Page 40 of Orc'd At A Wedding
First dance. Toasts. Dinner. Cake cutting. Bouquet toss.
Then it's over.
Then we're done.
Then I find out if Olog meant what he said or if I've been deluding myself this entire weekend.
"Bliss." His voice is quiet, meant only for me. "Breathe."
I realize I've been holding my breath and release it shakily.
"Sorry. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're spiraling again."
"Can you blame me?"
He shifts his chair closer, his thigh pressing against mine under the table.
"No," he says honestly. "But I need you to trust that when this is over, we'll figure it out. Together."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts.
But I've been disappointed too many times to fully let my guard down.
The speeches start. The best man tells an embarrassing story about the groom's college years. The maid of honor cries through her entire toast. My Aunt Susan makes pointed remarks about the importance of finding a partner who can provide stability, and I feel Olog's hand find mine under the table.
Dinner is served. I manage to eat a few bites of the filet mignon, mostly because Olog keeps subtly sliding my plate closer and giving me meaningful looks until I pick up my fork.
The cake is cut. The bouquet is tossed. The reception hits that chaotic sweet spot where everyone is drunk enough to dance but not so drunk they're making regrettable decisions.
Yet.
I excuse myself to use the restroom, needing a moment alone to breathe without an audience.
The ladies' room is blissfully empty, and I lean against the marble counter, staring at my reflection.
My makeup has held up remarkably well considering the day I've had. My hair is still mostly in place. I look like a perfectly polished wedding guest.
I look nothing like someone whose entire world is about to implode in, I check my phone, nine hours and thirty-seven minutes.
I'm splashing cold water on my wrists when my phone buzzes.
A text from Olog:Your father is approaching my position. Requesting backup.
I laugh despite myself, texting back:On my way. Try not to kill him.
No promises.
I dry my hands, square my shoulders, and head back to the reception.
I spot them immediately, my father and Olog standing near an elaborate ice sculpture shaped like a swan, locked in what appears to be an intense conversation.
My stomach drops.
I quicken my pace, weaving through clusters of dancing guests, but I'm not fast enough.
By the time I reach them, my father is pulling out his checkbook.
