Chapter Fourteen
Darcy
Eminem’s lyrics about sweaty palms and weak knees echo through my brain. I don’t make a habit of listening to the rapper, but his early stuff hit me in the soul more times than I care to admit. Even privileged rich kids go through hard things.
It’s not real, chill out, Darcy.
However, the rows of chairs with sunshine yellow bows tied around them, the same yellow color aisle runner, yellow and white roses along the aisle, and the swarm of rabid press outside of this old, echoey cathedral creates a concrete feeling to this wedding.
I try to imagine every chair with a human sitting on it as I stand at the altar and suddenly want to vomit.
You stand in front of crowds all the time. This is no different. Imagine it’s a rally.
But the pep talk isn’t working. And this is not a rally. It’s a wedding.
My wedding.
Hayden Bennett will be my wife in three hours. We will say sacred words standing in this very spot with the sunlight shining in through the stained-glass windows that boast images of saints.
With all the yellow, it’s as if Ophelia was in the room today. It was her favorite color, and the thought of her spirit in this room makes me want to shout at the sky, demanding a reason as to why nine-year-olds have to die.
A clearing throat shakes me from my momentary raging stupor.
“Sir, I know it’s your wedding day, but can you take a quick look over these papers and sign?”
I side-eye my assistant but relent. It’s all a ruse, so what’s the point in celebrating the occasion? “Hand them over.” I take the papers and skim while returning to my dressing room. As soon as I close the door to the room, the papers are snatched from my hand.
“It is your wedding day, Darcy-kun. What are you doing reading papers about,” Ren looks over the front paper he grabbed, “campaign finances?”
I snatch the papers back. “Because it’s not a real wedding.”
“You are exchanging rings and saying ‘I do’ in front of people and God. This is as real as it gets, my man.” Ren claps me on the shoulder, and I finally glance his way.
My first thought is how nice he looks in his all-black Italian suit, and my second thought is that though he looks good, yellow is not his color; he should burn the tie after this occasion. My third thought is that he is right.
Regardless of my feeble attempts to downplay this wedding, it is a real wedding. My heart may not be in it, and Hayden may not love me (nor I her), but the papers are real. Our signatures on the marriage license are real. God overseeing us standing at the altar is real.
And now the thought of lying to everyone makes me sick.
The press has been hard on me and Hayden. Public opinion of this impromptu engagement is low. Sure, some people are rallying behind our “romance,” but the majority are calling bull. Hayden and I have to do one heck of a job selling our love today. All eyes are on us.
“God, what am I doing?” I bury my face in my hands, guilt clawing at my throat. My yellow necktie feels a little too tight, so I pull the knot loose a fraction.
“What you need to do to win this election.” Ren pauses. “You never know… You may end up falling head over Italian-leather Oxford boots for the woman.”
I glare at Ren. “You’re not God. I was asking Him.”
He smirks, then gives my face a harder-than-usual smack. “No, but I am your best friend. And as your best friend, I bet you’ll fall for her.”
Fire consumes the previous guilt. “I don’t know how anyone could fall in love with Hayden Bennett.
She’s boisterous and clumsy, is always swarming around like an annoying gnat, smiles way too much, and has a hidden Machiavellian complex to her, which is why I hired her, but that doesn’t make her lovable. ”
Ren laughs. “As if you aren’t the quiet schemer and plotter yourself, Darcy-kun. You two are a match made in heaven. You’ll see it one day. You will wake up and realize you married the woman of your dreams without ever realizing it.”
“No, I won’t,” I say through clenched teeth, though something inside me is fighting that resistance.
Hard. Because I do want to smile when Hayden smiles these days.
And her boisterousness hasn’t gotten under my skin like it used to.
I release my breath. “Can you stop now and help me get ready for this stupid wedding?”
“I will stop. But remember my words and don’t take too long to realize you love her, or she will move on.” Ren tosses a comb in my direction. “Now do something with that hair.”
Three hours later, I’m standing at the altar with a yellow boutonniere pinned to my black tux wondering where the hours had gone. It’s all a massive blur; the only feelings associated with the past hours are sickness, guilt, and confusion.
