Two Punks In Love

Je le veux

Kat

Italy wasn't ever my dream wedding but I never could have imagined my Monte Carlo wedding in a million years.

I'm wearing the black wrap dress I wore to Emma's funeral—the only dress I own that fits—I just vomited in the plant right outside this vacuous ballroom before we began the ceremony, my witnesses are strangers, the groom is drunk, and my almost three month old belly-babies are popping like overflowing champagne as I marry a man who is not their daddy.

Oh, and the vows are in French.

Which is pretty funny, because Colin and I met in third year French class my junior year of high school, and took a fourth year together as well. I imagine he stuck with French for his college language requirements, as did I. So our vows aren't completely indecipherable to us.

We've already been asked the questions that prompted us to say,

Je le veux

Not I do, as we would said in English, but instead, I want it.

Which suits me better, because frankly...I don't.

I don't take Colin to be my forever husband. But I want it—this marriage, at least for now.

The vows we make are close to traditional English vows, but despite all my French classes I can barely put a phrase together in the real world, so I have to focus on listening carefully and repeating the sounds, which also suits me. Instead of seeming like a promise, they simply seem like...an exercise. A recitation.

Moi, Katheryn Ballard, je te prend Colin Rieter

Pour être mon épouse

pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l'avant,

pour meilleur ou pour le pire,

pour la prospérité et la pauvreté,

dans la maladie et dans la santé,

pour aimer et chérir;

jusqu'à la mort nous sépare.

Colin recites the same French speech to me, his balance a little unsteady but his accent pretty damn sexy in its fluidity. He had a French Great-grandmother or something, and his grandmother was fluent, so he's always been used to hearing a native tongue.

Now the hard part—the part that requires our concentration—is done. Colin smiles and nods encouragement to me.

Almost over.

The officiant is gesturing and we realize with embarrassed laughter we are totally missing his instructions to exchange rings. That's when I realize that I haven't even taken my engagement ring off.

"Merde," I say softly, making a fist.

Colin uncurls my fingers, slides off Trace's ring, pockets it, and replaces it with a thick band that looks vintage 1920's though it's probably new. I believe the modern styling is called an eternity band, but I try not to think about that. I put his ring in place...a plain black band that he chose along with mine, while he was, according to all evidence, just as drunk as he is now. In fact he arranged this entire quickie ceremony while drunk...as soon as the marriage certificate was curried over from Street's gambling buddy.

More French is being spoken, I don't even try to follow, because I'm distracted by the idea of my engagement ring in Colin's pocket, and hoping he doesn't lose it because I should, I suppose, return it to Trace somehow, and then the officiant says,