After the betrayal of his ex and the disintegration of his heart, Harry convinces himself he'll never love again. That is until the bride walks down the isle and she's dressed head to toe in white. Only it's not his wedding, and it's not his bride...
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| CHAPTER TWO |
I've only ever been to one wedding: my father's as a child. I don't remember much from the day, except realising, at only the mere age of twelve, that he'd picked his new wife over his family.
As I sit here now, my old suit feeling too loose on my limbs, it's just as dreary as I remember. I had hoped the next wedding I would be at would be my own. It seems fate has other plans.
It's the middle of December but the weather is acting like June. My hands find a familiar place sliding down the seams of my trousers to escape perspiration. I'm not sure how long I've been stood here, with my aching fingertips and the brazen sun blazing down upon my skin. Watching the newlyweds joyous love radiate through the Lilliputian view of my camera and pretending I'm happy for them.
I begrudgingly let the bride–after crocodile tears–skim through all the photos I've taken. They're beautiful, vintage, and shine elegance, with the decadent pillars and intertwining vines of Heuchera and Coleus in the background. I must agree when she applauds my work and tells me they're gorgeous and sends me a sob of appreciation.
The party is always the best part of the wedding, at least that's what my Father taught me. It's the perfect time for everyone to get pissed at noon and have it be completely justifiable. Seeing all the intoxicated uncles and aunts stumble around the dance floor might be the highlight of my day. My Father might have been right about something, it seems.
Today is the only day I can down glasses of overly-exorbitant scotch I can't afford and no one will bat an eyelid. I take full advantage of this knowledge and order my fourth glass of Dalmore with a tipsy smirk.
A hand is placed on my shoulder as the cool scotch connects with my tongue. I swirl in my chair to be greeted with the embrace of a hug. It's only the familiar scent of aftershave, which invades me, that helps me realise who it is: my closest friend, my brother, Drew. Over his shoulder, I notice a woman dressed in fine silk. She's stood by his side, her hands clutching her purse but her eyes locked on mine. They're cerulean - like the sea. I'd get lost if it isn't for Drew's voice pulling me from the depths.
"How are you man? I haven't seen you in months." He pulls away to look at me. "You look thinner."
"That'll be because I am," I reply. Sarcasm is merciless in my tone.
"The Harry I know right there," he says with a clap on my back. My eyes wander to the lass stood waiting entrance to the conversation. "Ah, Harry I wanted to introduce you to my girl. Rowena this is Harry, Harry this is Rowena."
She holds her hand out for me – I accept. Her skin feels soft like honey. I wait a moment to let go.
