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“In the letter.”
“There was more?” the groom said.
“A second page,” the boy said.
“I didn’t give it to you.”
“She said only give it if they asked.”
“We’re asking,” the bride said.
The boy reached into his torn shirt.
Pulled out a second folded page.
Set it on the desk.
The groom picked it up.
Read it.
His face went completely still.
He handed it to his bride.
She read it.
Set it down.
Looked at the boy.
“She knew,” the bride said.
“About us.”
“For how long?” the groom said.
The boy looked at them.
“Since before you met,” he said.
“She arranged it.”
Silence.
“She what?” the groom said.
“She knew you were both in the same city,” the boy said.
“She knew you moved in the same circles.”
“She engineered the introduction.”
“Three years ago.”
“At a charity event.”
He looked at them both.
“She wanted you to fall in love.”
“Before you found out.”
“So that the truth wouldn’t matter as much.”
“As the love.”
The bride pressed her hand over her mouth.
The groom looked at the ceiling.
At three years of a love story.
That had been written.
By someone else.
Before it began.
Final Part
The results came back that afternoon.
The doctor called them into his office.
The boy sat between them.
The doctor opened the folder.
“The DNA results confirm,” he said carefully.
“That the boy and the groom share a biological father.”
A pause.
“The DNA results also confirm.”
He looked at the bride.
“That the boy and the bride.”
“Do not share a biological parent.”
The room was very quiet.
“We are not related,” the bride said.
“No,” the doctor said.