CHAPTER 5: Beginning
1913 Words
*Wisks*
*Wisks*
The setting spray hits Val's face in a cool, fine mist and she blinks, holds her breath, holds still.
"Don't move," Mia says from behind her, hairspray can still in hand, eyes critical. "You're perfect. Don't you dare mess it up now."
Val swallows a laugh. Three hours of hair, lashes, contouring, and the dress that's been hanging in the sacristy for two days, and Mia's worried about one blink.
She looks in the mirror. The woman staring back doesn't look like the girl who showed up to Eclipse in a black dress three years ago, hair wild, heels killing her, thirty minutes on a timer. This woman is calm. Her hair is swept back in a low chignon, a few soft pieces framing her face. Her dress is ivory silk, simple, no lace, no beads, just a line that follows her collarbones and falls clean to the floor.The veil sits light as breath against her head. It's short. Barely brushes the middle of her back. Handmade lace, the kind you can't find in a shop window, because it wasn't made to be sold. Mia's grandmother made it. Stitched every edge herself, decades ago, for her own wedding that never happened. She gave it to Mia last Christmas with one rule,*Give it to someone who deserves to wear it once and keep it forever.*
Val deserves it.
The lace isn't heavy. It's French Alençon, fine as spider silk, with a scalloped edge that mimics the curve of a petal. The pattern is small, hand-worked roses and tiny leaves that catch the light in a way machine lace never could. You can see the imperfections if you look close. A thread slightly thicker here. A stitch that loops a little wider there. But that's what makes it real. Made by hands, not a machine. Made with time, not speed.
It sits soft against the crown of her head, the tulle barely there, translucent and cloudlike. When she moves, it shifts with her, a whisper of white that frames her face without hiding it. The lace falls just past her jawline, softening the angles, drawing the eye to her eyes, her mouth, the way she's trying not to cry.
"Ready?" Mia asks, softer now.
Val nods. "I think I was born ready for this."
---
The doors of San Juanico Cathedral open at exactly 4:00 p.m.
Sunlight pours through the stained glass like liquid gold, cutting across the stone floor in stripes of blue, red, amber. The air smells like lilac and candle wax and old wood. The ceiling arches high above, painted with saints and angels in colors so vivid it looks like the painters didn't use brushes but prayers. Val's grandmother told her as a kid that the murals were carved by the hands of the Gods. She believed it then. She believes it now.
Lilac and white flowers line the aisle. Rows and rows. Hydrangeas, spray roses, eucalyptus tied with satin ribbon. The petals have fallen soft along the runner, like snow that decided to be gentle.
The pews are full. Carmel's in the front row, crying already, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that's not going to survive the ceremony. Pat's brother and Carmel have been dating for four months now, and he's sitting beside her, hand on her back, looking more nervous than Pat does. Val's mother is there, hands clasped so tight her knuckles are white. Her father stands at the front beside the priest, eyes red but steady.
And at the altar, Perseus.
He's in a black suit, with a perfect navy blue tie, white shirt buttoned at the throat and a his hair is cut short, not a military buzz, but close enough that the shape of his skull shows clean and sharp. The top is slicked back-neat, precise, no stray strand out of place. Dark black, so dark it almost looks blue under harsh light, combed back with something that leaves a faint, matte sheen, not the wet look of gel.
She rarely seen this man so neat but it is her favorite version of him whenever. He looks up the moment the doors open, and the second he sees her, his breath. Not dramatic. Just honest. Like he forgot how to breathe for half a second.
Val's heart does something stupid. It skips, then slams, then settles. Like it knows exactly where it belongs.
She walks slow. Not because of the dress. Because she doesn't want to miss any of it. The sunlight on the floor. The way the organ hums low under the choir. The way Pat's hands are clenched at his sides like he's holding himself together.
When she reaches him, he doesn't reach for her. Not yet. He just looks. At her face. At the ring on her finger from three months ago, now joined by the band he slipped on her.
"You're beautiful...it's crazy as always," he says. Not loud. Just for her.
Val smiles. "Pfft..Can I tell you something crazier?"
"And what is that my love?" Pat replied.
"You're more than handsome when you keep telling the truth at all time." She says and they chuckled in front of the crowd.
The priest clears his throat. The crowd shifts.
The vows are short. Pat's voice shakes when he says *I do*. Val's doesn't. She's been saying it for three years in a hundred different ways. Today she just says it out loud.
The ring is placed. The prayer is said. The blessing is given.
And then the priest smiles, raises his hand.
"You may now kiss the bride."
He doesn't hesitate then pulls her in, one hand at the small of her back, the other cupping her jaw like he was afraid she will disappear. The kiss isn't chaste. It's not performative. It's three years of love all pressed into one moment.
