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rescue me. The far wall is lined with massive bouquets of flowers. It’s a shame that such beautiful objects are being wasted on such a hideous occasion. I would have preferred dead trees instead.
     
    Then my eyes settle on the man standing in the doorway. For the second time in a week, I see Mortar leaned against the wall, hands resting in his pockets, eyes coolly fixed on me, like everything is normal and good and okay. It isn’t, of course. Things are worse than ever. But looking at him, you’d never know it.
     
    The strangest thing happens when we make eye contact. He’s far away, but even from where I’m standing, I can see the corner of his mouth curl up into a sad smile. Just the hint of it, but enough that I can read volumes from his expression. It sends a tsunami of depression ripping through me.
     
    Is he giving up? He must be. He offered to help, but now it’s too late for that. There’s no rescuing me anymore. Not even Mortar can intervene.
     
    I feel a bitter taste settle into my mouth. He broke his promise.
     
    “And you, Kendra,” the priest booms, “do you take Grady to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”
     
    I gulp. So this is what it feels like to look over the edge of a cliff and know that the only direction you can go is forward. Part of me always wondered. I used to have nightmares like that when I was younger, about looking down into the canyon below. I never got far enough to actually learn what it would be like, though. Luckily, I had Grady to point the way.
     
    My voice is dry and raspy as I say the words. “I do.”
     
    The priest repeats the question to Grady. His stare does not waver. He says in a loud voice, “I do.”
     
    The crowd stands and cheers as Grady grips me by the waist and pulls me into him for a rough kiss. His lips are chapped and nearly jagged. His breath reeks as he presses against me. I have no choice but to let him.
     
    Eventually, he lets me go, but keeps one hand tight on my wrist. He raises it like a boxer winning a prizefight, to thunderous applause from everyone gathered to witness.
     
    I try not to cry.
     
    * * *
     
    The reception is as painful as I imagined. The same conversation over and over again is like twisting a knife in the wound.
     
    “I’m so happy for you, dear. Congratulations.”
     
    “Thank you. We’re very happy.” My cheeks hurt from smiling too hard. I can feel the molars in the back of my mouth grinding with the effort.
     
    “What a joy. Best wishes for a long and happy life together.”
     
    “We appreciate it.” Pain. Lying. Tears barely being held back.
     
    “When can we expect some little ones, Grady?” I overhear a fellow cop asking him.
     
    “Gonna be real soon, I bet,” says another.
     
    Grady winks. “No sense in delaying the inevitable.”
     
    The bile rises higher in my throat. The thought of having children with him hadn’t even occurred to me yet, as bizarre as that seems. Looking around the guests, I see plenty of couples with children in tow. I used to love kids, but now the thought of it makes me sick. Being pregnant with Grady’s child would be no different than carrying a parasite. To have him own everything around me—my art, my freedom—is bad enough. But to let him own my body, too? That’s too much. That would be like eliminating the boundaries between us. If I’m carrying his baby, where does he stop and I begin? I shudder and shove the thought away. I’m close enough to tears already. I can’t manage this.
     
    To add to the maelstrom in my head, Mortar has drifted to the back of the party. I’m sure he’s not invited. Grady hasn’t spotted him yet, so he’s safe for now, but I doubt that either one would be thrilled to see the other.
     
    Every time our eyes land on each other’s, I feel the same heat in my body. I associate it with him