28. Chapter Twenty-Seven Gloria
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Gloria
I hand my keys to the valet. At any other time, I’d balk at spending so much money for someone to park my car. Today, though, Savannah and Micah are footing the valet bill.
When I enter the venue, classical music streams from invisible speakers in the lofty ceiling.
Gold and marble gleam on every conceivable surface, from the walls to the floor to the grand fountain burbling in the middle of the lobby.
Well-heeled clusters of people are gathered around the foyer talking, and I feel like an outsider.
Texting London to let him know where I am, I scan the lobby until I spy a sign for Savannah and Micah’ wedding.
I walk toward it, and London appears a few moments later, the expression on his face one of sheer relief.
He looks criminally handsome in his suit, even if the peach tie is a colour I never expected to see him in.
“You’re here,” he says, pulling me into a tight hug. I’m engulfed by the scent of his cologne and his strong arms. His dress shirt and grey suit jacket are silkier than his usual t-shirts and button-downs .
“I am,” I say with a smile when he steps back. “And please, don’t apologize again for not picking me up. I still needed to run around the apartment looking for the perfect earrings to match my dress.”
And a strapless bra that I haven’t worn since my law school convocation.
“Well, they look beautiful. You look beautiful. I’m sorry, I should have led with that.” He’s rambling, something he only does when he’s nervous. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and I feel the loss of his touch like a tangible thing—like fog or wind or cold.
“London, no apologizing.” I press a finger to his lips, smiling when I see his expression go from furrowed apology and sheepishness to a more relaxed state. “What did I just say?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he grabs my hand and kisses my fingers, my palm, and the inside of my wrist. “You can’t expect me to remember what you’re saying when you’re touching my lips.”
I laugh, seeing the frustrations of the last-minute change of plans melt away. “You’re such a guy.”
“Nope. Just in love with you.” He lowers my hand from his mouth and tugs me gently toward the wedding venue. “Come on, the ceremony starts in half an hour and I have to walk someone else down the aisle. Though I’d much rather it was you.”
My breath hitches slightly at his words. I know he’s not talking about marriage—but part of me wishes he were. “I don’t want to make you late for that. I’m sure your sister would have your head.”
He shakes his head. “You have no idea.”
London escorts me to a seat a few rows behind his parents, which I’m grateful for. I don’t know if London has told his mom we’re together yet. And the last thing I want is to cause any drama between the two of them.
I take in my surroundings while waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Peach and white roses drape over the arch at the front of the ballroom, and silky coral fabric covers every chair.
Rose petals in a matching colour are scattered across the aisle, like an overeager flower girl already ran through the ballroom.
Grand, glittering chandeliers sparkle from the ceiling.
Savannah’s four bridesmaids sashay down the aisle, each graceful and beautiful, before they take their places by the arch.
Everyone rises as London’s dad walks Savannah down the aisle.
An exquisite lace gown sculpts to her petite frame, flaring out at her hips in a princess-style ballgown.
A tiara sparkles on her head to complete the image.
London’s father looks younger than his sixty years, only his greying hair belying his age, and his stride is calm and assured as he walks his only daughter down the aisle.
The groom, Micah Wong, already dabs away tears with a handkerchief that London hands to him.
Micah is lined up next to London and his brothers, all of them wearing pink roses with sprigs of baby’s breath pinned to their lapels.
London’s brothers look either teary-eyed, bored, or in London’s case, stressed.
Frown lines furrow his brows and wrinkle the corners of his eyes.
A pantsuit-clad, silver-haired woman clears her throat as she addresses first the happy couple, then the guests. We sit through the couple’s vows, including cheesy promises to save the last taco for each other and sing off-key in the shower.
Micah sweeps Savannah into his arms for a dramatic, drawn-out kiss that has the guests and his brothers-in-law whooping, hollering, and clapping.
London remains stiff, that anxious expression still crinkling his brows.
What is he still worried about? He’s already completed everyone else’s errands for them.
As the bride, groom, and the wedding party file down the aisle to the applause of the guests, I spy London’s parents at the front row.
