The little boy, who’s just grown out of the drunk walk that precedes confidence, has his father’s dark coloring and heavy features. But he has his mother’s smile and her cheeriness.
Seeing the three of them together makes me excited for the family Saoirse and I are going to build together.
Speaking of Saoirse, I haven’t seen her in twenty-four fucking hours.
Because it’s “bad luck” or some stupid shit like that, apparently. I tried to sneak into her room last night, only to find the door barred from me.
“Go sleep, Cillian,” Saoirse had laughed from the other side. “You’ll see me tomorrow. I’ll be the girl in the big white dress.”
It’s the longest I’ve gone without seeing her in over six months. It’s been fucking torture.
The music starts playing and our small, intimate gathering of guests rise to their feet.
I notice movement from the side entrance of the house, but I don’t look up until I sense her presence at the far end of the aisle.
Only then do I look up.
And when I do…
She takes my breath away. Quite literally.
It’s only when she starts walking down the aisle, clutching her father’s arm like she’s scared she’s going to fall over, that I realize I’m not actually breathing. I force myself to inhale before I pass out.
The dress she’s wearing is simple. It’s an off-the-shoulder, silk-tuille gown in a rich white. The bodice is tight, fitted at the waist by a crystal belt, before flowing out into an A-line skirt that ripples at the slightest hint of movement.
Her wild red hair dances around her bare shoulders, framing her face, which is thankfully veil-free.
That was the only request I made of her. “I don’t want you to wear a veil.”
“But why?” she’d asked.
“Because I want to see your face clearly—from the moment you start the walk until the moment you reach me. I want to see your eyes.”
She’d laughed and called me a big softie.
But she’d agreed.
Now, as it’s all happening—both exactly the same and wildly different than I ever imagined—she glances up, searching for me.
Her eyes are rimmed with subtle, skin tone shades of coal and mascara. Her cheeks are blushed with pink coral and her lips are lathered with a neutral beige.
Elegant, simple, exquisite.
Just like she is.
She smiles and my heart contracts tightly against the onslaught of happiness.
I take a step towards her when she reaches the bottom of the steps. Padraig takes her hand and places it on mine. I give him a smile and pull Saoirse towards me.
She laughs lightly as I curl my arm around her. I couldn’t possibly be less concerned about the grumpy old priest harrumphing behind me.
“Cillian,” she giggles with dancing eyes, “we have to say our vows first.”
“I said my vows fourteen years ago when I first met you.”
Then I lean down and kiss her possessively as the crowd erupts into applause. I don’t need a priest to proclaim us husband and wife.
It’s true enough already. It has been for a while now.
I love Saoirse. And Saoirse loves me.
I don’t have to hear her say a damn word to know that’s true. All I have to do is look at her.
It’s in the eyes.