Every Vow But Ours

The envelope was cream colored and heavier than it had any right to be, and Amara knew what it was before she even turned it over. Inside was a short note from her sister Efua, folded over a thicker card. She set her phone down on the kitchen counter, mid-scroll through a work email she wasn't reading anyway, and slid a finger under the flap. At the top of the card, in printed gold letters, it said; you are cordially invited to the wedding of Efua Boateng and Kwesi Mensah... Amara read it twice, not because the words were unclear, but because she needed the second pass to actually let them land. Her sister was getting married. At Our Lady of Assumption, the same church where their grandmother had been baptized, the same church where every wedding in the family had happened since before Amara was born. In two weeks. In Accra. She should have felt happy. She did feel happy, somewhere underneath the thing sitting on her chest like a stone. Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother, as if summoned by the invitation itself. Did you get the card? Efua wants you there early to help with the aso ebi fittings. Also bring a plus one this time o. Your uncle Kwabena keeps asking why you always come alone. Amara let out a breath through her nose and typed nothing back for almost a full minute. The problem wasn't the wedding. The problem was who else would be there. Kwame had been dating Adjoa for eight months now, she knew this the way you know things you've actively tried not to know, through a cousin's cousin, through a photo someone forwarded by accident. He and Efua's fiance had been friends since secondary school, which meant Kwame wasn't just going to be there. He was going to be a groomsman. Standing at the front of the church in a suit, probably next to Kwesi, probably smiling, probably with Adjoa two rows back looking effortless in something that cost more than Amara's rent. And her family, her wonderful, loving, deeply exhausting family would spend the entire week finding new ways to ask her when it would be her turn. As if turning thirty had installed some kind of countdown clock they were all now monitoring on her behalf. She was still staring at the invitation when her phone rang. Jason's name lit up the screen, and something in her chest loosened before she'd even answered. You're not going to believe this, she said instead of hello. Try me. Efua's getting married. Two weeks. Accra. She flopped back onto the couch, holding the phone against her shoulder. Kwame's a groomsman. There was a pause on the other end, not a long one, but long enough that she pictured him exactly, sitting at his kitchen table the way he always did when he was actually listening instead of half-listening, elbow on the wood, jaw tight. Of course he is, Jason said finally. Of course that's how this goes. And my mother wants me to bring a plus one. Amara laughed, but it didn't sound like a real laugh, even to her. So I can either show up alone and let everyone watch me watch him, or I can show up with someone and let everyone interrogate a total stranger about his intentions for a week straight. Rough options. Devastating options. She pressed the heel of her hand against one eye. I don't even know why I care this much. It's been over a year. I should be past caring whether Kwame sees me looking pathetic. You're not pathetic. I will be, Jason. Standing in the back of a church in a dress my mother picked out, watching my ex be a groomsman, while my aunties ask me why I'm still single like it's a hobby I've neglected. She sat up, restless now, pacing the small distance her living room allowed. I need this to not be a disaster. I need one thing at that wedding to not be about my love life falling apart in public. She hadn't meant to say the next part out loud. It arrived before she'd fully thought it through, half-joke, half-plea, the way the truest things sometimes did. You should just come with me. Pretend to be my boyfriend for the week. Give everyone something else to talk about. She meant it the way she meant most things she said to Jason easily, without weight, the kind of thing best friends said to each other because they could. She was already opening her mouth to walk it back, to turn it into a laugh, when he answered. Okay. Amara stopped pacing. What? Okay. I'll do it. His voice was steady, almost too steady, like he'd decided something before she'd even finished the sentence. Someone's got to keep your uncle off your back. Might as well be me. Jason, I was joking I'm not. A beat. I've got the time off. I like Ghana. I like you. Seems like an easy yes. I like you. Four ordinary words, said in the exact tone he'd use to agree to grab lunch, and yet something about the way they landed made Amara go quiet for a second too long. You don't have to, she said, softer now. I know I don't. She could hear him moving around his apartment, the clink of something being set down. I want to. Besides somebody needs to make sure you don't spend the whole week hiding in the bathroom every time Kwame walks by. She laughed for real this time, the tightness in her chest easing just slightly. I don't hide in bathrooms. You hid in a bathroom at Nana's fortieth for forty-five minutes. That bathroom had good lighting and I was tired of standing. Uh-huh. Amara smiled at the wall, and for a moment just a moment the wedding didn't feel like a countdown to public humiliation. It felt like something she might actually survive, with Jason beside her the way he'd been beside her for almost a decade now, steady, funny, entirely hers to lean on. Okay, she said. So we're doing this. We're doing this. You have to actually be convincing, though. My family is nosy. My grandmother once figured out a cousin was lying about his job in under ten minutes. I've known you since we were twenty-two, Amara. I think I can fake being into you. He said it lightly, the way he said everything, easy and unbothered, a joke tossed off without a second thought. But something in the half-second of silence that followed it didn't feel entirely like a joke, and Amara, who knew Jason's voice better than she knew her own reflection, found herself sitting very still on her couch, phone pressed to her ear, waiting for him to laugh. He didn't. Jason? Yeah. Sorry, got distracted. A rustle, a door closing somewhere on his end. I'll book the flight tonight. Text me the dates. They said their goodbyes a few minutes later, easy as always, see you soon and don't forget your visa and I'll text you the address. Amara set the phone down on the coffee table and looked at the wedding invitation still sitting there, gold ink catching the evening light. Two weeks. Accra. Kwame. Her whole family watching. And Jason, pretending to be hers. It should have felt like relief. It should have felt simple her best friend doing her a favor, the way he'd done a hundred favors before, the way she'd have done for him without a second thought. But sitting there in the quiet of her apartment, replaying the half-beat of silence after I think I can fake being into you, Amara felt something small and unfamiliar stir low in her stomach. She had no idea, not yet, how much that one half-second was going to cost them both.