Limits

by Steph Campbell

  “Yes,” I agree, because she’s happy and smiling, and she said ‘yes’ when I was so damn scared she’d come to her senses and say ‘hell no.’ No reason to tell her I don’t do social media or that I think it’s a stupid waste of time. If it’s important to her, I’ll white lie my way to happiness tonight. “Do you want to walk around some more? We have reservations tonight, but they’re not for a while yet. I hope you like steak?”

  “Who doesn’t like steak?” She takes my hand and threads our fingers together. The ring turns on her finger and digs sharply into mine, but she’s so happy, I keep my mouth shut.

  I realize there are a lot things I never would have seen myself doing before, but I’m more than happy to do them for Genevieve now.

  Like ignoring minor pain on my end to enjoy major happiness on hers.

  Or splitting a huge order of mashed potatoes—which I think are bland and have the consistency of wallpaper paste—just so I can watch her enjoy them.

  Or getting up in front of a restaurant full of people and slow dancing to Ray Charles’s “Come Rain or Come Shine” because it was her parents’ wedding song.

  Or making out for an incredible half an hour in the car while she straddles my lap, runs her hands through my hair, and loosens my necktie. But then stopping before things go too far because I respect the hell out of her and want to wait for our wedding night.

  Genevieve Rodriguez is making me a better person. It’s exciting and completely, and utterly terrifying.

  10 GENEVIEVE

  “Still time to back out,” Lydia sing-songs in my ear as she sprays the tiny flyaways around my face into place.

  She grips the sides of her strapless black gown and tugs up slightly. We didn’t have time to choose official bridesmaids’ dresses, so I just asked my sisters and Maren to wear black, since I thought it was a color everyone would have in her closet already, and it would make a nice, crisp-looking lineup.

  I realize now it looks like they’re in mourning. Also, Lydia’s juice cleanse has made her so thin, she’s almost gaunt. The dress barely stays on her now-nonexistent boobs.

  “I don’t want to back out,” I say through tight lips, looking at my reflection in the long mirror propped against a work table.

  My simple white dress has great lines and a clean, fresh look. It’s airy and understated and…nothing at all like what I wanted.

  I wanted to wear a corseted, beaded, extravagant number, and Adam said to do it. He even gave me his credit card—the one he uses only after carefully deliberating every purchase—and named a jaw-dropping budget.

  I went to the bridal shop, his credit card tight in my hand, and I found The Dress.

  The One.

  It fit like a glove, and looked like the designer had crawled into my head and took notes on every detail I’d ever longed for in a wedding dress. It was also just under Adam’s extremely generous number. The sales girls all sighed and gasped and told me it was made for me and I better not even think about walking away without it, because it was clearly fate that led me to That Dress.

  I twirled around in it, eyed it from the front and back, fell in torrid, head-over-heels love with it, imagined Adam’s face when he saw me walk down the aisle in it…and then I thought about the very practical fact that I’d wear it exactly once. I thought about all the extra hours Adam would have to work to pay it off. And then I marched right to the winter sales rack—blinking back tears as I left my corseted, mermaid-style, perfect gown hanging, dejected, in the tiny fitting room—and I chose a different dress.

  Lydia drapes the lacy veil, passed down from my mother, over my hair and slides the bobby pins in. “Okay, but if you did, no one would care. I mean, you hardly know this—”

  “Stop, Lydia. Please, today of all days, just stop,” I plead. I’m stressed enough, I don’t need my sister badgering me on top of everything else.

  “Your dress is so lovely, Genevieve,” Maren sighs as she comes into the room. She looks gorgeous in her black dress, accented with splashes of pink to match my accessories. I manage to quirk a nervous half-smile at my brother’s sweet fiancée, who—I know for sure—will make him beyond happy. “And Adam sent you this.”

  “Me?” I ask, as she hands me a white box with a pale pink ribbon tied around it.

