He looked toward the door.
“Your mother is right about one thing. You will always have to explain us.”
“Noah.”
“People will stare. They will insult you. They will question your motives.”
“They already do.”
“I can stop it.”
“By humiliating me at our wedding?”
His face crumpled.
“I am trying to save you.”
“From what? Loving you?”
“From waking up in 10 years and realizing pity became your whole life.”
I took the pact from his hands.
“There is something I never told you.”
He went still.
“I knew I loved you before I walked across that therapy room.”
“Christine.”
“I knew the night I fell in the bathroom.”
He frowned.
“That was a terrible night.”
“It was. I was half dressed, furious, and crying on the tile. You did not rescue me. You sat beside me until I decided what help I wanted.”
His eyes filled again.
“Evan saw my body change and decided my life was too difficult. You saw me at my worst and never once made me feel smaller.”
I touched his face.
“You did not carry me until I could walk. You stood beside me until I remembered I was still myself.”
He looked down.
“I still do not want gratitude.”
“Good. Because gratitude is not why I get jealous when some women flirt with you.”
A laugh escaped him.
“Gratitude is not why I know how you take your coffee, why I miss you after one night apart, or why I want to argue with you when we are 80.”
I stood and held out my hand.
Then I led him into the ceremony room before the guests had taken their seats.
My mother looked startled.
I faced everyone.
“I need to make something clear before we begin.”
The room quieted.
“Noah is not a child. He is not my charity project. He is not a promise I feel trapped into keeping.”
