Page 7 of Not You Again
ANDIE:
I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.
PETRA ASHLING:
The stakes are high as our couples sign on for the commitment of a lifetime. After eight weeks, they’ll have to decide if they want to stay married to the love of their life or choose to divorce.
CHAPTER FOURKIT
“Do you, Andrea Dresser, take this man Christopher Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
As the officiant rambles on with traditional wedding vows about a wife obeying her husband and blah, blah, blah, all I can think is, The matchmakers set me up with Andie fucking Dresser.
I honestly thought I’d never see her again.
I swallow the lump in my throat and desperately wish I could turn back time.
She’s beautiful. Of course she is.
The last ten years have loved her in the way I wasn’t able to. Her dark hair is curled and tucked back from her face, leaving her bright hazel eyes exposed. I can’t meet them yet. Not until I’ve cataloged the curve of her cheekbone or the dip of her cupid’s bow. The spray of freckles across her cheeks. The only sign she’s aged at all are the faint lines on the outside corners of her eyes—they betray a life of hearty laughter and smiles. She’s been happy.
I selfishly wish for more signs she missed me. We were happy before life ripped us apart.
On the officiant’s orders, I pick up her hands. She flinches like my touch hurts. The hope that blossomed in my chest as she walked down the aisle wilts.
She doesn’t want this. It’s in her grimace, the way her back is ramrod straight, the tiny line deepening between her dark brows.
In this moment, I’m grateful Mom isn’t here. She was over the moon to hear the application I completed for our bargain had resulted in a match for me. But just this morning she was so sick from the chemo that she couldn’t stand, let alone participate in a reality TV wedding where filming would last hours upon tedious hours. It took me, the home nurse, and three of her doctors to convince her she truly couldn’t be here today.
If my match lasted beyond filming, I promised her I would happily partake in a vow renewal with all the bells and whistles so she could be there.
Now, with Andie so close, looking like a scared animal ready to bolt, I know I’ll have to tell Mom her hopes that I’ve found my soulmate are dashed. I’ll have to find some way to stop her from watching this season on TV. I don’t know if I can bear sitting through each episode with her asking me why Andie and I couldn’t just work it out.
The officiant clears his throat. My attention snaps to him, staring at me. Shit.
“Repeat after me,” he says again, calmly. I nod, and he continues. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
The words come from my lips, hollow and unfeeling. With shaking fingers, I slide the delicate gold ring onto Andie’s left hand. And dammit, my own fingers linger on hers, betraying the ache that never really left me. I swallow and let her go.
She repeats the ritual, claiming me with a broad gold band. Her hands tremble with the motion, her mouth set in a determined line. Like she’ll get through this by sheer force of will. This time I don’t let go, catching her hands in mine.
“You may now kiss the bride!” The officiant beams, as though he can’t feel the way the earth just stopped spinning underneath our feet.
I can only stare at Andie’s hands in mine. Despite my hands being much larger, she’s always had the ability to make me feel … small. The way you feel standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Like as heavy as your problems weigh on your shoulders, they are so insignificant in the presence of a natural phenomenon.
I take in a sharp breath when I realize we’ve both stopped shaking, now that we’re connected. Almost like we’re better off this way, reaching for each other.
“Cut!” A producer swoops in and whisper-yells at us, “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
Andie flinches, and I tighten my grip on her hands. It’s the only thing that keeps me from baring my teeth at the producer, like some kind of rabid bear.
“Oh, I, um …” Andie looks at the producer, then at me. Intentionally, I soften my gaze and muster the courage to meet hers. Her lips part, but no words come out. I tilt my head in a silent question: Are you okay?
“Why didn’t you kiss her?” the producer asks, the veneer of calm not even close to masking her frustration. I’m three seconds from growling at her for pushing us like this. Andie is scared, for fuck’s sake. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Like she’s being forced to marry one.
Andie sets her jaw and tilts her chin up a tick. I let out a soft puff of laughter. She returns it with a glare.
How could I forget? This woman’s stubborn pride is the eighth wonder of the world.