That’s not the way one should enter a marriage, right?
Finding Mother in the crowd only heightens the guilt.
Wave of nausea. When I find Ren standing in the back waiting to escort Stella—who like Ren should burn all the yellow that she owns—down the aisle, I’m met with a smirk and two thumbs up.
Stomach twisting. The other smiling faces in the crowd blend together, and my head begins to spin.
No. I cannot have a panic attack standing here in front of the world.
Smile.
Yes, I can do that.
I smile.
What’s next?
Put your shoulders back and tilt your chin up.
Done.
Breathe. In. Out. Subtle. Slowly.
I focus on my breaths and realize Ren and Stella are now at the altar and the wedding march has begun.
Everyone stands.
The wide double doors open.
Hayden stands with her chin tucked down, wearing a beautiful, pristine white gown that radiates brighter than her sunshine personality.
It cinches at her waist, and the rest of the dress poofs out around her like she is actually a princess.
Her hair is up in a bun, as usual, but this bun seems to have all her curls at the right places with yellow flowers dispersed throughout.
It’s the first time I’ve enjoyed yellow as a color since my sister died.
She isn’t wearing a veil, which, according to Mother, Hayden fought hard to win that decision.
No one escorts her down the aisle.
And when she is halfway to me, she looks up.
Her eyes scream, “Help me,” and I’m moved by a greater power to protect this woman who looks helpless in this situation.
The storm of anxiety raging inside me calms in the name of being needed by Hayden. My breath hitches, and my feet make their way to her. I loop my arm with hers and bend down to whisper in her ear.
“I’ve got you.”
She smiles, and her eyes widen with happiness; she is genuinely grateful. The expression warms me.
I can’t look away from her smile as I walk her down the aisle. Everything else seemingly fades away. Her smile declares she trusts me, and that is all I need to guide us forward to stand before God, our friends and family, and the world to say, “I do.”
Like the preparations, the ceremony passes in a fuzzy haze. Hayden’s gentle, warm smile, the sincerity in her eyes, and the soft squeeze of her hands keeps me rooted.
Trust. This is why I am marrying her. I trust her to carry me through, and I will carry her through.
And that thought eases the guilt of this marriage of convenience. Love might not exist between us, but mutual trust and respect do.
That’s enough.
We repeat the traditional vows and say those two words.
“You may now kiss your bride, Mr. Marshall,” the priest says, and I swallow a lump.
How could I forget that I would have to kiss her? Why didn’t we discuss how we would kiss beforehand? Why didn’t we at least practice?
As the thoughts keep me frozen in place, Hayden’s face draws close as her arms wrap around my neck.
She pulls me down to meet her without hesitation.
I let her lead and close my eyes.
Our lips brush carefully, and just like that… Hayden releases me and steps away, slipping her hand into mine.
Did I even bother to put my arms around her waist?
My world trips and stumbles as I grasp her dainty hand; I’m a thread in a sweater—nicked and quickly unraveling. I desperately need to get out of the public eye so I can think. So I can fall apart.
I drag Hayden down the aisle to loud cheers and claps, and once we are through the doors, I release her hand and make a beeline for the nearest dressing room.
My breathing becomes erratic, and I slam the door shut behind me and collapse to a seated position against it, pulling my tie loose from my neck. The tiled floor is cool and comforting. Steady. Unmoving. Unchanging.
Too much change has happened at once, and it’s overwhelming. Yes, I asked for it. It’s a needed change, but that doesn’t negate the fact that it’s unnerving and terrifying.
A soft knock at the door, then, “Darcy?”
Instead of answering, sobs rack my body.
“Darcy, let me in.” Hayden’s voice is gentle and understanding.
I scoot away from the door. “Come in,” I manage to say between sobs. She opens the door.
“Hmm. If I ever got married, I definitely wanted to bring my groom to tears, but this isn’t what I had in mind.” She places a hand on top of my shoulder and lowers herself to the ground. “These are tears of regret.”
I sniffle. “Not regret, just… overwhelmed by change.”
“Thanks for being honest with me. It scares me too, you know?”