  “We’ll give you a few minutes,” Cece says, squeezing my shoulders and kissing my cheek. She takes Maren and Lydia by the arms and leads them out of the tiny room cluttered with surf boards and sand.

  Regret claws at my insides. I didn’t send Adam anything. Even though I’m sure this is something silly and more of a gift for him than me—I’m going to guess it’s the Darth Vader alarm clock he joked about seeing online when we went out for dinner the night before—but, still, I didn’t think to send him anything. Even if this is a total gag gift, he set up an entire, gorgeous engagement scene and slid the most amazing ring on my finger. I’m still shocked by how perfectly me it is every time I look down at my left hand. I didn’t do a thing for him.

  I’m failing at being a thoughtful wife, and I’m not even officially a wife yet.

  I pull on the end of the silky ribbon and it slinks off of the box and onto the floor with a soft hiss. When I lift the lid, I see a white note card with Adam’s narrow, precise scrawl and, underneath, a small bouquet of peonies.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I put my hand out to touch the petals, but pull back just before I do. I kind of wish it was just some silly gift, because I’d roll my eyes and laugh. But I have no idea how to react to this, because it’s so not what I was expecting.

  I’m a little annoyed with myself that my first instinct was to underestimate Adam, especially because it feels like he’s in the habit of overestimating me lately.

  I wanted peonies for the wedding. He knew that.

  I’d always pictured their delicate blooms lining the aisles of the synagogue or chapel as I walked slowly to the front, all eyes on me. When I imagined my ideal wedding, I also imagined picking out my perfect gown with my mom and my sisters, then agonizing over selecting the perfect heels to go with it—which basically meant both had to be full of sparkles. And I’d hold a bouquet of peonies in my hands as I made my way to my groom, so sure and so in love, I wouldn’t hesitate, even for a second. I had replayed the same set of images in my head a hundred thousand times since I was a little girl.

  But the reality was peonies were out of season, and we aren’t getting married in a synagogue or any other place of worship. We may have been able to put on a show for our families, but neither one of us felt up to the task of trying to convince a rabbi that we were in this for all the right reasons. We’re saying our vows out on the beach, down by Deo’s surf shack, in front of my family and a few close friends.

  It’s not like I wanted or needed a grand wedding—but it’s sort of felt like nothing I dreamed about was in the cards, and when I found out I couldn’t even get the flowers that I wanted, I kind of maybe had a minor breakdown in the hall outside Adam’s lab, sobbing on his shoulder until I soaked his shirt while he ran his hand over my hair and kissed the top of my head..

  Apparently, peonies only bloom in the US for, like, one week a year, and unless we wanted to hold off on the wedding until sometime in May—or blow our entire budget on flying silly flowers in—I wasn’t getting what I wanted. Instead, Marigold made me a bouquet of succulents and sustainable herbs. It really is beautiful, but this…this bouquet Adam sent is breathtaking.

  I set the box aside and read the note.

  Gen,

  I know that your first choice was peonies, and I wanted to make that happen because I want you to be happy. And I don’t ever want you to feel disappointed with the path we’ve chosen.

  I’m sort of glad that you couldn’t get the peonies, though. They’re beautiful, but they don’t represent who you are.

  They’re fragile and temperamental. They need the perfect conditions to thrive.

  You, Genevieve, are brave and full of life. You adapt
to what’s in front of you.

  You’re strong. You’re passionate. You’re beautiful.

  And I absolutely cannot wait to kiss you.

  Adam

  Tears prick at my eyes as I lay the card neatly on top of the flowers. I run my fingers over the mass of perfectly gorgeous faint pink petals and lean my nose down to smell the summertime fragrance contained in that little white box.

  I’ve been concentrating so much on how to fool everyone into thinking that Adam and I care about each other, that I didn’t take the time to realize that maybe…maybe we actually do. Adam is a scientist. Everything he does is so calculated and done with purpose. Was the gift just for show?

  No. I can’t believe that Adam doesn’t mean every word in this note.

  Instead of obsessing, I get ready for my wedding.

