Two?

The priest stands upright beside the alter, hands clasped together like two brass vises trying to press themselves into gold. Lissa went to his church since she was five. Father Carter knows that, and his calm eyes are hopeful as his glance careens towards the door. I know it, too.

Backspace.

--as his glance careens towards the door. He knows it, too. The man sitting in the front row, alternating the position of stretching his long shoulders out of his seat to peer down the aisle, and surrendering his head to his hands, like he’s afraid of seeing. He wants to see, but it also terrifies him; it’s an unlikely combination, but also the kind that he knew was coming from the day he signed his daughter away.

Her boyfriend used to smile at the sound of her name. She once wrote it out, letter by letter, on his cheek with a ballpoint pen. He told her he loved her so much that he’d look in the mirror and read the words backwards just to remind himself of her. He meant it as a joke, but she didn’t like jokes much, so she laughed to humor him and then drew loopy cursive from the curve of his nose to his earlobe. He was good at staying still; his father had instilled years of patience from watching as he sat straight-backed at the kitchen stool, typing up college essays for money.

He hasn’t washed his face for—

Backspace.

Her boyfriend still smiles at the sound of her name.

He stands nervously next to the priest, hairline shining with sweat, lips quivering into a fragile grin whenever the little kids whisper-yell, “Where’s Lissa?” from the middle pews. He keeps checking his watch.

They first met somewhere in Spain. The details are lost on everyone but him and her, who fell in love, I guess.

Backspace.

--who fell in love.

The piano couples chords and lace drags along the the hardwood floor as Lissa Hamway toddles through the door. Her hair is curled at the bottom and braided where her forehead ends; her face is pale and she looks for him, almost desperately. Her eyes find his. He gives her a reassuring wave from the front of the room, and she melts into the air around her, face flushing in the crowd’s taut intake of breath. Her fingers tap together anxiously, and she glides down the aisle, swanlike.

She never takes her eyes off of his.

It reminds him of their favorite place to go out; Junie’s. He’d hold up two fingers and call out, “Party of two!” and she’d deliberate on whether or not two people could be a party. Then they’d sit, her asking him how many Heinz ketchup packets he thought she could down at once. His eyes would catch her big green ones, palms framing her chin. Never looking away. “What do you think?” she’d ask.

“I think I love you,” he replied.

Backspace.

She never takes her eyes off of his. Aunts in their done-up hair and one-occasion maxi dresses snap pictures hurriedly, eyes switching rapidly between the camera lens and the real thing. They all speak between their teeth quietly and dote on her natural beauty.

They go through the procession, but it’s really more of a procedure; a laboratory experiment where he reads from the instructions and then whittles her name away. The photographer at the back of the room glimpses away for a moment, and he misses the moment that dangled alone, somewhere in time, wherein Lissa Hamway became Lissa Porter.

During their vows, the groom tells her that he’d ask her to marry him ten more times just to go through it with her all over again. He knows she doesn’t like hyperboles, so he kneels down and puts the ring on her hand, and repeats “Will you marry me?” nine times. He miscounts. Maybe nobody else notices, but I bet she does.

Backspace.

--repeats "Will you marry me?" ten times.

On their way out of the church, the groom’s mother kisses him in the center of the forehead. She tells him she loves him. She probably means it. But his nervous smile just flinches its way onto his face and offers her a side-hug.

The photographer takes their wedding pictures in front of a forest-backdrop. He watches their plastered smiles from behind his tripod, not correcting their stance nor helping Mr. Porter up when his heel skids against the wet grass. He just watches, and captures the moment. He almost claims the camera’s broken; he almost lets the moment vanish between his fingers and dissipate like dead ashes into the soil. But he takes the pictures, and later he’ll look at them, eyes scanning. He’ll see the ghosted figure of Lissa Hamway looking on from behind the cropped border, reaching around where her back pocket should be for her favorite ballpoint pen.

Backspace.

The photographer takes their wedding pictures in front of a forest-backdrop.

Afterwards, the groom puts his arm around his wife and they stumble away together to his car. He kisses her lips and opens the passenger door for her. I search her emerald eyes before I straighten the collar of my tux. I’m him. I'm hers. She loves me. She says so.

Backspace.

The photographer takes their wedding pictures in front of a forest-backdrop.

I am not the groom.

Backspace.

I am not the groom.

Backspace.

I am not the groom.

Backspace.

Backspace.

Backspace.

Select All.

Backspace.

I let the pictures fan out from my hands and drift onto the keypad of my laptop. I shut down my computer, feeling numb. The deadline for the story is tomorrow, but I don’t think I can write it. Not before then, and not after.

My breath fogs from my mouth in the frigid air, and I step out of my car. I stroll slowly up to the double doors of the restaurant, hands sheltered in my pockets. The J in Junie’s has fallen six inches askew, and the dim lighting inside the place bounces softly against the glass windows. I trip up the sidewalk, and see my reflection. I try to catch sight of her there, on my right cheek, but the pen has long since faded away. Quickly and abruptly, I push my way past a family of three and into the lobby area. The aroma of lit candles wafts underneath my nose.

The waitress is scribbling something in her notebook, and her black-rimmed eyes jump up to me, mouth parting to ask me why I’m crying.

“Two?” she asks instead.

“No,” I tell her. “Just one.”