Gus

“This could be the smartest thing I’ve ever done, or it could be the dumbest.” My shoes clicked on the marble as I paced the tiny room behind the altar. Packed as it was with racks of hanging vestments in various shades of metallic brocade, the footed brass prosforo bowls, and bookcases covered in a hodgepodge of crap; everything from extra reams of copy paper—there wasn’t even a printer in this building—to cases of Pepsi and vials of holy water, the space wasn’t big enough to do anything more than spin in a circle.

George crossed his arms as he leaned against the desk.

It had been years since we’d both been back here together and we served behind the altar as boys, dying of thirst and hunger and drooling over what was probably the same case of Pepsi because we weren’t allowed to drink or eat before receiving communion.

“It’s certainly not the dumbest.” He raised his eyebrow, giving me a pointed look, as if to say, remember that time I caught you banging my wife on an embalming table?

“You’re right. Momentary lapse.” I stopped pacing. “I try not to remember that era where I was a piece of shit.”

“You were never a piece of shit. You made bad choices. This isn’t one of them.” He pointed in the general direction of the nave where, if she hadn’t come to her senses, Decca would be walking up the aisle in a few moments.

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “I can feel it.”

I rubbed my hands down my face and scraped at my beard before smoothing my hair away from my face.

I wasn’t so sure he was right. But I could feel him feel it, and it stopped me in my tracks.

A few months ago, my brother wouldn’t have known a feeling if it hit him over the head. Then Bethany came along and violently beat down the walls surrounding George’s heart, forcing him to finally accept the same care and compassion he regularly gave others.

If he could be cured of his raging guilt, workaholism, and misanthropic cynicism, anyone could. I could.

I took another deep breath, willing my heart to slow.

Hot blood pumped in my neck, rocking my whole body. Every thick beat of my heart warned me this was a bad idea.

Mis-take. Mis-take. Mis-take.

George’s eyes met mine with a stern gaze, but he withheld further judgement. He simply stepped toward me and re-pinned my boutonniere straighter. He brushed a stray bit of lint off my shoulder, appraising my blue suit with a vague smile and a warmth in his eyes I rarely got to see. “You look good as a layperson. I’m going to miss this.”

I didn’t buy a new suit.

It’d been so long since I’d worn this one—navy blue with the faintest ghost of a silvery plaid—since I’d entered seminary. There, I wore the long, black, close-fitting anderi everywhere from classes to church services, even to the movies.

Most Orthodox clergy in America chose to forego the long robes in favor of the traditional Catholic look of a black suit and Roman collar.

Once ordained, I’d likely never wear this suit again. Nor the burnished cognac leather shoes, or the baby blue broadcloth, or the mossy springtime, yellowy-sage paisley silk tie. That was new. I’d splurged on color.

From here on out, my life would be black.

“You won’t miss anything,” I lied to my brother. And myself. I’d definitely miss the color. “Besides Ma, you’re the one person who knows the real me. I can’t play the spiritual father role with you. You’ve seen me at my worst. And you’ve always been better than me, man. I came to the church seeking forgiveness. You never needed it.”

“Shut up, Gus. Everyone needs forgiveness for something.”

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I sighed. “No, listen. I know I’m not that person anymore; the kid who wrecked everything in his path. But, after this, I don’t want things to change between us. I still want to be able to think of you as my big brother. The true calm in the storm. I need you to be the place where I don’t have to wear the church’s authority cloaked around my shoulders. Where I can be my lowly human self, because you will offer the comfort and protection. You won’t list my sins for me or remind me that the only place I can fall is down.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“What?”

“Decca.”

Decca. The woman presumably in white (although I had difficulty imagining her in any color other than black) and presumably having her own freak out in the Narthex right now, holding a bouquet of some gothic flower—lillies probably, plucked from some dead guy’s discarded casket spray.

From the altar, the chanter began intoning the wedding song. The hymn of the Virgin Mary was my only request. It wasn’t frequently sung, and the melody was so haunting, my ears never seemed to stop craving it.

George checked his watch. “You ready? Or do you want to freak out some more?”

I hugged my brother tightly. In a decade-long twist of fate, I owed him my life and happiness, and I was overwhelmingly blessed he was here with me today as my koumbaro and best man.

