Shangri-La, overlooking the Eiffel Tower.
No, my parents definitely weren’t up to flying all the way here. But when we visited them at my childhood home, I was surprised to feel their warmth toward me when greeting me, and even their warmth (and curiosity, yes) toward Luke.
We had pot roast for dinner. We told them about our plans. They congratulated us and wished us well, asked a lot about the show with genuine interest and almost in a fanlike way, and before we left, they made me promise I’d come back after the honeymoon for another visit.
It was . . . good.
I feel hopeful about that—and about finally having the courage to live my life, rather than plan it from a safe distance. I’ve found a more stable tutoring job, and I also plan to be helping Luke at the bar. It’s all so . . . exciting.
We’re doing it right this time. The wedding, everything. We’re doing it our own way and not letting anyone tell us anything different.
Today is exactly what I envisioned in my dreams. Romantic locale, beautiful dress, giant cake, real diamond and gold rings, and the most dashing man in the world, who also happens to be in love with me.
When the photographer finishes taking the pictures, all six of us go onto the terrace so that Luke and I can exchange our vows. This time, there is no lime Jell-O. No harsh lighting or video cameras or cheering crowds or cheese. It’s just us and our best friends, a full moon, and so much love. I’m wearing contacts for the first time ever, and I keep dabbing at my eyes with the handkerchief Luke’s sweet grandmother gave me as my “something old.”
The justice speaks French, so I told Luke not to worry, that he could simply say the vows in English. He insisted that I say them to him in French. (I wonder why?) When he takes my hand, I peer into his beautiful green eyes and say:
Moi, Penelope, je te prend, Luke,
pour être mon mari,
pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l’avant,
pour meilleur ou pour le pire,
pour la prospérité et la pauvreté,
dans la maladie et dans la santé,
pour aimer et chérir;
jusqu’à la mort nous sépare.
Luke takes my hand, his eyes shining. “I’ve prepared my own vows for you.”
I blink. We’ve gone over the plans a thousand times to allow for no surprises, but this catches me completely unaware. “You did?”
I watch, expecting him to pull a piece of paper from his tuxedo pocket, but he doesn’t. It turns out, he has them all memorized.
And then he tells me that he is so in love with me and he will live his entire life to do nothing but make me happy. He tells me that I am his greatest adventure. That he’s never wanted anything as much as he wants me to be his wife. He tells me that I’ve gotten so under his skin that I’m a part of him. And that he can’t wait to spend forever with me.
And he tells me all that . . . in perfect French.
If there’s anything sexier than the French language, it’s French coming from my sexy husband’s wicked mouth while he gazes at me with intense, wet eyes.
The handkerchief is really coming in useful right about now, because I start to sob. I gather myself together, fanning my face, and manage to get through the rest of the ceremony.
When we’re pronounced husband and wife, he doesn’t wait to be told to kiss me. Pushing my veil behind my shoulders, he gazes at me like it’s Christmas morning and I’m the best present he’s ever gotten. He frames my face in his hands for a sweet, ceremonial peck, which is nice and all, but it’s definitely not what I had in mind.
“You can do better than that,” I challenge. After all, we’re pros at the wedding thing right now, and we need to make up for our lack of a kiss during our first wedding. “We had thirteen million strangers watch our first kiss, so I don’t think we need to be shy for this one.”
“Yeah, I can. But I was trying to be respectful.”
“Fuck respect,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around him. “Give me the heat, husband.”
And he does. Oh god, he does. He fucks my mouth long and hard, cupping and squeezing my ass until I’m completely breathless and weak in the knees. I squeak out, “All I can say is, Mon dieu.