“It’s such a beautiful wedding,” Mrs. Rosencrantz says. “The string quartet is excellent, and just look at this archway!” She motions toward the wire frame covered in lush flowers, white and pink.  

“Peonies. Amelia really likes peonies,” I say absentmindedly.

“Well, that’s just lovely.” She leans toward me, like she has a secret to share. “I am so happy to see her finally get married. She’s not getting any younger, you know.” Then she leans back in the chair and folds her arms across her ample middle. “I don’t know why you girls wait so long these days. It gets much harder to have kids at your age. Who knows if Amelia will be able to have any, given how old she is now. It would break her poor mother’s heart if she never had children.”

I would like to smack Mrs. Rosencrantz across the mouth, but I won’t, because she’s Amelia’s stepmom. She also used to be Amelia’s mom’s best friend until Amelia’s mom died of breast cancer when Amelia was ten, and then Mrs. Rosencrantz, herself a divorcee at that point, quickly took to consoling Amelia’s dad. He didn’t need a lot of convincing.

Amelia never quite got over how quickly her mom was replaced, but I don’t think Mrs. Rosencrantz knows that, or cares. Or if Amelia’s dad does.

It’s all in the past now, apparently. They’ve been married for twenty-five years. Mr. Rosencrantz returns to sit on the other side of his wife, after having completed his duty of walking his only daughter down the aisle. He looks very much like Amelia. She’s got his eyes and thick, wavy hair. Mrs. Rosencrantz leans toward him and hooks her arm around his. He smiles down at her sweetly, and for a second, I think that maybe he’s not the big jerk that Amelia always said he was. That, maybe, he does love his second wife. Which makes me feel even worse for Amelia, somehow.

There is no separation between his and her guests at this wedding, which is how I found myself next to Amelia’s family even though I’m technically in the groom’s party. My cousin Larry is the huge ginger looking very uncomfortable and probably a bit sweaty under his rented tux. He holds Amelia’s hands in his, but while most grooms gaze sappily at their brides, at the moment when the officiant ends the preliminaries and it’s time for the vows, Larry looks like he really doesn’t want to be here. I tell myself it’s the nerves; he’s always been an anxious kid.

I wish I could see more than Amelia’s shoulder and back. I wish I could see if she, too, looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

She does look lovely today. She also looks like a generic bride, with her hair neatly pinned up and her long, sleeveless dress. I’ve never understood why other girls would want this for themselves. Why all the dress-up is necessary. Why all the peonies are necessary.

But Amelia has always wanted children. She said so when we were much younger, in a city far away. Around us, red Solo cups filled with random cheap booze, crushed chips and popcorn on scuffed-up hardwood floors. Amelia falling asleep between my naked thighs, hugging one like an anchor.

I couldn’t understand it at the time, her determination to end up with a man. I’ve never had any interest in them, not even in high school, when everyone was supposed to try it. I never did.

And I hate that I can’t see her face, that I don’t know if she’s hopeful and happy, or if she looks sick and clammy, like Larry does. I don’t know what would be worse, honestly.  

I am not jealous; I’m really not. It’s been over a decade since her and me. Even if anyone had known about us, they’d have forgotten it by now. I almost have.

But I don’t want her to marry Larry, and not because of me. It’s really not.

It’s because, back around the time when I was seeing Amelia, maybe not the exact time, but close enough, I ran into Larry at a party. He was much thinner and much less hairy than he is now, his tongue stuck down the throat of a dude who looked vaguely familiar, like perhaps he’d once been in a large freshman class with me. Larry—he went by Lawrence then, which I gave him shit for, but which suddenly made sense as he detangled from the drunk, swaying twink who didn’t seem to want to let Lawrence go—grabbed me by the forearm, and pulled me into a nook.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he said.

 “I don’t care who you fuck,” I replied as I tore my arm away from him.

“I know. But still…” He ran his hand through his hair. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s just a phase anyway.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I said.

And I kept his secret. I really did.

Then Amelia takes a small step toward her groom and now I see the officiant’s face. I finally understand why Larry’s sweating, why he looks at Amelia like a horse with blinders on, why he dares not look to his right, at the man performing the ceremony.  

Because of course it wasn’t a phase.

Because the twink who didn’t want to let Lawrence go is here today, at my Amelia’s wedding. Because his voice trembles as he says to the guests, “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Larry gulps. My heart pounds in my chest. My hand shoots up on its own.

---

Maura Yzmore is a Midwest-based short-fiction author. Some of her literary flash can be found in trampset, Bending Genres, and Maudlin House, while her dark speculative work appeared in venues such as Factor Four Magazine, Flash Fiction Online, and The Arcanist. She also writes under the pen name Fiona Embers, with her second novel out in 2025 from Evernight Publishing. Find out more at https://maurayzmore.com or find Maura on various social media through https://linktr.ee/maura.yzmore_fiona.embers.