Reaction: Jamie
He remembered the wedding. He remembered it abstract, like the postcards Amy was romantic about. Like, flash, there was dad, smiling like he'd woken up for the day, a little. He remembered seeing her dress, the one hung on the wardrobe the night before, and fed on sugar-plums and ballet dresses, not getting how that was beautiful the same way as taffeta and satin was.
But this wasn't a postcard, it wasn't a snapshot. He hadn't known then what he knew now, gut-deep that it wasn't love that made Amy do it. Safety, certainty, money. It was less romantic than he expected, less romantic than he thought Amy could possibly want, but it was there, as real and as true as Molly's fingertips brushing warm over skin.
And he hadn't known that, all the way. He'd seen a glimpse of the taxi-cab. He'd heard commotion, outside, he hadn't known Amy knew, which was the point, of keeping stuff good on a wedding day, of keeping it clean. Romantic still. He knew, and he knew how bitter that day had been, not sweet at all, and Jamie was left with the lingering taste of it in his mouth, the anguish at not being able to undo something that should never have been done.