“Please tell me we aren’t sending this to the officiant.”
Imani stood beside my desk with her laptop open, one finger holding her place on the screen. She needed approval before the afternoon planning call. I took the laptop, expecting an awkward joke about marriage.
The couple’s names were Grant and Celia.
Below them, in the ceremony questionnaire, was the story they wanted us to help tell: Even when a former partner threatened to turn up at our door and force a confrontation, we chose each other instead of fear.
I read it twice. The second time, I pressed my tongue against the back of my teeth to keep from saying something Imani hadn’t earned.
“Did they ask for me?”
“No. Everything came through the portal. I handled the booking.” She looked from the screen to my face. “You know them?”
“Grant is my ex. Celia was my best friend.”
Imani sat down without pulling the chair closer.
Eighteen months earlier, Grant had left me for her. Then he had emailed people we both knew, claiming I’d threatened an uninvited confrontation at their door. He copied me. I still had the message, though keeping it had never helped me decide how to answer it.
I had denied the threat. I hadn’t made it. But my denial had sounded thin beside his careful concern about everyone’s safety.
After the breakup, I founded a wedding company with a brand name instead of my own. The website showed our work, not my face. Imani had no reason to recognize two names I avoided saying at work.
“They don’t know I own this,” I said.
“We can end the booking.”
Our contracts allowed that: return unused fees, hand over existing vendor bookings. No need to strand anyone without a florist because I couldn’t bear looking at a questionnaire.
First, though, I wanted to hear them explain it. That was the part I didn’t admit to Imani.
At three, I joined the planning call with my camera on.
Celia’s smile stopped before Grant looked up.
“I’m Nora,” I said. “I own the company. Imani brought your ceremony request to me for approval.”
“We didn’t know,” Celia said.
“Neither did I,” Grant added. He moved closer to his screen. “Obviously this is awkward, but we’ve signed a contract. We expect you to be professional.”
I had imagined this conversation often enough to be embarrassed by how little those rehearsals helped. My hand was shaking under the desk.
“I’m being clear about who is handling your booking. Now explain the passage about the former partner.”
Celia glanced down. “It’s a composite.”
“A composite of whom?”
“Difficult people. Difficult circumstances. Nobody is named.”
“You’ve described the accusation Grant sent about me.”
“It’s not meant to be about you,” she said. “It’s about what we overcame.”
Grant folded his arms. I knew that posture. It meant he considered the useful part of the conversation finished.
I wanted to ask whether anyone would hear those words without picturing me. Instead, I set both hands on the desk where they could see them.
“My company won’t prepare a ceremony passage that repeats a false accusation. We can discuss a script without it.”