The cathedral erupts. Clapping. Cheers. Carmel's whoop cuts through everything.
When they pull apart, Val's eyes are shining. She looks at Pat, at the crowd, at the light hitting the floor, at the flowers, at the painted ceiling that really does look like it was touched by something divine.
There the moment she thinks.
"I couldn't wish for more."
7 PM. Reception
The reception is in the old town plaza, tables set under white tents, string lights overhead, lanterns swaying in the evening breeze. The band starts slow, jazz, something soft that lets people talk.
Val's feet hurt already. She kicked off her heels ten minutes ago and doesn't plan to put them back on.
Carmel finds her by the dessert table, holding two glasses of champagne, one of them already half gone.
"Club isn't the best place to find a lover, huh?" Carmel says, handing Val a glass and bumping her shoulder.
Val laughs. "You were right. I was wrong. You always are."
Carmel grins, tips her glass to Val's. "Lone Star and I didn't have much luck like you two had. He ghosted me after two weeks. Said I was 'too much.'" She rolls her eyes. "Good riddance. But I'm really happy for you, gal. You two? You're the real thing."
Val squeezes her hand. "I know. And I'm happy for you too. You and Pat's brother? That's been a long time coming."
Carmel winks. "He's sweet. Also terrible in bed, much better at texting. But sweet. I believe we could learn how to be compatible in that sense one way or another" She pauses, then leans in, conspiratorial. "Honestly, I would be so glad if you could make a child. Or a twin, maybe. Start right after this wedding!"
Val chokes on her champagne. "Carmel-"
"Don't look at me like that," Carmel says, already being pulled away by Pat's brother, who's smiling like he knows exactly what she's saying. "I'm just saying! You've got the house, you've got the shop, you've got the love! What's next? Tiny humans?"
Pat's brother drags Carmel toward the dance floor, her laughter trailing behind her like confetti.
Val shakes her head, still smiling, and sets her glass down. Her cheeks are warm. Not from champagne. From the thought. Kids. Twins. Right after. The idea is sudden, heavy, and not welcome. Not yet.
The thought of having kids doesn't sit in Val's head like a dream she's allowed to borrow.
It's not a vacation you daydream about with no budget, something you finance later by signing papers you don't read and owing someone you can't pay back. Kids don't work like that. Kids are a blueprint. Foundation, framing, roof. You don't start building because the lot looks pretty. You start when the ground is solid, when the pipes are mapped, when you know what happens if the storm comes at 2 a.m.
One child. That's enough because one is a life. A whole, complete, demanding, terrifying, beautiful life. Not a checklist. Not a status. Not a way to prove the marriage is real. Just one person who will have her eyes and Pat's stubborn jaw and who will ask a thousand questions she doesn't know how to answer.
She's still standing there, staring at the empty space Carmel left a minutes ago when someone steps beside her.
Val doesn't know him. Tall. Mid-forties. Linen shirt, rolled sleeves, eyes kind but sharp. He's not from here. She's met everyone here. Family, friends, Pat's crew, her colleagues, the priest's choir. This man is new.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't introduce himself. Just looks at her, at the ring on her finger, at the way she's still holding her stomach like Carmel's words hit something.
"To love...is to be seen." he said with a voice so low and quiet but enough for her to hear it.
Then he turns and walks away. No second word. No explanation. Just gone into the crowd like he was never there.
Val stands frozen. The glass in her hand is forgotten. Her heart is pounding, but not fast. Heavy. Like the words landed somewhere deep.
To love is to be seen.
The music shifts. The band starts something slower. Couples drift onto the dance floor. Pat's scanning the room, looking for her. When he spots her, he starts toward her, slow and sure.
Val watches him come, and the words repeat in her head.
To love is to be seen.
Love compatibility isn't measured in bed, she thinks. It's measured in the way someone sees you when you're not performing. When you're tired. When you're messy. When you're just... you.
The stranger was right. Or maybe it's what she already knew and needed to hear out loud.
Pat reaches her. "There you are. You alright?"
"Yes, of couse. Why wouldn't I be? I'm just overwhelmed." Val replied.
He doesn't ask who the man was. He just slips an arm around her waist and pulls her close.
"Dance with me?" he asks.
She nods and puts her hand in his.
The lights are soft. The music is slow. The night is warm.
And for the first time all day, Val doesn't think about those uncanny dream. Doesn't think about the man in the strange room. Doesn't think about that longer than forever.
She thinks about now. About Pat's hand in hers. About the way he's looking at her like she's the only person in the room.
About being seen. Really seen. And being chosen anyway.
She leans into him, rests her head on his shoulder, and lets herself believe it.
This. Right here. This is enough.
- Writer
