The Wedding Project 💍

'Mama' - The Grooms Parents (@EverythingIsNothing)

Warmth is a prospect of pretense. There is not a value of warmth real enough to elicit a stable resolution nor a level deep enough to satisfy all longing or disgust for the brittle weather. Some would consider my predisposition for heat as insane. Though, I couldn't blink the misty weather if I tried.

Even the sweltering Caribbean temperatures couldn't cure the chills that have always swept down my arms and the breath of cold that has always stuck to the back of my neck.

Living in the United States for just over a half decade, I had grown to realize my definition of summer was ruptured, so much so that my winter equaled autumn and my autumn equaled spring. This fact was evident before my family departed from Ireland, but the notion was subdued by the repetitive complaints of neighbors regarding the climate. Somehow I puzzled this cycle—my constant coldness—into normality despite times in my home country being snappier.

To think, we never took a holiday to any coast but off Denmark and northern junctions of Ireland before moving to the United States. Gorgeous as it may be, the cold is inescapable at that coastline at that quaint Denmark beach house. Besides, the beach house Arthur and I bought two years ago was preferable, even when the real estate market disagreed. Callum would like the ice water hut better anyway, and his soon-to-be wife too.

"You can't say that about them, Marie. Don't you trust them with the key?" Arthur questioned. He tilted his head to the side, only a bit, the way he did when he was in deep thought.

I laughed winterly. "With a spare."

"You're being unfair." He sighed. "They are perfectly capable adults."

"Callum is," I replied. "He can have the key—the new spare."

"You didn't—"

"I did," I cut in, "He can have the deed too, a permanent end to a beginning" —a scathing chuckle rose in my throat— "Metal means nothing without paper, dear."

Arthur shifted, pressing his lips into a thin line to hold any biting words in. Any other day, he would have whispered a quiet phrase of disagreement. I knew he was thinking up what he wanted to say, something he wouldn't dare utter to ruin the mood floating about. The bride would adore such a thing, I'm sure. Would it not be lovely to have the groom's parents frolicking about, not so cheerfully, might I add, with strings of insults looked up in a thesaurus on their tongues and the discharge of the past teetering close by?

He adjusted his navy tie and turned from me.

Black suited back now a manikin for a face, I made no move to spin him around or step in his peripheral. Calculating my next moves, I drew my cashmere scarf closer. The beige material not only provided some relief from the light wind but also acted as a distraction, just enough time for me to look around and assert a resolution to Arthur. End trials before they begin, per se.

I opened my mouth.

"I'm going to the restroom," Arthur murmured, whirling in the opposite direction from which we came.

I followed his tracks with my eyes, wondering how much time he could strike up before the ceremony—there were less than fifteen minutes to spare. Arthur was too time-conscious to leave and come back late. No, something else was amiss, enough for him to notice the inevitable delay of the processional. The man walked as if clocks were not ticking in his ears. Purposefully, he wound his way around the arc of chairs, careful to step around the silver carpet and the flower displays neatly assorted across the space.

Anna outdid herself.

Rather, Donald outdid himself. The bugger struck me as an over-the-top nitwit since the first day I encountered him. He could never seem to lose the power tie, either, not even today. That thought made me laugh a bit. There was no wonder Anna was... Anna.