctuary, and it’s at that moment I realize this is truly wrong and I desperately don’t want it. I thought I could do it. I thought I’d come to terms with the situation and could be loyal to my family, but as the lump in my throat grows larger, I know I can’t. Waves of panic crash into me, each one stronger than the last, and my heart pounds so hard it’s as if it’s trying to beat right out of my chest. The fallout will be excruciating and irreparable, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.
I don’t want to get married to him. In fact, I don’t want to get married at all.
Looking for a way out, I glance around the altar toward both of the side doors. Patrick pulls on my hand to grab my attention, and his dark eyes sharpen just enough to tell me he’s onto me. His fingers tighten around mine even more, as if his hold alone could keep me from fleeing, and his whole body tenses. There’s a warning in his stare, and it causes me to pause. An unprecedented feeling courses through me: fear. I’m afraid for more reasons than I can count.
The minister flips a page in his book, and the silence that follows seems to stretch for years. Is this extra time my chance? Am I being given one? Can I walk away? My eyes again shift to the side door, and I can’t help but wonder how many steps there are from the altar to freedom. If I took this chance, would anyone try to stop me? Or would they let me go?
Oh, who am I kidding . . . I can’t leave.
My eyes blur and with each passing heartbeat, I know my opportunity is slipping away, and Patrick is one step closer to succeeding in this. When I try to pull my hand from his, he just holds on tighter, sending pain shooting through my fingers. I stop breathing, waiting for the guillotine to fall, and he holds his breath with sweet anticipation.
“I do,” says a male voice, the words echoing from the back of the church.
What?. . .
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Lessons in Lemonade Page 28
