Second Chances

"Speak now," the priest intoned, "or forever hold your peace." I scooted myself upright. Would someone speak? Certainly I had---all to avoid this very day. My first chance. And I'd blown it. "What?" Marcy, my fiancee had yelled upon my announcement. "You're kidding, right?" I looked her in the eye. "You're not kidding! I don't believe this!" The tears streaked instantly down her face. Oh, how those tears always made me melt. But this time I was taking a stand. "I'm sorry, Marcy. I care for you deeply, but I can't get married." "Care for me?" she accused. "I thought you loved me." "I did." I had a flash of me holding Marcy, she pushing her chin against my neck, and that sickly, wonderful feeling it gave me in my stomach---a feeling I hadn't had in so, so long. "At least, I thought I did." "But you said you loved me. You even came to Los Angeles with me!" I sighed, "That's because I believed I loved you. But, well, but I guess I was wrong." She tore the ring from her finger and threw it at me. How long afterward---six months? seven?---did I realize my mistake? Truly, I did love her. But by then it was too late. And so I sat straight upright, watching Marcy, the woman I loved, saying wedding vows to another man. My stomach felt sick as I hoped beyond hope that someone, anyone, would speak now, and give me the second chance I so desperately needed.