That's going to take some getting used to.

Time apparently put on her running shoes sometime during the last month and decided to sprint.

Because somehow today is my wedding day.

My wedding day.

To a man I have never met.

That sentence has not improved with repetition.

The last four weeks have been a blur of ACL rehab, meetings with the show's analysts, wedding planning, more meetings with the analysts, more rehab, and enough psychological testing to make me wonder if anyone involved actually wants me married or simply committed.

I've taken personality tests.

IQ tests.

Compatibility tests.

I've answered questions about religion, money, children, careers, family, politics, conflict resolution, household responsibilities, communication styles, love languages, and approximately four thousand questions about what I find physically attractive in a man.

Height?

I don't know. Taller than me, but not so tall I need a step stool to kiss him. I'm looking for a husband, not Goliath.

Hair?

Yes, preferably.

Facial hair?

Depends entirely on whether we're talking Chris Hemsworth or a Civil War reenactor.

After about the third hour of those questions, I stopped believing they were finding me a husband and started wondering if they were secretly building one in a laboratory somewhere.

Honestly, at this point, that might be preferable.

Then there was the wedding planning.

Or, more accurately, the illusion of wedding planning.

Nine couples are getting married through Celebrity Betrothed, all at the same venue, so the show has already decided the location, color palette, flowers, and general theme.

Which means my contribution to planning my own wedding has mostly consisted of choosing between Option A and Option B.

Would you like the white roses...

or the slightly different white roses?

Would you prefer this ivory tablecloth...

or this ivory tablecloth that someone insists is champagne?

Very empowering.

I do love my dress, though.

That I will give them.

The dress is beautiful.

And somehow that almost makes everything worse.

Because when I was little, I imagined my wedding.

I think most girls do.

I imagined my family filling the room.

People laughing.

People crying.

Grandpa sitting somewhere near the front pretending he wasn't emotional while being extremely emotional.

My cousins.

Aunts.

Uncles.

Friends.

People who had watched me grow up.

People who loved me.

Instead, most of them aren't here.

Grandpa Anderson saw to that.

He was furious when he found out I was marrying a stranger on TV.

Furious might actually be too gentle of a word.

He refused to come and made his opinion clear enough that most of the family decided attending would be an act of treason.

So my side consists of Mom, Dad, Emily, and Kevin, my older brother.

That's it.

Four people.

Dad looks like he'd rather be undergoing dental surgery without anesthesia, and I'm reasonably certain the only reason he's here is because Mom informed him that attendance was not optional.

I love her for that.

My palms are so sweaty I’m surprised the bouquet hasn’t slipped out of my hands.

The funny thing is, I've competed in stadiums packed with tens of thousands of people.

I've stood at starting lines at the biggest meets in the world with cameras in my face, knowing that fractions of a second could determine whether years of training meant gold or absolutely nothing.

I've broken records.

I've performed when pressure was crushing down on me from every direction.

None of it compares to this.

If someone ever asks me for an effective torture technique, I have one.

Tell a woman she's marrying someone she's never met.

Give her thirty days to imagine every possible outcome.

Then put her in a wedding dress and make her wait behind a closed door while several cameras document the nervous breakdown.

Extremely effective.

The door opens behind me.

I turn.

Emily walks in and stops dead in her tracks.

“Oh my gosh. You look so beautiful.”

I glance down at myself.

The gown fits perfectly, complete with a long, dramatic train—which is probably for the best, since it eliminates any realistic chance of making a run for it.

For one tiny second, I feel like a bride.

A real bride.

Then reality returns.

“I feel like I'm going to throw up.”

Emily laughs and wraps her arms around me.

“No, seriously,” I tell her. “My anxiety is through the roof. There is a very real possibility that I completely lose it before I make it to the altar.”

She takes my hands.

“Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Not like you're about to hyperventilate.”

I inhale deeply.

Hold it.

Exhale.

Nothing.

Still terrified.

Emily smiles.

“Remember, three months.”

“Three months.” I nod.

“At the end of three months, if you hate him, you walk away. The marriage is annulled.”

I stare at her.

She grins.

“I really don't like you right now.”

“You're going to love me when this works.”

“You’re irritating.”

“Seriously, I have a good feeling about this.”

“You also had a good feeling about bangs in high school.”

She laughs and turns me toward the door.

“Come on. Everyone's waiting.”

Everyone.

Including my husband.

There is a phrase I never expected to use about someone whose name I don't even know yet.

I step into the hall, where Dad is waiting for me.

He looks handsome.

