Emersyn
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 2:00 PM. The wedding starts in just three hours. My hands tremble slightly as I apply the finishing touches to my makeup. I've chosen a subtle smoky eye and a soft pink lip color, hoping to strike a balance between elegance and understatement.
I turn to the mirror one final time, surveying my look. My wavy brown hair cascades down my back, styled in loose curls. I'm wearing a lavender chiffon dress that flatters my curvy figure without being too extravagant. The dress hugs my waist and flares out just above the knees, providing the perfect mix of comfort and style. I slip on a pair of nude heels, instantly elevating my 5'3" frame.
Taking a deep breath, I grab my matching clutch and make my way out of the room. The moment I step into the living room, I freeze.
Marx is standing there, adjusting his cufflinks. He's wearing a tailored suit that makes him look incredibly handsome, but what catches my attention the most is the color of his shirt. It's the exact same shade of lavender as my dress.
Is this a coincidence? He couldn't have known what I was going to wear. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the room feels like it's charged with electricity.
"Wow," he says softly, breaking the silence.
I snap out of my daze. "Thank you, Marx. You clean up pretty well yourself," I reply, trying to sound casual, but my voice wavers slightly.
Marx smiles, but there's something else there, a sort of intensity that I can't quite place. "Shall we?" he gestures towards the door.
I nod, still pondering the curious coincidence of our matching outfits. As we make our way to the car, I can't help but wonder what the day has in store for us, for me. My brother is getting married, and here I am, caught in a web of complex emotions, tangled up with multiple men who all offer something different, something compelling.
As Marx opens the car door for me, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. For the first time in a long time, I don't just see Emersyn, the girl who loves to bake and read cheesy romance novels. I see a woman who's something more.
As I slide into the car, Marx joining me a moment later, I take one last glance at our reflection. Two people in matching colors, on the way to a wedding that's about promises, about futures.
"Ready?" Marx asks, breaking into my thoughts.
"Ready as I'll ever be," I reply, turning to look at him.
He smiles, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes, as he starts the van. The engine purrs to life, and we pull out onto the road. We drive in comfortable silence for a few moments, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, I decide to break the silence. "So, Marx, how did you end up picking that shirt color? It matches my dress perfectly."
He glances over, a wry smile forming on his lips. "Pure coincidence. It was just something I had hanging in the closet." I chuckle, still not entirely convinced it's just a coincidence.
The van pulls up to a large, beautifully landscaped estate, the venue for my brother's wedding. Tall trees line the gravel driveway, their branches weaving together like fingers clasped in prayer. The estate itself is like something out of a fairy tale—a grand mansion surrounded by gardens in full bloom, their colors vibrant even in the late afternoon sun.
Marx parks the van, then gets out and walks around to open my door. His eyes meet mine as he extends his hand to help me out, and for a split second, I feel butterflies in my stomach. I've never seen him this gentle, this... attentive.
"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
We walk toward the entrance of the venue, my heels crunching on the gravel. My heart is a mix of emotions—excitement, nostalgia, and a twinge of anxiety.
As we reach the garden where the ceremony will be held, I can't help but admire how picturesque it looks. White chairs are neatly aligned in rows, facing a floral arch that stands as the altar. The air smells like a blend of fresh roses and lilacs, a scent that pulls at my heartstrings, reminding me of simpler times.
Marx and I find our seats, coincidentally on the same row as my parents. I take a deep breath before sitting, acutely aware of the tension that's been building between my mom and me since our last argument. She notices me but offers only a nod, her expression as cold as ever.
My dad, on the other hand, stands up and gives me a warm hug, his eyes twinkling. "You look stunning, Em."
"Thank you, Dad," I say, my heart swelling with love for the man who has always been my rock.
"Who's your date? A new boyfriend?" he asks, nodding toward Marx.
I hesitate for a moment. "He's just a friend, Dad. Marx, this is my father, James. Dad, this is Marx."
"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Marx extends his hand, and my dad shakes it firmly.
"Likewise. You've got a strong grip there, son. You ever play any sports?"
"A bit of football in high school," Marx replies, his posture relaxed but respectful.
My dad nods approvingly, then turns his attention to the front as the ceremony is about to start. I sit down, and Marx takes the seat next to me. I feel his arm brush against mine, and those butterflies are back, fluttering around like they've got a secret they're dying to share.
As the wedding procession begins, I find my thoughts drifting back to the whirlwind of emotions I've been wrestling with. My brother and his soon-to-be wife exchange vows, sealing their promises with a kiss. Applause erupts around us, snapping me back to reality. I clap my hands, smiling genuinely for the first time in what feels like forever.
The ceremony concludes, and guests begin to stand, mingling and offering congratulations. My mom stands too, but not before shooting me another icy glance. I can't help but wonder what I've done to deserve such coldness from her.
"Emersyn, can we talk for a moment?" My dad's voice breaks through my thoughts.
"Sure, Dad."
He leads me a few steps away, far enough for some privacy but close enough to keep an eye on my mom. "I noticed your mom is still giving you the cold shoulder."
I sigh. "Yeah, it's been like that since our argument. I don't know how to fix it."
He puts his arm around me. "Sometimes, time is the only thing that can heal certain wounds. Just know that you've got one parent who's incredibly proud of you."
I feel tears forming in my eyes, grateful for his love but saddened by my mom's continued distance. "Thanks, Dad. That means the world to me."
My dad's warm words bring a much-needed sense of comfort, but my mom's icy presence looms like a storm cloud. The reception is in full swing, and I'm trying my best to be happy for my brother and his new wife. Marx and I are seated at a table with my parents. I should have known that we would be, but I was hoping for a small escape from my mother.
