The Practice Wedding
My ex-husband asked to rehearse our vows with the divorce papers still in my bag.
"They're lines, Ava," Ben said. "We know the lines."
That was the trouble. We knew how to promise forever with a convincing smile. We were less skilled at admitting we needed a day off.
The hotel had hired us for its annual wedding showcase months before our marriage ended. I produced events; Ben built temporary stages and scenery. A photographer's old image of us laughing under a canopy had become the campaign's central photograph.
Our contract described us as performers. The hotel director, Celia, preferred the phrase real love, beautifully staged. I had asked her to remove real. She hadn't answered.
If we canceled now, we'd return the advance. I had already spent my half on a deposit for a studio apartment.
So there we stood on a Thursday afternoon, practicing marriage beneath artificial wisteria.
Ben adjusted a bouquet until I could see the seating area. "Too high."
"You said that about the other six."
"Still true."
He had always noticed things I missed: a guest stuck behind a pillar, a server trying to cross a cable, the exact moment I stopped eating because there was work to do. I used to think being noticed meant he would automatically know what I needed.
When he didn't, I punished him for failing an exam he hadn't been told about.
He wasn't innocent either. He disappeared into work whenever a conversation frightened him. During our final argument, he repaired the kitchen drawer while I packed.
"Why are you photographing the ramp?" I asked.
"Checking the approach."
"It's been there for years."
"That doesn't make it good."
His phone lay on a crate. A rail booking flashed across the screen: two seats, Friday, seven ten. He turned it facedown before I could read the destination.
"Going somewhere?"
"An interview."
"Good luck."
I made the words pleasant. He looked hurt anyway, which annoyed me. I wasn't obliged to ask who was traveling beside him.
Celia arrived with a revised running order and a woman using a wheelchair. "This is Nessa, our access consultant. She'd like to observe the rehearsal."
Nessa looked at the aisle, then the stage. "Can the bride reach the table without taking the back route?"
"The bride is me," I said.
"Today."
I felt heat rise into my face. Ben moved aside so she could inspect the ramp. He didn't explain my intentions for me. It was a small mercy I had once mistaken for disloyalty.
The ramp met the stage at an angle that would force a tight turn. The low bouquets kept the seated sightline clear, but the guest-book table blocked the direct approach.
I opened the layout on my tablet. "We can move the table."
"And lose the sponsor display," Celia said.
"We can move both."
That took forty minutes and two annoyed calls. Ben worked beside me without making a speech about who had noticed first. By the time Nessa could reach every station, the room looked less like a photograph and more like a place people might actually celebrate.
I remembered why I had loved working with him. He made my ideas stand up. I made him explain who they were for.
At five, Celia handed me a tablet. "Before the guests arrive, I need confirmation about your application."
"What application?"
She glanced at Ben. He went still.
The screen showed our names under a proposal for a permanent accessible-events studio. Ben's signature appeared at the bottom. A box beside mine was blank.
"You applied for me?"
"No," he said. "I proposed the concept. I said you'd have to decide separately."
Celia cleared her throat. "There's a preliminary interview tomorrow. We can accommodate one principal or two."
Two train tickets. The second seat wasn't a new woman. Somehow that hurt more. He had imagined a future containing me without risking a conversation with me.
"Let me read the whole thing," I said.
He handed me his phone, where the submitted version included a sentence Celia's summary omitted: Ava's participation is not assumed; no use of her name or work in publicity without her approval.
The proposal wasn't a way to keep me. It was a way out of the very work that had consumed us. Ben had described shorter event schedules, paid setup time, and designs tested by people who would use them. He had included Nessa as a paid consultant, not a flattering afterthought.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because if you said no to the job, I thought I'd hear no to everything."
"You can't make me answer a question you haven't asked."
He sat on the edge of the stage. "I know. I'm trying to learn that without asking you to teach it for free."
Celia returned with the photographer. "We need a shot of our married couple before doors open."
"Divorced," I said.
The room became very quiet.
"The performance contract is intact," I added. "The publicity needs to be accurate."
Celia said the featured-couple bonus depended on the campaign copy. I told her to remove it and send the adjustment. My stomach hurt. I could already see the grocery money shrinking.
Ben said, "Half from my invoice."
"Half," I agreed. No grand rescue. No offer to pay for my courage.
We performed the ceremony as two professionals demonstrating a room. Before the vows, I told the audience we were actors in this particular wedding. A few people laughed. One woman looked relieved.
Afterward, Nessa asked whether I was coming to the interview.
"Yes," I said. "For the job."
Ben nodded. He didn't make it mean more than I had said.
At the station the next morning, he had brought coffee and a printed copy of the proposal. I had brought changes. We spent the journey arguing about staffing ratios and laughing at an illustration that made a ramp look like a ski jump.
We didn't get the full commission. We got a paid pilot, with separate contracts and a review after three months.
On the return train, Ben asked if I'd have dinner with him on Saturday. No project, no rehearsal.
"A date?"
"If you want one."
I looked at the empty space between our seats. This time, neither of us filled it with work.
"Yes," I said. "And you can ask me what I'm hungry for."