The Wedding Rehearsal

My mother calls every Sunday at exactly 7 p.m. to ask if I'm seeing anyone. For three years the answer has been no. This Sunday, I panicked.

"Actually," I said, watching my best friend Jonah assemble IKEA furniture on my living room floor, "I'm engaged."

Jonah looked up, Allen key in hand. Mouthed: *What?*

My mother screamed so loud my neighbor knocked on the wall.

---

"You told your mother we're ENGAGED?" Jonah paced my apartment, half-built bookshelf forgotten. "Your mother. The woman who will absolutely throw a party."

"She's already thrown a party. It's next Saturday. The whole family's flying in."

"Elise."

"I know."

"Your grandmother. Your aunts. Your cousin who's a wedding photographer."

"I KNOW."

He stopped pacing. Ran both hands through his hair. Looked at me with those brown eyes I'd known since we were eleven.

"Fine," he said. "But I'm picking the ring."

---

He picked a vintage opal from an antique shop downtown. It fit perfectly, which felt like a sign I refused to examine.

We spent the week rehearsing. How we got together (gradually, over years—closest to the truth). Who said "I love you" first (him, because my family would believe that). The proposal (sunset, the lake house, his grandmother's ring—no, the opal, keep it consistent).

"We need to practice the... physicality," Jonah said Thursday night, clinical as a surgeon.

"The what?"

"Touching. Kissing. Engaged people don't stand three feet apart."

"Right." My mouth went dry. "Right."

He put his arm around me on the couch. I leaned into him. He smelled like cedar and the laundry detergent I'd bought him last Christmas.

"This okay?" he murmured.

"Fine. Totally fine."

It was not fine. My heart was doing something acrobatic and illegal.

---

Saturday. My parents' house. Jonah in a button-down, me in a dress, the opal catching light every time I moved my hand.

My grandmother cupped his face. "Finally," she said. "I've been waiting for this since you were teenagers."

"We were just friends then, Nana."

She gave me a look that said *sure, honey* louder than words.

Jonah played the role perfectly. Hand on my back. Finishing my sentences. Laughing at my dad's terrible jokes. When my aunt asked about the wedding, he said, "Wherever she wants. I just want to be there."

I excused myself to the bathroom and gripped the sink.

This was fake. This was FAKE.

But Jonah at my family's table looked like he'd always been there. Because he had. Every holiday, every birthday, every crisis—Jonah was there.

---

That evening, my cousin the photographer insisted on "engagement photos" in the chapel down the road. Golden hour. Beautiful light. You'll thank me later.

The chapel was empty. Dust motes in amber light. Jonah and I stood at the altar because my cousin directed us there, and she clicked away while we held hands and tried to look in love.

"Say your vows," she called. "Practice for the big day!"

Jonah cleared his throat. Smiled at me—nervous, real.

"Elise," he said. "I've known you twenty years. You're my favorite person. You have been since we were eleven and you shared your Fruit Roll-Up even though you didn't want to."