“We’re mostly here to get pictures with Elvis,” Steph explained.
The doors burst open and there stood a twenty-something Elvis in all his tight-white-panted, shiny-sequined glory. “Hello, darlin’,” he said, with a charming southern Elvis accent.
“Hi.” Steph couldn’t help the nervous giggle that escaped. She felt so silly, she was embarrassed to discover a video camera trained her direction.
Strains of music poured from overhead speakers and Elvis began to croon, “Love me, tender…” As he sang, his eyes zeroed in on Stephanie, his upper lip twitching, his body gyrating. He moved closer and closer, until he edged Branson out of the way. Her cheeks couldn’t have been any hotter if someone had lit a fire around her neck. When he finished the song on one knee, holding her hand and swearing that he loved her and he always would, George and Priscilla clapped and cheered.
He rose to his feet. “Thank you, very much,” he said, Elvis style.
“Can we get on with the ceremony?” Branson seemed irritated, probably because he wasn’t able to see the performance.
“You must be the blind groom.” Elvis turned and grabbed his hand, giving it a shake. “I’m Elvis. You’re a lucky man, marrying this beauty. Do you need help getting inside the chapel? There’s some steps at the front—might be kind of hard.”
Steph cringed. Branson hated it when people assumed he couldn’t do anything without help, simply because he was blind.
“Shut up, Billy,” said Priscilla. “Pardon my son, Mr. Knight. He inherited my musical talent, but none of my social graces. Must’ve gotten those from his no-good, worthless daddy.”
“He’s your son?” Steph looked back and forth between the odd pair.
“I know.” Priscilla gave a conspiratorial wink. “He didn’t inherit my good looks either.”
“Sorry if I said something wrong.” Elvis apologized, his expression truly befuddled.
“It’s okay,” said Branson. “I’m not offended.”
“Well, you should be,” Priscilla insisted. “Billy, Mr. Knight here has more brains in the tip of his little finger than you do in your entire head. I believe he can navigate a set of steps without your help. Do you know who he is?”
“No.” Elvis scratched his head, staring at Branson as if he were an abstract painting.
“He owns Phantom Enterprises.”
“Oh geez!” Elvis snatched Branson’s hand again, and shook it even harder. “I’m your biggest fan. I own every video game you ever created.”
“That’s great,” said Branson in a tone that pleaded for interference.
Steph took pity and rescued him from his admirer. “I’m afraid I need my fiancé’s hand back, Elvis. And you might be surprised to know video games are only a small part of Phantom Enterprises.”
“Could I maybe get your autograph after the wedding, Mr. Knight? I could trade you for an extra Elvis print.”
“That’s enough, Billy.” Priscilla wagged a finger at him. “We need to start the wedding. Mr. Knight, come with me. We’ll wait in the front while Elvis walks your bride down the aisle.”
Elvis offered his elbow, and Steph placed her hand in the crook, eyeing him with suspicion. “How old are you, anyway?”
“I’m old enough, sugar.”
She doubted it.
Crutches in hand, she stepped into the room, and there stood Branson, waiting at the front of the chapel, with George beside him, like a weird best man. The music began, and Elvis started singing I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You as they walked. Except it only took about half a verse to get to the front. The rest of Elvis’ song came while she and Branson stood awkwardly facing one another, once again holding hands. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought she would die any second. No doubt her drumming heart drowned out Elvis’ song. Yet Bran didn’t act as if he noticed.
His thumbs began to trace slow circles on the backs of her hands, calming her rapid breaths, but causing an ache in her chest. Each time she glanced up at him, his blue eyes were stripping her bare. He must know I’m in love with him. He can probably sense it through his fingers. Or feel it in his bones.
“Do you, Branson, take Stephanie, to be your lawfully wedded wife?” Priscilla asked in a sweet tone that belied her massive size. Stephanie thought no one would dare answer no, or Priscilla might beat them up. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, in sickness or in health, in poverty or wealth, forsaking all others until death do you part?”
After the question, the room fell deathly quiet. Trembling from head to toe, Stephanie stared at their joined hands, living out a silent nightmare. The fake ceremony was a mockery of her love. A tear dripped from her eye and trickled down her cheek, and for once, she was glad Branson couldn’t see. His hands squeezed her fingers, and she glanced at his face, shocked to find it wet with his own tears. His lips moved.
“I do.”
His answer was barely audible, but it rang in her ears and echoed inside her head, throwing her world into confusion. Was he acting? Or was it real? Surely he didn’t mean it. In two years, he’d never hinted he had feelings for her. If he loved her, why would he even consider marrying Carina?
His hand slipped inside his coat and emerged with a handkerchief to dab his eyes, as a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.
“I’ll get that.” George snatched it up, lest it mar the perfect photos of a wedding that was wrong on every level.
Priscilla repeated the same question to Stephanie. She said, “I do” before she lost her nerve, praying the rest of the ceremony would be quick, so she could escape this torture.
“Do you have rings?” Priscilla asked.
“No.” Steph sent her a pleading look. “Let’s skip that part.”
“I’m always prepared,” said George, as he retrieved a black cloth pouch from his vest pocket. “We have these solid gold rings available, just for you. They’re not included in the package, so they would cost an extra—”
“That’s okay,” Steph interrupted. “We don’t need—”
“We’ll take them.” At Bran’s reply, George flashed a smug smile. Tonight must’ve been a lucrative event for the little chapel.
Priscilla selected two bands. “These will do for the ceremony. We can trade them out after, if they don’t fit. Now Branson, take this ring and place it on Stephanie’s finger and repeat after me.”
Bran slid the thin band onto her ring finger and spoke in a strangled voice. His words of love and commitment had no more significance than the ones Elvis had sung to her. That it fit perfectly only sharpened the sting. She stared at the wedding ring on her hand, the image wobbling in her tear-filled eyes, and her heart ached at the perversion of meaning. It wasn’t real. It should’ve been made of cheap plastic, rather than gold.
