the ceremony

Katherine’s reasoning was sharp, practical—the kind of logic Gerry couldn’t argue with in the haze of nerves and the ticking clock. Jackie’s trembling subsided a little as she leaned against him, and though neither of them felt steady, they both nodded in agreement. The three of them huddled there a few minutes more, whispering about the ceremony—who should sit where, how to handle questions, how to keep the illusion intact—but muffled footsteps and chatter outside the door warned that time was running out.

The bridesmaids appeared in a flurry of silk and perfume, all smiles and chatter, and suddenly Gerry was being ushered away. Before they swept Jackie—still trapped in Katherine’s body—into her role, he pressed her into a tight hug. He kissed her cheek softly, and against Katherine’s skin he whispered, “We’ll get through this.” Her fingers clutched his sleeve once, desperately, then released.

He was taken to his groomsmen, the familiar camaraderie a brittle shield against the dread curling in his stomach. They joked, straightened his tie, clapped him on the back. Gerry kept his hands busy, buttoning, adjusting, forcing the motions to carry him through the next two hours until the ceremony. Time slipped strangely—at once too fast and unbearably slow.

And then it began. He took his place at the altar, heart pounding like a drum beneath his suit, and waited. The pews filled with faces he knew, friends and family, their chatter hushed as the music swelled.

One of his groomsmen escorted Jackie—inside Katherine—down the aisle to her seat near the front. She was steady on her feet, composed, but his eyes caught the shimmer at her lashes. To anyone else, she looked like a proud, emotional mother watching her son’s wedding. Only Gerry knew the devastation beneath her composure, the cruel irony of where she was **** to sit.

Then the Bridal Chorus rose, organ filling the sanctuary. He turned his head—and there she was.

His mother, inside Jackie’s body, stepped through the doorway on her father’s arm. The sight knocked the air from Gerry’s lungs. For a fleeting moment, the strangeness fell away, and all he saw was beauty. Jackie’s body looked radiant, her gown flowing with every step, white satin catching the light like water. Her brown hair, usually loose and free, had been arranged in elegant curls pinned high, jeweled clips sparking as she walked. Her makeup softened her features, deepened those eyes he had always loved, until she looked almost angelic.

She drew closer, every step echoing against the church’s vaulted ceiling. When her father placed her hand into Gerry’s, he almost believed. Her skin was soft, warm, trembling slightly, and though it was Katherine behind those eyes, the illusion was nearly perfect.

The minister began. Words flowed—about love, commitment, vows—yet Gerry barely registered them. He floated, detached, caught between reality and the dreamlike trance of the moment. Nerves twisted with the unnatural circumstances until he couldn’t tell which made his palms clammy, which sent his stomach roiling. He clung to her hand, her presence beside him. When he looked into her face, into Jackie’s beautiful eyes, he let himself pretend it was her.

She must have sensed it, because she squeezed his hand gently, lips curving into a smile meant only for him. The gesture steadied him, even as it deepened the surreal haze of the moment.

And then the minister’s voice rang clear: “You may kiss the bride.”

Gerry turned to her, heart thundering, and leaned in. For half a breath she hesitated—Katherine trapped inside Jackie’s body, fighting instinct, hesitation, the impossibility of it—but then her lips parted, and she returned the kiss. It deepened, became real. He pulled her close, his arms circling her waist, and she responded with fervor, as though pouring all her conflict, all her desperation, into that one embrace.

When they drew apart, faces turned toward the expectant crowd, the sanctuary erupted in applause.

And then he saw her.

His bride—his real bride, Jackie—sitting in the pew, Katherine’s body stiff as her borrowed face crumpled. Tears streaked her cheeks, glistening in the candlelight. To everyone else, she was simply an emotional mother overcome by her son’s wedding. But Gerry knew better. Her sorrow cut through him like a blade: she wasn’t mourning the passing of her son into married life—she was mourning her own stolen wedding, the moment that should have been hers.

The applause faded into a dull roar in his ears, and the weight of what he had done—what he must now continue to do—settled heavy in his chest.