Their heads are bent close together, but they’re facing each other, so I spy their side profiles.
London’s mom’s hair has fallen out of its neat coif, and her eyes look red-rimmed.
As if she’s been crying. Not an unusual sight for the mother of the bride. But her tears don’t look happy.
London and his family file off to the required dozens of pictures in the hotel’s botanical greenhouse.
Half an hour later, he re-emerges from the throng of his family, looking slightly disheveled with a flower petal in his hair.
I chuckle as he scans the cavernous ballroom for me.
I found a corner between the bar and the ladies’ room to hide in, not wanting to make any more awkward small talk with one of London’s cousins.
One of them tried to hit on me before I explained that I was here with London.
Relief washes over his face when his eyes land on me.
“I got you this.” He takes his hand from behind his back, offering me a cheerful sunflower.
I smile and take it, tucking it behind one ear and securing it with my bobby pin. “Black-eyed susans are my favourite, but I accept.”
“Can I get you a drink or anything?” He sets a hand on the small of my back, ready to steer me to the bar.
“I’ve had enough. I was nursing a glass of wine before you got here,” I say. “Shouldn’t I be offering you something? You’ve been running around all day with barely any time to catch your breath. The deep-fried mac ‘n’ cheese bites are to die for.”
Despite having a traditional sit-down Chinese banquet later, waiters are also circulating with yummy hors d’oeuvres.
“I can’t catch my breath, because every time I see you, you steal it away,” he teases, tracing patterns on my lower back in a languid caress that makes me wish I was wearing a backless dress.
“You’re so cheesy.”
“That’s why I don’t need the mac ‘n’ cheese.” London grabs a whiskey sour, one of the signature drinks at the bar. He swigs it in one go before putting it back down. My eyebrows quirk up. I knew being around his family was stressful, but is it that stressful? “Want to dance?”
“We haven’t even had dinner yet,” I protest. He doesn’t strike me as the type to flout social convention. “And the bride and groom haven’t done their first dance, either.”
“Just… let me hold you in a socially acceptable way for a moment, would you?” His brown eyes plead with me.
I let him steer me onto the dance floor, somewhat reassured that my feet are safe from being crushed by his missteps. "Is everything okay? I can’t say I’ve ever seen you drink this much in such a short period of time. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink at all.”
“I’m fine,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t seem fine.”
I rest my cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat.
It’s anything but steady tonight, sounding more and more erratic as the slow song continues.
There are only a handful of other couples on the dance floor, since the room is still well-lit by the chandeliers overhead and wall sconces.
Most people prefer to let loose once the lights have dimmed and they’ve had enough alcohol to loosen their inhibitions. But not London. Not today.
Sliding my arms around him, I rest one hand on his shoulder and the other at his hip. His breathing is just as ragged as his heartbeat, though he’s taking deeper breaths, like he’s trying to calm himself down.
“You smell nice,” he says softly. “No. Not just nice. Lovely. Exquisite.”
His voice is so low, I could almost think he’s talking to himself. “You sure you’re not drunk yet?”
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. I tilt my head back to look at him, a quizzical expression forming on my face. “I—I lied. I’m not fine. My family is—they can be—”
“Tiring?” I prompt, trying to finish his sentence. “Annoying?”
“Dramatic,” he says.
Dramatic doesn’t necessarily mean bad . It could mean they like to make a big deal over nothing.
But somehow, I don’t think that’s what he means.
Surely if his family were dramatic, there would have been over-the-top sobbing at the wedding ceremony, or a choreographed procession when they came back into the ballroom.
Or something—something other than what looked like the quiet argument I saw between his parents.
I’m about to ask him about it, but he continues. "I love them. They’re just… a lot.”
“Well, most people don’t have four siblings,” I try to joke.
But I think he doesn’t mean they’re crazy or loud or like to get drunk in public. He means the weight burdening his shoulders, the cloud darkening his gaze whenever he glances in their direction. He means that his family is a lot because they expect him to carry the burden of holding them together.
“Yeah.” London gets that faraway look in his eyes again, and I’d do anything to drag him back to the present moment, to remind him that we’re here together.