Sobs continue to pour out of me. I should care; I should be humiliated that Hayden is seeing me in this condition, but when one can’t breathe appropriately, it’s hard to care about the opinions of others.
“Here,” she says, placing both hands on my shoulders and shoving me forward. “Let me get behind you.”
She moves my body with guided nudges as if I am a machine and she is the pilot.
I have no clue what she’s doing, but her bare legs end up sprawled on either side of me and I lean back against her chest. Her arms wrap around me in a tight hug, and the scent of sunshine and sweet spice is all-encompassing.
My head rolls back against her shoulder, and she whispers, “I learned this technique from Stella. She had panic attacks, too.” Then, “Breathe. Hold. Release.”
Hayden repeats the commands, and I eventually sync with her. Our chests rise and fall together. Our breaths rush in, we pause, and we release.
We become one.
“Better?”
I nod, feeling much more relaxed. The fog lifts and my thoughts begin to clear.
“Better enough to go out and face the masses ready to congratulate or scrutinize us at our reception?”
My heart quickens again, but I take deep breaths and ground myself back to this moment.
“Do you think we can feign being so in love that we wanted to ditch the party and head back to my—er, our place?”
Hayden laughs and releases me from her arms. “Give me at least thirty minutes to enjoy the food. Then we can sneak away.”
I stand and offer my hand to Hayden. I lift her to her feet and she smooths the satin gown that makes her look like Princess Tiana from The Princess and the Frog. “What if I could make you a more delectable dish at home?”
“Hmm. What are you offering?”
I grin. “I make a mean ramen dish. The master himself taught me. I know how you like all things Japanese.”
Hayden’s eyes light up. “You mean Ren?”
“Indeed.”
She thinks for a moment before answering. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
As we navigate escaping through the dressing room window, which is a sight to behold with Hayden in her sparkly, poofy dress, one thought grips my mind: Hayden calmed me down from a panic attack, a feat only my best friend has ever accomplished.
We slide into the car, most of the backseat taken up by Hayden’s gown, and I tell Lionel to head for home.
The atmosphere is near silent, with only the light pants of our breaths to be heard.
I side-eye Hayden to see if she’s still breathing as hard as me (making a mental note to add more cardio into my workout routines), but she is side-eyeing me too, and we simultaneously burst into laughter.
“That was…” Hayden begins through laughter.
“Something.” I finish. We laugh a little longer, then both take a few grounding breaths to mellow out.
I place my elbow on the siding of the door and rest my head into my open palm.
The sights of the city creep by as we drive through the crowded city, and with each moment closer to home, my stomach tightens.
I am married. To Hayden Bennett. My campaign manager. And I’m paying her to be my wife.
Sneaking another glance her way, I notice she’s in the same position as me—her elbow resting on the doorframe with her head in her hands. Is she having the same daunting realization as I am? That we are married and heading to live together?
My throat tightens, and I reach to loosen my tie, forgetting it was already undone from earlier.
There’s no relief for the panic setting in, and I refuse to let Hayden see me like that again.
Yes, she was comforting and helped me, but I don’t want her to see me as weak.
I take deep breaths in and then let them out, focusing on the passing buildings and people.
Hayden has already broken something down within me—I enjoy her smile and her laugh, and she brought me comfort in the midst of my panic attack.
She seems to understand me in a way no one else does, and it causes me to wonder if she knew my secret about my sister’s death, would she understand my pain instead of blaming me?
I know I’m at fault, but what if someone other than my therapist, best friend, and mother told me that I wasn’t?
That I had permission to let Ophelia go?
Would I listen?
The questions stirring within me become too overwhelming. I shut my eyes and rub my temples.
“Are you okay?” Hayden asks in a gentle, concerned voice.
I simply nod my head.
She sighs then says, “I’m here, Darcy.”
I want to believe her. Some small part of me does believe her. But Hayden has already seeped into my life in ways that I never would have imagined, and I have to throw walls back up to protect myself. I can’t let her in anymore. Everyone that gets too close leaves.
And frankly, I don’t want Hayden Bennett to do the same.