whatever it was.
By the time they made their way into the living room
together, with all the expensive art on the walls and the glass
boxes holding all the weird things that the other Giana had
collected, Carol wore an amused expression. She looked them
over, one in red with bare feet and swollen eyes and a morbid
expression, the other dressed like she was going to a funeral,
and God, Giana didn’t even want to think about that because
of Coralyn’s dad.
“We’re getting married,” Carol said, but it was more like a
question.
Coralyn suddenly grasped Giana’s hand. Her palm was
damp and barely warm. Her fingers were icy. “Yes. We are.”
Raw, cold determination. Steel in her spine.
Carol took that in stride. “Okay. Do you want to do it here?”
Giana didn’t know where else. The whole house looked like
this. Did it really matter?
Yes, of course it matters. She deserves to be swept away.
This isn’t romantic. This is practical. A need. A void being
filled. A box being checked. We should have eloped. Should
have been brave enough to do this for real, in front of all our
family and friends.
And who are those people? The family you can’t recall. The
friends you don’t know. Her family. Her friends. You don’t
know any of them.
She hated the belligerent voice in her head. Hated how it
mocked her.
“We aren’t doing this right.” Giana voiced her fears. She
clung tight to Coralyn’s hand. “I should have been more
romantic. We should have gone away together. Or waited.