Page 20 of The Spinster & the Sock

When my mind returns to my body and I find myself living in the present once more, the minister is pronouncing us man and wife and, holding the arm of the man who has just taken my father’s place as my authority, I follow him down the aisle, towards the carriage which will take us to our wedding celebration. I pray I have made the right decision.

The Wife, The Uncle, & The Fool

Blaze

I’m married.

We’re being ushered into a dance hall, bedecked floor to ceiling in the same blue and white flowers as the chapel. George and Helena are leading the path, accepting congratulations on our behalf—which I’m grateful for, because I’m not sure if I can formulate a proper sentence right now.

I’m married.

I know it’s a ruse—that I’m leaving and this is not real—so why do I still feel this way? I glance down at Jo—my wife—who is walking beside me, her hand in mine. Helena had protested in the carriage on the ride here when I ripped the gloves from both of our hands, but I needed something to ground me, and as soon as our bare hands linked together, I could breathe again. Jo, always thinking on her feet, downplayed my frantic scrambling by suggesting I had been ‘overcome by primitive nature’ and I just needed to have my ring on her skin—not its impermanent placement over the satin.

Jo’s ivory dress is traditional for her time, with sheer capped sleeves, a squared neckline, and sweeping lace with beads adorning the entirety as it drapes to the floor. It’s obvious she worked really hard to make it, and it’s beautiful, but she would be stunning in a flour sack.

“It’s a real diamond,” Jo says casually. “It was my great-grandmother’s.”

“Huh?”

“My necklace,” she says, reaching for the stone dangling between her collarbones. “I couldn’t help but notice you keep staring at it.”

“Oh,” I choke out. Everything from the tips of my ears to the base of my neck heats up. I was definitely not staring at her necklace and hardly realized it. The second the preacher-man said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” some part of my caveman DNA was triggered, like some primal sleeper agent. I can’t stop thinking about her hand on my shoulder while we danced at the Winthrop ball, or the way she smiled at me afterwards while sitting in my room, or the way her body felt pressed against mine on the floor of the modiste…

“Blaze? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, no, uh—” I clear my throat, smoothing my mustache and looking anywhere but at Jo’s tits. “Sorry, it’s just a lot. I always pictured my folks being at my wedding too, so it feels…weird.”

“Well, when you get back home you can always get married for real—I’m sure your parents would be in attendance then?” She smiles at me and I know she’s trying to cheer me up, so why do I feel worse? A boy skitters by with a wobbly tray full of champagne flutes, and I swipe three of the petite glasses. I offer one to Jo, smirking when she flinches at the loud clink of her new ring against the stem. She opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by a booming voice.

“There they are!” A large and visibly intoxicated man hollers from across the room, clearly talking about us, if the pointed finger isn’t clear enough.

“Oh, dear heavens, Uncle Rufus,” Jo whisper-groans, then downs her drink in one go. I don’t need to be told twice and follow Jo’s lead, slamming both of my glasses back to back, shuddering as the bubbles make their way down my throat—I’ve never liked my liquor bubbly.

“Lookatcha! Damn time you get wed down Phiney!” Rufus hiccups as he stumbles the last few feet to where we stand and leans his whole weight on my shoulder.

“Uncle Rufus, please! You know I detest that nickname—”

“Psh! You don’t know—she doesn’t know!” He guffaws and looks at me like I’m going to agree with him. “Yaknow what we need? Hows about a kiss, ay? Say, lookie here!” he bellows, causing everyone’s heads to turn our way. “The newlyweds are gonna give us a show! Go on, boy, give her a sloppy, wet one!”

“Uncle Rufus!” Jo squeaks. “Bl-Lynyrd, that’s completely unnecessary. Let’s just go—”

“Kiss! Kiss!” A few more voices join in Rufus’ chant.

“Ah, hell,” I sigh. “Jo, may I? Just to shut them up?” I cringe, because as soon as I say it I realize how shitty it sounds—but it’s true, I can’t see Rufus letting this go. Jo smooths her dress, something I’ve noticed she does when she’s put on the spot. Her ocean eyes are full of trepidatious waves when they meet mine, but she nods.

“Why does everything involving you have to be wet?” she murmurs when I step closer to her and tuck a stray curl behind her ear. A laugh escapes me as I lean in and place a gentle peck on her soft, pink lips. She gasps softly, still as a board as I step back. It wasn’t a Hollywood performance by any means, but it seems to be enough to appease Rufus. The man is hooting and hollering, but already staggering after the boy with the drink tray.

“See, one simple kiss and he’s gone. Easy.” I shrug, turning toward my wife, whose face flushes a rosy red. “How about a dance?” I offer her my hand and hope that a few dizzying circles across the hall will be enough for her to come back to herself. I’m not used to seeing her look so bashful. Her shoulders relax a little, and she smiles when she takes my hand, letting me lead her onto the dance floor.

“Better close the shop tomorrow, Missus!” the coachman cackles as he cracks the reins and the carriage rolls away, leaving us standing on the modiste’s stoop. I have no idea what time it is, but it’s late enough that the streets are empty and I don’t see a single lit window.

“Why in the world would I do that? I’ve stayed up much later than this before just working on a single gown…” Jo muses, swaying slightly as she unlocks the door and ushers me inside.

“I’m pretty sure he’s insinuating you won’t be able to walk by morning.” I laugh.

“That’s preposterous. I’m aware I’m a bit tipsy, but I’m nowhere near drunk. These shoes are actually quite comfortable—there’s no reason for my feet to cease working by dawn.”

I groan. “You should be having this chat with your mother.” I brush past her and head for the stairs. I want out of these shoes; I want to lie on that miserable chaise and fall asleep; and I do not want to explain to this woman what everyone expects us to do tonight—for a multitude of reasons.