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Forty Minutes to Disaster

Leslie Ferdinand

    Daisy Cooke-Ford made it up the aisle without a hitch, an unfamiliar noise pounding through her like the beat of a gong and hurting her head. The breeze cooled her overheated skin and filled her nostrils with the sweet scent of myriad flowers. Her stomach tightened. The smell soured it.
    The Wedding March had been the annoying racket.
    “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the minister said.
    She blocked out the minister’s voice. Her diagnosed anxiety was her enemy of the state. She battled it whenever it declared war.
    Words of welcome, readings, and reminders of the sanctity of marriage snipered her determination. Fifty minutes in, Daisy’s nerves relented, and she calmed down. Relaxation was always a portent of calamity.
    “Wait! Stop!”
    The voice sounded familiar, too familiar. As in exactly like her ex-soon-to-be-new husband. Chandler Ford stood beside her.
    The minister’s eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline.
    Chandler’s entire body went stiff.
    Daisy clutched handfuls of her designer gown.
    “You can’t marry him, Daisy.”
    The voice arose from directly behind her.
    He flanked her left side. “He’s not me. He’s my twin. Chance.”
    “I told you it was a mistake to marry so soon after he showed up on your doorstep,” her mother said from the audience.
    Reverend Roberts’s gaze flickered to each man.
    Marion, Daisy’s stepsister, took it upon herself to break ranks from the line of bridesmaids and personally assess the situation. “You’ve been twinned, Daisy girl,” she cackled.
    Licking her lips, Daisy glanced to the man at her left. Sure enough, he had the same amber eyes and blond hair, the same aquiline nose and strong jaw, as the man standing to her right. Whom she believed to be her ex-almost-new husband. When she looked at the imposter who’d convinced her to marry him, even the cleft in his chin was identical.
    Her fiancé didn’t give her a chance to question his twin and demand proof that he wasn’t the liar.
    “I can explain, Daisy.”
    “Explain what?” she asked.
    “Why he’s an asshat,” the real Chandler said. “Tell her, Chance. Tell her why you pretended to be me.”
    “You impregnated my girlfriend and I’m the asshat? That’s rich.”
    Collective gasps swirled through the crowd.
    “So, you had to one-up me and get Daisy to the altar?” Chandler scoffed. “I gave you permission to woo her, not marry her.”
    Someone gasped again. Maybe, it was Daisy. Or, maybe, it was Marion. Or both. Daisy didn’t know. Suddenly, Daisy was unsteady on her feet, she swayed.
    “I fell in love with her, so yes I decided to marry her.”
    “Love wasn’t part of the deal. Only sleeping with her until you appeased your ego.
    Unable to take anymore, Daisy did what most brides might do in her position.
    She fainted.

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