And worried.

Mostly worried.

I reach him and slip my arm through his.

“Dad?”

He looks at me.

“I know this is crazy.”

He gives me the smallest nod imaginable.

“Three months, right?”

Another barely visible nod.

I'm not convinced he remembers how words work.

The doors in front of us open.

And every thought in my brain disappears.

For half a second, I can't move.

I take in the room.

The venue is beautiful.

High ceilings.

Massive stained-glass windows.

White candles line the aisle, and white roses and greenery spill from the ends of each pew.

It's elegant.

Romantic.

Exactly the kind of place I might have chosen.

The music changes.

Dad shifts beside me.

Time to go.

Okay, Sydney.

Race mode.

I know race mode.

Break everything into pieces.

Don't think about the finish line.

Don't think about the cameras.

Definitely don't think about the guy waiting for you at the altar.

Phase 1:

Get down the aisle without issues.

One foot in front of the other.

That's it.

Step.

Smile.

Step.

Do not step on the dress.

Step.

Stop wondering whether it's too late to fake appendicitis.

I keep walking.

People turn toward me.

Cameras follow every movement.

I put on the smile I've used a thousand times before.

The “everything is completely fine” smile.

Very useful skill.

Then I look toward the altar.

And see him.

Standing beside the priest in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, white shirt, black bow tie.

Athletic build.

Dark hair.

Extremely handsome, actually.

I almost stumble.

Focus.

The analysts apparently took the section marked physical preferences very seriously.

Okay.

Credit where credit is due.

My future husband is hot.

There are worse beginnings.

Dad and I reach the front.

He kisses my cheek, gives my future husband a look that communicates several threats without using a single word, then releases my arm.

My future husband offers me his hand.

I hesitate for half a beat before taking it.

Strong.

Clammy.

Slightly trembling.

Interesting.

He's nervous too.

For some reason, that helps.

We turn toward the priest.

Okay.

Phase two:

The I dos.

Simple.

People have been doing this for thousands of years.

Admittedly, most of them had spoken to each other first.

Minor detail.

The priest begins talking about love, commitment, partnership, faithfulness.

Important concepts.

I should probably listen.

Instead, I sneak another peek.

He's even better-looking up close.

And definitely nervous.

Maybe more nervous than me.

Wow.

The analysts really did their homework.

Maybe this actually—

SYDNEY.

FOCUS.

I snap my attention back to the priest.

“Christian, do you take Sydney to be your wife?”

Christian.

Oh, I like that.

FOCUS, SYDNEY.

“Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and honor her all the days of your life?”

There's a brief pause.

Oh no, please don't say no.

Please don't say no.

Please—

“I do.”

Okay.

Good.

The groom has agreed to marry me.

Successful wedding so far.

I glance over, and he’s already looking back.

Our eyes meet for the first time.

And suddenly this becomes very real.

That's him.

My husband.

Or almost husband.

A man I know absolutely nothing about is standing three feet away promising to love me for the rest of his life.

Christian gives me a small smile.

I panic and immediately look back at the priest.

Smooth, Sydney.

Extremely smooth.

“Sydney.”

Oh.

Right.

My turn.

“Do you take Christian to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and honor him all the days of your life?”

“I do.”

There.

Done.

The priest smiles.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Oh.

No.

No, no, no.

The kiss.

How did I forget the kiss?

I’ve spent a month obsessing over every detail of this wedding and somehow I forgot about the kiss?

To a stranger.

A complete stranger.

A handsome stranger, granted, but still very much a stranger.

What do I do, what do I do what do I DO?

Everyone is watching.

The cameras are filming.

America will eventually be watching.

Think.

Think, Sydney.

What about a coughing attack?

What if I faked a fainting spell?

Christian leans slightly toward me.

Then, so quietly that only I can hear, he asks, “Would it be okay if I kissed you on the cheek?”

I look at him.

Instant relief hits.

“Yes.”

Definitely yes.

Thank you, Christian.

Congratulations.

You have survived your first husband test.

He moves slowly enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.

Then he gently kisses my cheek.

The room erupts in applause.

Crisis averted.

I smile at him.

A real one this time.

He looks relieved.

Okay.

Maybe he's not terrible.

Low bar.

But we're making progress.

The music starts again, and we turn toward the aisle.

Phase three:

Exit the church.

One foot in front of the other.

Smile.

Don't trip.

Get to the hallway.

Then I can finally breathe.

Simple.

I take my first step beside my brand-new husband.

My brand-new husband.

That's going to take some getting used to.