“Proud to see you two take this step,” Keenan says. “Hell, brother, I’m proud of you,” Keenan says. “Takes a real man to do all that you’ve done. Seamus McCarthy’s proud of you as well.”
I go into the church surrounded by family, ready to welcome my bride. I feel as if I might be walking on clouds. The girls assemble, all here before my bride, our guests and relatives filing in and taking their seats in the old church. It smells of polished wood and wax candles, incense, and the flowers brought in from Maeve’s garden.
When the organ changes pitch, I know it’s time. I draw in breath and face the entrance.
When she walks in the door, I can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Her hair’s on top of her head in loops and swirls, with delicate swaths of white ribbon. She’s absolutely stunning, bedecked in white satin and lace, buttons and pearls, to the tops of her toes.
“She’s a princess!” Breena shouts, and everyone laughs. Megan smiles at me, grinning, holding a bouquet of roses in her hands.
Ah, but no. She isn’t a princess.
I know this now, as I watch her walk toward me to take our vows.
Megan’s my queen.