how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

39. weddings & alejandro

The wedding is small, very small, in fact. It's held in a chapel that's not too far from the motel, perhaps only a ten minutes walk away. It's not a very big chapel, either. The chapels I'm used to going to are the ones with stained glass painted with Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that tower two hundred feet above everything else. This chapel is about as big as the shop back in Hornsby, erected in front of a copse of trees and next to one of the passing diners. On a motorway, I never knew you would find a chapel.

I can't concentrate, despite Michael gazing at me as he says his vows. We're so young, I think. We're too young to be doing this, it's absolutely crazy. Even the wedding officiant seemed incredulous when we hired him -- and he's a guy from Craigslist. I would've thought he's seen it all, but apparently not a seventeen and nineteen year old couple marrying in the middle of a motorway right next to the motel they stayed in through the night. It's crazy, I know it's crazy. I can't imagine what my mother or my father or my brother will say. How can we just go back to Hornsby and say, 'Hey guys, how've you been? We're married, by the way.'

I have to say my vows in Spanish. I'm not sure why, maybe something about 'being closer to God' while speaking my own language. Michael's not religious -- I know that. He decided on a Catholic wedding just to give me some peace of mind. I feel bad, honestly. The rose in his cheeks and the brightness in his eyes as he stares at everything in the chapel makes my chest contract. He's so excited to do this, he's so sure he wants to, while I'm standing on the edge of wanting to, and jumping out completely. I love him with all my heart, but the commitment terrifies me, and I hope he doesn't see that as I whisper my prayers and promises in front of the officiant.

I sign the wedding documents with my hand trembling, and Michael rubs my back to calm me down. I convince myself that yeah, it's working, his touch always calms me down, why wouldn't it today? But, it doesn't calm me down. It builds my nerves up so much they're screaming into my veins, and it's so long before I scream, too. I don't, which saves my embarrassment. I step back when I'm done, and let him take then pen from me. His hands are shaking, too; I don't try and comfort him. We thank the officiant, pay him what he needs, and leave the chapel, walking back up to the motel. The wedding ring feels foreign on my ring finger. I want to take it off and put it in my pocket, but that would make Michael so sad. I can't do that to him. So, I walk next to him, with the ring weighing three hundred pounds on my finger, and my mind still drowning from the moment he told me he wanted to marry me. This isn't real. This isn't real at all.

At one point, while we walk down the pavement just as the sun hits its peak in the sky, he spins me around, and grabs both my hands. His eyes are dancing, and they move from mine to my lips. He kisses my knuckles gently, closed mouth skimming over the ring on my finger, before leaning up, and kissing me. I break it short, looking down and taking my hands away from his. Saying he's surprised is an understatement. He looks like a kicked kitten.

"What?" he says softly. "Did I do something?"

I keep walking, and don't say anything. I can't bare to look at him and see the sad confusion rising up his face, and the roundness of his eyes as he asks me again, "did I do something?" His voice is already subdued, I can't imagine how he looks.

"Maricruz." He brushes his fingers against mine, and I snatch my wrist away, folding my arms as I walk so he can't try and reach out for me again. I know I'm being stubborn and rude, but I can't help myself. It's just all too much. I just want to be alone. He doesn't pick up on that, and follows me so he's walking beside me again. I stare off at the other way. "Why are you ignoring me? Are you mad at me?"

I stop, pushing my hair from my face and pulling my jacket closer around my body. I keep my hands in my pockets so I don't need to see the ring, and draw patterns into the pavement with the toe of my shoe. He stops, too, and apprehends what I'll do, what I'll say. Guilt wells up in my stomach like tears, but I keep it from brimming over. I want to stop feeling the ring. I want to stop feeling this sick feeling and the tightness in my throat, just because the whole concept of marriage scares the living hell out of me.