The beautiful garden estate is adorned with twinkling fairy lights, casting a soft glow on everyone. Tables are covered in white linen, with centerpieces made of roses and lilacs that match the arch from the ceremony. A soft jazz tune fills the air, but the music does little to lighten the heaviness in my heart.
As servers move around, filling champagne flutes, I decide I need something stronger. "Excuse me for a moment," I say, standing up.
I make my way to the open bar, set at the far end of the garden under a canopy. "Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender. He nods, pouring a shot into a glass. I take it and down it in one go, feeling the liquid fire slide down my throat, igniting a warmth in my belly. I shudder, placing the glass back on the counter. "And a gin and tonic," I add. While I'm at it, I decide to grab something for Marx too. "Also, whatever's on tap."
The bartender fills a cup with draft beer and places it beside my gin and tonic. I take both drinks and head back to the table, my heels sinking slightly into the grass with each step.
As I approach, I see Marx in conversation with my dad. They're laughing about something, and the sight brings a small smile to my face. I place the gin and tonic in front of my seat and offer the beer to Marx. "I didn't know what you'd like, but I thought this was a safe bet."
He looks up, his eyes meeting mine, and there's that electric charge again. "You thought right," he says, taking the beer from my hands. Our fingers touch briefly, and I feel a little zing, like a tiny bolt of lightning.
"Everyone enjoying themselves?" I ask, trying to include my mom in the conversation as I sit down.
She offers a curt nod, her lips pressed into a thin line. "It's a lovely wedding."
My dad, sensing the tension, tries to steer the conversation into neutral territory. "So, Marx, what do you do for a living?"
"I own a bar," he replies, taking a sip of his beer.
"A bar owner, huh? Emersyn, you didn't tell me your friend was a businessman," my dad says, winking at me.
The corners of my lips twitch into a smile. "I guess it slipped my mind."
As the evening progresses, I find myself increasingly grateful for the gin and tonic. Each sip helps dull the sharp edges of my mom's coldness and my own tangled emotions. But even as I try to lose myself in the festivities—the toasts, the laughter, the dancing—I can't shake off the complex web I find myself in.
Marx seems to sense my mood, his eyes meeting mine every so often with a look of quiet understanding. It's comforting and unsettling at the same time, adding to the feelings I'm grappling with.
I look down at my gin and tonic, the bubbles floating to the surface like my own muddled thoughts. Just as I'm about to take another sip, Marx's voice breaks into my reverie.
"Do you want to dance?" His words fall out of him, like water breaking through a dam.
I hesitate, my gaze shifting from Marx to my parents, then back to him. It's a wedding, I remind myself. Why shouldn't I enjoy myself?
"Sure," I finally say, putting down my glass.
Marx stands and offers his hand. I place mine in his, and a subtle thrill courses through me as he guides me to the dance floor. It's an open space, illuminated by strings of fairy lights that drape from the trees, casting intricate patterns on the grass below.
Just as we step onto the dance floor, the DJ changes the track. The upbeat tempo shifts to a slower, soulful melody. Marx looks down at me, his eyes meeting mine, and for the first time, I see a softness there—a vulnerability that he's never shown.
His free hand finds its way to my waist, pulling me gently against him. I feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt, a rhythmic and melodic sound that fills the space between us. My arm wraps around him as I rest my head on his chest, and we begin to sway in tune with the music.
The world around me blurs into a haze of light and shadow. All I'm aware of is Marx and the sound of his heartbeat, a comforting drum that drowns out the complicated emotions inside of me. I'm struck by how natural this feels, as if we've been doing it for years. As if we're not two souls caught in the gravity of uncertain futures and unspoken feelings.
"I didn't take you for a dancer," I say, lifting my head to look at him.
"I have a few surprises up my sleeve," he replies, his voice tinged with a playful note.
It's strange how a simple dance can stir up so many conflicting emotions—hope, doubt, joy, and a certain kind of sadness. The kind you feel when a moment is so perfect you already miss it even before it's gone.
As the song draws to a close, Marx's grip on my waist tightens ever so slightly, as if wanting to hold onto the moment just a bit longer. But all too soon, the final notes drift into the night, and we find ourselves back in reality.
Marx and I slowly pull apart. He's staring at me with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat, as if he's looking for something in my eyes that even I'm not sure is there.
We walk back to our table, our hands gently brushing against each other as we navigate through the crowd. The simple touch sends a little thrill up my spine, reminding me that the chemistry between us is neither imagined nor fleeting.
As we settle back into our seats, I catch my dad's eye. He's watching us with a knowing smile, as if he's aware that something significant just transpired between Marx and me. I offer a smile back, grateful for his silent support, especially when I glance at my mom, whose expression remains unreadable.
I take a sip of my gin and tonic, feeling the liquid coolness flow through me. The air seems a bit lighter now, as if the dance with Marx had somehow lifted a bit of the weight off my shoulders.
The evening continues with the cutting of the cake and the tossing of the bouquet. My brother and his new wife look blissfully happy, and for a moment, I allow myself to get lost in their joy, to imagine what it might be like to find that kind of love for myself.
Eventually, the DJ announces the last dance of the night, and couples begin making their way to the dance floor. Marx looks at me, and although he doesn't say anything, his eyes seem to be asking a question.
I hesitate, contemplating the complicated mess of feelings I've been wrestling with all day. Then I think about the slow dance we shared earlier, how for a few minutes, everything seemed so simple and clear. And suddenly, the decision doesn't seem that hard at all.
"Would you like to have the last dance?" I ask, my heart pounding in anticipation of his answer.
Marx's face lights up, his eyes softening as he takes my hand. "I would," he says, leading me back to the dance floor.
As I rest my head against Marx's chest, listening once more to the steady beat of his heart, I realize that sometimes the most complicated questions in life have the simplest answers.
All you have to do is listen to your heart.