the ride to the reception

The limousine rocked gently as it rolled to a halt, but inside it felt like the air had frozen. The bouquet slipped from her lap and tumbled onto the leather seat, petals scattering like fragments of all that was broken between the three of them. Jackie’s lips—no, Katherine’s lips—were painted in a perfect bridal gloss, but they trembled when she drew in a breath.

“Ready, dear?” The words came out steady, but her hand tightened on Gerald’s until his knuckles whitened.

His heart hammered. He wanted to believe her, to believe Jackie lived in that soft grip, in the way her thumb stroked across his palm like it always did when nerves overtook her. But the cadence, the composure, the precise steel wrapped around the vulnerability—that was his mother. Katherine moving inside Jackie’s flesh.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry as old parchment. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

Her lashes lowered, shadows brushing her cheeks. She leaned closer, her shoulder pressing into his, the faintest shiver running down her spine. “Don’t forget me out there,” she whispered. “Not her. Me. Please, Gerry. Look at me, even if you can’t say it aloud.”

Through the tinted glass he caught the ghost of another limousine pulling up behind. He didn’t need to see inside to picture it: his real Jackie, small and taut in Katherine’s matronly form, smoothing her skirt, dabbing at eyes already raw from crying, steeling herself to be “mother of the groom” instead of the woman who should have been walking into this reception on his arm.

The partition clicked down an inch and the driver’s voice broke the silence: “We’ve arrived, sir.”

The door opened. A rush of noise poured in—cheers, cheers, applause, the discordant chorus of forks tapping glasses and voices calling out congratulations. The evening air carried the scent of cut grass and champagne, a breeze that should have felt freeing but instead scraped against Gerald’s skin like sandpaper.

His wife—his bride—slipped out first. Jackie’s gown shimmered under the floodlights strung across the hall entrance, satin catching every flicker of color like molten pearl. Cameras clicked, people clapped, and she lifted her chin with practiced grace, the mask sliding perfectly into place again. No one would see the faint tremor in her hand when she extended it back toward him. Only he felt it.

He took her fingers, warm and small inside his own, and stepped out into the swell of adoration. The crowd parted as the pair of them made their way up the carpeted steps, the music shifting into something triumphant, festive.

Behind, the second limousine door creaked open. He didn’t dare look, but he heard the gentle murmur of a bridesmaid ushering “his mother” inside. A polite smattering of applause followed her entrance, subdued compared to the eruption for the bride and groom. He **** himself not to glance over his shoulder, but the back of his neck burned with the certainty that Jackie—his real Jackie—was watching.

Inside the hall, chandeliers blazed down on long banquet tables and a dance floor gleaming like polished ivory. The air smelled of roses, champagne, and anticipation.

His bride leaned into him, smiling for the nearest table of relatives. Her hand squeezed his arm possessively, her whisper a thread of Katherine beneath Jackie’s lilt: “Hold your head up, Gerry. Tonight, we belong to each other.”

His stomach turned. Yet when he glanced down at her face—Jackie’s perfect curls, Jackie’s painted mouth—the ache in his chest deepened.

The DJ’s voice rang out over the speakers. “Please welcome, for the very first time… Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Collins!”

The crowd roared. Glasses clinked. And the woman at his side tugged him forward into the spotlight, smiling wide enough to split herself in two.