  I slip my feet into my sandals and buckle the rhinestone-covered straps. These aren’t the five inch stunners I concocted in my dreams. My plain, eyelet dress isn’t the bead-adorned mermaid gown I cut out pictures of as a teenager.

  But the man who will be waiting at the other end of the aisle is the best surprise I’ve ever been lucky enough to have in my life.

  I head around the front of the shack, where my mother and Marigold are in full panic-mode. They both stop and squeal, gasp, tear up, take out their cameras, and snap a million pictures until I’m blushing and crying right along with them.

  “I’m going to be late to my own wedding,” I protest, but it’s half-hearted at best. I can’t remember the last time I saw my mother look at me with this proud shine in her eyes, and I want to drag it out as long as I can.

  “Late to your wedding?” my mother scoffs, coming over to fix my veil. Her hands are gentle on the lace, and her eyes are glassy with tears. “You are the wedding, tsatskeleh.”

  My father comes around the corner and clutches at his heart. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful girl,” he says, gathering me in his arms while Mom and Marigold cluck over how he’s crushing my veil and wrinkling my dress. I don’t care. His arms feel so good and strong.

  “Thank you, Dad. I love you,” I whisper, my face pressed to his neck.

  “Mi corazon, you don’t have to marry this boy if you don’t really want to.” He pulls me back, his dark eyes serious, his mouth a tight line under his neatly groomed moustache. “Are you sure?”

  I bite my lip, not wanting to fight with either of my parents at this moment, but so deeply sad another member of my family is trying to warn me away from marrying Adam.

  “I’m sure, Dad. He’s amazing. He’s the one for me.” I take his strong hands in mine and squeeze tight, letting him know I’m serious about this.

  He nods, straightens his suit—complete with his best bolo tie and fancy cowboy hat—and offers me his arm. My mother takes my face in her velvety hands and presses a kiss on each cheek. Her gray eyes, identical to mine, communicate a deep respect and happiness. I feel a glow from the pit of my stomach. My mother, at least, is proud of me and what I’ve decided to do. She winks and walks to the reception, her black skirt swaying as she goes.

  Marigold steps up, draped in head to toe yellow. Of course. Could Marigold come to a wedding in any color other than pure sunshine?

  “I’m so happy for you, sweetie. I can see from the look on your face that this is the right path for you. I love you so much.”

  I watch her pause to fix a garland as she hurries to her place, and then I look at my father, his eyes held open wide to stop the tears.

  “Daddy?” My voice is choked, and he yanks out a handkerchief and covers his eyes. He looks at me, his mouth trying to make the words. I laugh wetly and shake my head. “You don’t have to—”

  “No,” he insists, holding my hand tightly. “You were always the one I worried over, Genevieve. Your sisters? Tough as nails, both of them. But there’s something more sensitive about you, always. That’s not a weakness. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that’s a weakness. Your strength is in the way you love.” He tightens his fingers around mine. “This boy—this man—I hope he realizes what a gift your love is. Never forget what a gift is it.”

  I let my father crush me in another hug, then the music starts up, the slow, sweet wail of Lydia’s violin leading me down the long aisle. My father walks slowly, proudly. His pace helps me keep time, and I lean hard on his arm. The tiny group made up of every beloved family member and all our friends stands and smiles, but their faces are a blur. Every face is a blur.

  Except his.

  Down at the end of the impossibly long aisle, Adam waits for me under the chuppah, his hands clasped behind his back, his face blank with terror.

  Until he catches my eye.

  His forehead furrows and he dips his head. He rubs a hand over his face and looks up, eyes wide. And I realize my scientist husband-to-be was wiping away tears.

  Over me.

  My father hands me to Adam, and all I can feel is the press of Adam’s hands over mine. All I can see are his eyes, so beautifully green, locked on my face like he can’t drink me in fast enough. He dips his head close to mine.

  “You look amazing,” he says softly, and I watch his lips form the words like they’re moving in slow motion.

