16. Duncan
DUNCAN
The wedding venue is a townhouse in Brooklyn Heights with windows that overlook the river.
Someone has strung white lights across the exposed beams, arranged roses in clusters on every surface, and set up rows of chairs that will seat exactly thirty-two people.
Close friends, immediate family, the photographer who's been hired to capture this for Vogue.
The door opens and my sister Claire appears, wearing a pale blue dress and carrying a boutonniere.
She's twenty-four, finishing her master's in social work at Columbia, and the only member of my family who's consistently called me on my bullshit since I was old enough to have bullshit worth calling out.
"Mom and Dad are seated," she says, pinning the flower to my lapel with more force than necessary. "Dad asked me twice if this was 'really happening,' which I'm pretty sure is code for 'is Duncan actually capable of commitment or is this another performance.'"
"What did you tell him?"
"That you're a grown man and your relationships aren't his business." She steps back and examines her work. "But between you and me? I think you actually love her. Which is either very romantic or very stupid depending on whether she loves you back."
I don't have a response to that, so I just adjust my cufflinks and try to look like a man who's about to get married because he wants to, instead of because it's the next beat in a carefully orchestrated PR campaign.
The ceremony is supposed to start at four. At three fifty-five, LaToya appears in the doorway and tells us it's time. Jeremiah squeezes my shoulder once, Claire kisses my cheek, and then I'm walking down a hallway toward the main room where thirty-two people are waiting.
The officiant is a woman in her sixties who specializes in secular ceremonies and looks like she's done this a thousand times. She stands near the window with the river behind her, backlit by afternoon sun that's turning everything gold.
Music starts, something classical that I don't recognize. The guests stand and turn toward the entrance.
And then Millie walks in.
She's wearing a white dress that's simpler than I expected, fitted through the bodice with a skirt that moves when she walks. Her hair is down, falling in loose waves past her shoulders, and she's carrying a small bouquet of white roses. No veil, no train, nothing too extravagant.
She looks like herself. Just a better, more polished version that someone styled for an event she didn't choose.
Her mother is walking her down the aisle. Deena Harris is wearing burgundy and crying already, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue while trying to maintain composure.
Millie catches my gaze and holds it. Her face is calm, professional, the mask firmly in place. But there's something in her eyes that looks almost apologetic, like she's already preparing her exit strategy from a marriage that hasn't technically started yet.
She reaches the front and her mother kisses her cheek before taking her seat. Millie hands her bouquet to Brianna, who's standing beside her in a pale pink dress and looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
The officiant begins with the standard language about love and commitment and the journey we're about to embark on together. I'm supposed to be listening but all I can focus on is Millie's hand in mine, warm and steady, her pulse visible at her wrist.
She's nervous. Actually nervous, which shouldn't surprise me but does.
We get through the vows, the ones we wrote together over coffee three days ago, carefully balancing sincerity with just enough performance to sell the moment.
I say mine first, something about how she makes me want to be better and how I promise to support her in everything she does.
The words are true even if the context is staged.
The officiant continues with the ring exchange. I slide the wedding band onto Millie's finger, below the engagement ring that's already there. She does the same for me, her hands steady even though her pulse is still racing.
"By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss."
This is it. The moment we've been building toward for months. The kiss that will seal this arrangement and give the photographer exactly what Vogue needs for their "intimate wedding exclusive."
I cup Millie's face with both hands, tilt her chin up slightly, and kiss her.
It's nothing like the engagement kiss at the Met. That was brief, controlled, designed for public consumption. This is slower, deeper, my mouth moving against hers in a way that probably reads as passion to everyone watching but feels like goodbye to me.
Because once this is over, once the photos are published and the Oscar campaign hits its peak, there's a clock running down on how long we can sustain this before one of us cracks.
We break apart to applause. Millie smiles at me, picture-perfect, and takes my hand as we turn to face our guests. The photographer is already snapping away, capturing every angle.
The reception is in the same room, chairs rearranged around tables with centerpieces that match the ceremony flowers. There's champagne, a small cake, and a playlist of songs that LaToya probably spent hours curating to feel spontaneous.
Millie and I sit at a table for two near the window. Her hand rests on the table between us and I take it without thinking, threading our fingers together in a way that looks affectionate but feels like holding on.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"Fine. You?"
"Same."
She doesn't believe me, I can tell by the way her eyes search my face. But she doesn't push, just squeezes my hand once before letting go to accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
We make it through the toasts. Brianna says something heartfelt about love finding you when you're not looking for it.
Claire tells an embarrassing story about me in college that makes everyone laugh.
My mother dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief and my father sits stone-faced in the corner, probably calculating how much this entire affair cost and whether it was worth it for the PR.
When it's time to cut the cake, Millie and I stand together with a knife between us.
The photographer positions us carefully, adjusting the angle three times before she's satisfied.
We make the cut, feed each other small bites while everyone claps, and I taste buttercream frosting that's too sweet and watch Millie's smile never waver.
She's so good at this. At the performance, at making people believe what they want to believe.
And I realize, standing here with cake on my fingers and thirty-two people watching us like we're proof that redemption arcs are real, that I want her to be this good at loving me for real.
Not because a contract says she has to, but because she actually wants to.
Which is the most dangerous thing I could possibly want.