We stepped from behind the iconostasis to see Father Vasili wiping tears from his eyes. Ma and Dad and Yia-Yia and Pappou were in the first pew on the right side. Waylon and Bethany’s daughter, Sofia, holding baby Athena in her arms, represented Decca’s family on the left.

Everyone wore black, even the baby. It was the bride’s only request.

Bethany sauntered up the aisle first, followed by my ghostly white sister, who hated attention so much, she’d postponed her own wedding twice already. Decca didn’t want attendants—I suspected it was to save Soula the abject terror of being in front of an audience—but again, Greek Orthodox wedding ceremonies were rigid and long and it was better with an extra set of hands.

George would place the delicate gold crowns on our heads and hold the ribbon that tied them together. It symbolized his spiritual and practical role in our marriage: to keep us together and hold us accountable.

Bethany smiled at me before her eyes moved to her husband who stood at my side.

Everyone I loved most in the world was in this church.

Waves of love and tenderness floated up from my family and friends in the pews. It was an embarrassment of riches to feel this much joy and blessedness.

Maybe, just maybe, it would all be okay.

The low, clear alto of the chanter’s voice echoed off the marble walls of the church, bringing me back to the present. I turned to altar to blot the tears pooling in my eyes, ignoring George’s odd smile.

Decca crossed the threshold of the aisle as she began her solemn march to me. It hadn’t occurred to me she might not show up. But the sight of her walking toward me released the breath inside my lungs.

I laughed in blessed relief as I met her eyes. Her smile broadened and her shoulders shrugged.

That’s when I noticed what she was wearing.

Whatever I’d expected her to show up in, it wasn’t this. White was a bold choice, and yet so completely Decca. Half Catholic-first-communion and half-1960s-femme-fatale.

Her black hair had been swept back in a sleek, vintage-looking updo that matched her vintage dress and matching jacket. Her poufy skirt was short enough that I could see her delicate ankles and low, pointed heels.

Why hadn’t I thought of this? Of marrying her? Lord knew how much I liked her, so why did I never pursue her? Why did it take her proposing to set this in motion? I should have had the balls to—

Vasili thrust a large white candle into my hand. Not a unity candle, a heavy Orthodox wedding candle that I’d have to hold for most of the hour-long ceremony. Decca handed her small bouquet to Bethany and took her own candle.

We’d rehearsed this; the candle, the chalice, the crowning. All we had to do was stand there, drink some wine, stand there some more, walk thrice around the table, and we were married.

There were no vows, no readings from I Corinthians, no Pachebel’s Canon in D. Just a long, quiet ceremony with a lot of Greek chanting. Knowing Decca, she’d translated and memorized every last word so she would be able to mentally follow along with the sacrament. She assured me she didn’t disapprove of anything. A good thing, since there was absolutely no changing or customizing any word or detail of the millennia-old ceremony.

I suspected that was the part Decca liked the most, the age of it all.

A kiss was added after the ceremony was over. A clue for the spectators to know it was finally over. I’d known it was coming, but I hadn’t thought about what it would actually be like to kiss her.

Maybe we should have practiced. Why hadn’t we? Our first kiss and it was going to be in front of all our friends and family? It was going to be unnatural and awkward.

We turned as instructed, facing them all when Vasili introduced us as husband and wife.

Then he gestured for us to kiss.

Decca’s head jerked to me in shock. She hadn’t thought about this detail either. Well, how would she? It wasn’t officially part of the ceremony, so it wasn’t in any of my books that offered the transcription of the service.

I assured her with my eyes. I tried to anyway. She nodded and softened her face and her posture, opening her big green eyes wide in anticipation. Then the rest of the room fell away.

Decca and I were the only two figures, standing in the only radiant beam of sun streaming in from between all the broken panes of colored glass. Reds and ambers, blues and violets surrounded us, shielding us from the rest of the world. My hands encircled her waist and our lips met in the center of that warm light. Soft and warm. Pressing against me. Hands folding behind my neck. Bodies close. Breath hot.

Her lips parted and took mine with her, kneading so slightly. I opened my eyes and hers were opening a second behind mine as I peeled my lips away from hers.

Both of us wide-eyed in disbelief.

We had done this.

Now what?