  I feel a rush of heat wash over me and hold my flowers to my nose, breathing the scent of my bouquet deep. Adam glances at the flowers, and I smile wide, letting him know how much I truly appreciate his gesture. Lydia’s violin quiets, and Cece clears her throat.

  My sister got some kind of quick legal certificate and the blessing of a very liberal local rabbi so she could officiate the wedding, and she’s taking it so seriously, it clenches my heart. Since the second I asked her, she’s been holed away in her room, doing research and putting this all together.

  Just like we practiced, I let go of Adam’s hands and walk around him once, watching the way he turns his head so he never loses sight of me. Goosebumps prickle up and down my spine and arms, and I’m afraid our guests will hear the way my knees knock together.

  Cece reads from the book of Hosea. “And, as our ancestors did in the past, so we do today. The bride circles her groom three times as Hosea proclaimed. ‘And I will betroth you to Me forever, and I will betroth you to Me with righteousness and with justice and with ever-loving kindness and with mercy.’”

  I complete the third circuit and find myself facing Adam again. He takes my hands and his smile vibrates through me.

  “Adam, do you have a ring to present to Genevieve?” Cece asks, her dark hair flitting in the cool, salty wind that blows in from the ocean.

  Enzo steps forward and drops a shiny gold band into Adam’s palm. Adam takes my hand in his and recites the words Cece made him memorize.

  “Behold, you are consecrated to me with this ring according to the laws of Moses and Israel.”

  Adam takes my hand and slides the band onto my left ring finger. I glance down, my body shaking with the reality of this moment. I meet his eyes, barely hearing Cece ask if I have a ring.

  Lydia must hand me Adam’s band.

  I must say the ancient Hebrew words from the Song of Solomon: “Ani l’dodi, ve dodi li.”

  I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.

  The same words we had inscribed on my band by the shaky-handed old jeweler who sold us our rings.

  I must slide Adam’s ring on his finger.

  But I don’t remember doing any of it.

  We exchange the vows, ancient and formal. Nothing sentimental, no personal anecdotes or little stories about how and when we knew we’d be together forever.

  But that’s good. It’s exactly what we need. We’re not interested in the flowery, mushy stuff. Adam and I want this to be legitimate, believable. The words are the same ancient words Jewish couples have been reciting for generations. No one can question the validity of this ceremony, no matter how quickly it was thrown together.

  “Cohen, the lazo,” Cece says, her voice solemn. I look over at her, and she winks at me, a secret smile
on her lips, and my heart blossoms with happiness.

  Cohen walks forward and loops the long strip of white satin around Adam’s wrists, then mine, securing it in a complicated figure eight pattern.

  Cohen takes a second to rub his hand on my arm. “I love you, Gen,” he says quietly, clearing his throat and avoiding my eyes. He gives Adam a long, hard stare, and goes back to his place—ironically—at Adam’s side.

  My throat closes up and I stare at the glinting white fabric binding my hands and Adam’s together. Cece reads the rest of the verse from the Song of Solomon.

  I watch Adam’s lips move in time to her reading.

  “‘My beloved speaks and says to me: Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance,’” she reads, and I look at Adam, his expression so completely serious as he listens.

  “‘Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of the cliff, let me see your face, let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet, and your face is comely. Set me as a seal upon your heart and seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy cruel as the grave.’”

  Set me as a seal upon your heart and a seal upon your arm.

  Cece’s voice is sweet and sure, and I feel like dropping to my knees right here at the altar. What are we doing? Why are we doing this? Can I be the seal upon his heart?

  I search Adam’s face, wishing the answer would be there, right in front of me.

  “Its flashes are flashes of fire, a most vehement flame,” my sister reads, her voice rising and falling with the emotion of the beautiful words. Adam yanks the lazo tight, pulling me close to him, and he murmurs the words as Cece does.

  His voice drops so only I can hear, and his words are the only thing my ears catch. His eyes are blazing, and his voice is raw, and so hot it sizzles against my ears.