CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND MARRIAGE

The church was small—stone walls, arched windows, a vaulted ceiling with dark wood beams. Outside, the world moved quietly, softened by early afternoon light. Inside, the air held the scent of incense and fresh-cut flowers that Maggie had insisted on, held the scent of old timber, faint incense, and fresh-cut flowers Maggie had insisted on, though Fortuna hadn’t understood their inclusion.

“They don’t serve a function,” Fortuna had said.

“They make it feel more like a wedding,” Maggie had replied.

Now, Fortuna stood at the altar in a tailored suit, back straight, eyes focused ahead. The suit wasn’t white—it was slate gray, plain but still eye-catching, her own choice. Dennis stood off to the side as best man-slash-ring-wrangler-slash-occasional-emotional support human, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves.

“You good?” he whispered.

Fortuna turned her head slightly, her eyes flicking to his. “I have calculated forty-seven possible outcomes for this ceremony. Only two resulted in tears. None in disaster.”

Dennis blinked. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“It was intended to.”

Then the doors at the front of the church creaked open.

Maggie walked down the aisle in a simple white dress, hair pinned back with stubborn wisps curling around her face. She smiled as she walked, not big or theatrical, just—real. A smile that said I’m here. I mean this.

Fortuna felt something inside her shift. Something unquantifiable. Profound. 

There was no choir, no crowd. Just a few folding chairs, a scruffy officiant who owed Maggie a favor, and a handful of friends who understood that something sacred didn’t need spectacle.

When Maggie reached the altar, she took Fortuna’s hand without hesitation. It was warm. Callused. Solid.

The officiant smiled, cleared his throat, and launched into the script. Fortuna barely registered the words. Not because she wasn’t paying attention, but because everything else had narrowed—her world, her senses—to this moment.

“Do you, Maggie, take this woman—Fortuna—to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Maggie said, eyes never leaving hers.

“And do you, Fortuna, take Maggie—”

“Yes,” she said, before he could finish.

Maggie blinked, surprised. Then grinned. “You sure?”

Fortuna nodded. “There is much I do not understand. But I understand this.”

The officiant raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Well, alright then. By the power vested in me by the state, I now pronounce you married.”

Dennis cheered before anyone else, clapping loud and off-rhythm. Someone in the back blew a kazoo. Maggie didn’t care. 

She leaned in and kissed her wife.

And Fortuna kissed her back.

She didn’t think about anything but the feel of her wife’s lips on hers, the curl of a smile, the soft brush of fingers against her cheek, and the impossible, maddening, beautiful uncertainty of love.

When they pulled apart, breathless and close, Fortuna stared into Maggie’s eyes.

“I still do not understand marriage,” she said, voice low.

Maggie smiled. “You don’t have to..”

Fortuna nodded, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

Maggie squinted. “What’s that?”

“My vows. I prepared them in advance.”

Maggie laughed. “Sweetheart, we’re already married.”

“I will read them anyway.”

Maggie’s laughter rang throughout the church.