I stood at the front of the church, uncomfortable and sweating as I waited for Amy to arrive. I’d spent the morning sitting in Kevie’s small flat near the church drinking a Guinness to steady my hands and running over and over my decision to marry Amy in my head.

I was nervous. Worried that I wasn’t doing the right thing, that she was too young, that I was too young, that we lived in a place where life would never be easy, that we’d still have to live apart for months yet, that I’d wake up the next morning regretting the marriage—that she would, that somehow she’d find out about Moira and she’d never forgive me, but she’d be stuck with me, anyway.

I never voiced my doubts to Kevie. We were the first couple he’d ever married, and by the way he’d paced the floor mumbling to himself the night before, I knew he was almost as nervous as I was. If I said anything, I’d put him over the edge. I was afraid he’d feel the need to postpone the wedding to counsel us or refuse to perform the wedding altogether.

And even though my stomach was in knots as I climbed the steps to enter the vestibule of St. Joseph’s, I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting another day to marry Amy. The thought of never making her mine—of living without her—made me panic in a way I hadn’t done since my father had left us.

There were people filling the first five pews, but I didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as I made my way to the altar to wait. I couldn’t. I was completely focused on doing my part and not messing up this first part of our lives together.

I was wearing my only suit, an itchy wool thing that was a bit too small through the shoulders, and the brand new white shirt and dark grey tie beneath it felt as if it was strangling me. The neck was too tight, but I hadn’t said a word as Amy had brought it out to me the night before. She’d painstakingly ironed it all under my mum’s watchful eye, and she’d been so proud of it, I hadn’t had the heart to say a word.

Unfortunately for my soon to be wife, the shirt she’d been so proud of was growing increasingly wrinkled as I sweated and fidgeted while waiting. I tried to stop my movements, but nothing helped. I was too anxious—so anxious that I could feel sweat dripping down my back and under the waistband of my trousers. My underarms were even worse, and I was suddenly terrified that I’d have to raise my arms during the ceremony and everyone would see the giant wet spots I was trying to hide. I didn’t have to raise my hands, did I? I’d been to hundreds of weddings in my life, in that very church, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember.

I clenched my eyes shut then popped them back open before anyone saw me. My normal composure seemed to have completely deserted me.

“Do not lock yer knees,” Kevie whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Good way to pass out, dat.”

I nodded gratefully, unlocking them and bending them slightly. I’d begun to feel a bit off, and I told myself that must have been the problem. Leave it to my best friend to catch me losing it while I tried not to let anyone see.

I turned my head to whisper back—I really wanted to know if I’d have to raise my arms during the ceremony—but before I could say a word, the organ began to play and my head whipped around to look at the front of the church.

And then suddenly, there she was, in a long white gown and a veil that only gave me small glimpses of her face.

I no longer felt like I was going to black out. Instead, as she moved toward me, I felt as if I could fly.

Chapter 21

Amy

I don’t remember anything about the ceremony, except for the fact that it went on for far too long when all I wanted to do was kiss the hell out of my husband and during the ring exchange, we’d slid Peg’s band onto my finger and then right back off again. My left hand was the damaged one, and with no knuckle to hold it steady, wearing a wedding band was pretty much impossible. My wedding ring finger would remain bare.

During every hymn, every reading, and every prayer, I stared at Patrick. I couldn’t see anything else. He looked so handsome in his suit. His poor neck looked rubbed raw from the starch I’d put into his shirt collar, his hands fidgeted during the entire ceremony, and I watched a small bead of sweat run down his hairline—but none of that mattered. He was promising me forever.

Finally, Kevie blessed us as a married couple—it was still odd to see him in his robes—and we were married. Patrick’s kiss was short and sweet at the end of the service, just a closed mouth peck on mine, but the way his hand gripped my fingers tightly as we turned to face our guests more than made up for it. Our vows were sealed and blessed, but I don’t think either one of us was willing to let go of each other for even a second. It had been so long since we’d been able to touch, that even holding hands soothed me.

I couldn’t get out of the church fast enough after we’d made our way down the aisle. People had stepped over to congratulate us over and over, and though it was very sweet, by the time the nuns from my school had lined up to say hello, I could have punched someone. Did no one see our impatience to get away? Did they not remember how it felt to be newlyweds?

Our small reception was being held in Peg’s small house, and by the time we made it to the car, most of the guests were already headed that way. Even Peg had gotten a ride with Kevie before we were able to leave the church. I’d hoped that we’d have a moment to ourselves before the house was full of people, but that wasn’t going to happen. It seemed as if the universe was working against us.