Page 124 of By All Accounts
Daniel cleared his throat and reached for Sophie’s hand. “We should go.”
She grabbed her flowers out of the fridge, just a few calla lily stems tied together with ribbon that somehow perfectly matched Daniel’s and my suits. She hadn’t called out the detail, but we’d both noticed. Just like we’d both noticed the mixed colors in the ties she’d picked out for us, the dark jewel tones in the bracelet around her right wrist that sat so daintily against the bone.
I’d offered to get a limo, but Sophie had vehemently argued against it, and when we stepped out of the house to find one idling at the curb, she stared daggers at me. I raised my hands in surrender, gesturing for her to go to the open back door.
“You’re the one who involved Marshall in your wedding,” I told her.
The car had my brother written all over it, and I found it hard to be angry at the way he’d so casually disregarded everything I’d shared with him about Sophie’s wants for the wedding. At the end of the day, he’d made the decision a limo was what she—what we—deserved, and so a limo it would be.
Tucked safely into the back, Daniel poured all three of us champagne and after the first sip, Sophie’s stubbornness relented. “This isn’t so bad.”
“It’s nice,” Daniel agreed. “I’ll have to thank your brother.”
I pulled out my phone to text him, snapping a candid photo of Sophie staring out the window, flute raised halfway to her mouth, tendrils of hair loose and wavy around her face. She was a vision, and my heart caught in my throat at the sight of her. I still waited for the jealousy or the unfairness to set in, but even when Daniel moved to take the seat beside her, resting his handon her thigh, there was none. I stretched my legs out, tapping the tip of my shoe against her heel. She angled her head at me and smiled.
My phone buzzed with a reply text from my brother.
Marshall
You deserve it.
See you later today.
I slid my phone back into my pocket and drank my champagne.
It took a little over an hour to get to Santa Ana City Hall, and the place was already bustling with brides who’d had the same idea as Sophie. She was more beautiful than all of them, and they knew it. People moved aside as she walked through the halls with authority, heels clicking against the tile floor with every step.
When it was their turn—our turn—the three of us filed into a very nondescript-looking courtroom. There was a woman at the front of the room behind an oak podium who called us—them—down to the front. I followed behind, taking a seat close to Daniel while the two of them stood and joined hands. Sophie gave me her flowers, and I rubbed the petals between my fingers, mentally comparing them to the inside of her thigh.
She was softer.
She smelled better.
The ceremony was quick and simple, and I’d never seen two people more in love than the two of them. They said their vows—I didn’t dare object—and then Daniel was cleared to kiss his bride. Still, I waited for the sense of loss to set in, but it never did. All I found was gratitude and excitement that the two people who meant the most to me meant even more to each other.
What a gift.
Before walking back into the hallway, Sophie took her flowers out of my hand and rose up onto her toes to kiss me. It was far from friendly, and I ignored the shocked gasp of the officiant in the front of the room. When she pulled back, Daniel pressed the tops of his knuckles against my chin, turning my face toward him and then he kissed me too.
It was as much a vow as the one they’d just exchanged.
Back in the noisy hallway, Sophie tracked down the woman she’d hired to take photos and we went through all of that. It only took a couple rounds of protest, of Sophie demanding I join her and Daniel, before the photographer stopped arguing. I spent the whole afternoon fighting back tears, replaying Marshall’s message in my head every time I doubted myself.
By the time we were back in the limo, I was on the brink of disaster, chasing my tears down with a fresh flute of champagne. Sophie flung herself onto the seat beside me, draping her legs over my thigh so her heels grazed the inside of my calf.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, tucking some too-long hair of mine behind my ears.
“I’m painfully happy,” I admitted. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”
“These are happy tears, then?” She pressed her thumb against the corner of my eye, right below my lashes.
I sniffed, looking at her and finding her own face just as splotchy beneath her makeup, her eyes just as full. “Aren’t yours?”
I swiped my finger along her lower lash line carefully, so as to not ruin her makeup.
“Of course.”
“Of course,” I told her.
