Lizzie knew exactly how she was going to style her hair, what dress she'd wear. Her usual beehive, then extra hairspray and fake pearl earrings. And a knee-length dress she'd bought online but never wore because she never left Warsa Park. It fit the occasion the most: its top was a one-shoulder silver brassiere that held the rest of the tulle bodice. Nineteen dollars -- the most she had ever spent on a dress she never expected to wear anywhere.

"You're wearing white?" were the first words Future Husband said, this time not so amused, as embarrassed.

"What, just because I'm an ex-stripper who lives in a trailer and gets married in Vegas," she joked, "I can't wear white on my wedding day?"

"Yeah, but I'm wearing sneakers," he showed her his shoes, black, with a white checkmark.

"You can wear whatever you want, I'm not judging," she checked her phone for the time, and he understood to start moving.

"I wasn't judging, either," he walked with her. "I'm an ex-con. Robbery," he explained. "I'm also a drug addict."

"Are you getting cold feet, and trying to convince me to have cold feet?" she let his unprompted confession land on a net of defensive humor. "Didn't see you take any drugs."

"I quit in prison. But it's not something that goes away," he kept his face in a serious frown. "It's just under control, for now."

She stopped in the magenta entryway, considering putting her arms around him, but decided against it. "These were stressful days for you, too. It's all you have to do," she said. "Try."

Leo nodded, unconvinced.

The chapel stood tall and white, with no signs of any faith in it. Its curved roof was also white, shielding contrasting plastic decorations left behind by other couples. Mostly flower arrangements, out of which everyone was encouraged to take one home. Or use it in their own ceremony. She picked a daisy one, complete with two bees caught in a compromising position on top of a metal spring. 

"It's from a beekeepers wedding," the old lady who would marry them said. "Both of them were beekeepers."

When in front of the blank altar, all white and without any decorations, the only spots of color being stained glass windows, the justice pressed on a button. The clock above the hopeful couple started counting down from five minutes.

"We are gathered here today..." a vague joyous speech, recited in a monotone, followed. 

The first hurdle in their bulletproof plan to hide Lizzie Taylor became apparent when the minister encouraged the bride to say her vows first. Not expecting that, she stammered.

"I..."

Even with only the chapel's employees watching her, including their "+10$ witness package", she still had to say something.

"I... promised you... I'd come to Canada with you," she said, finding words on her way. "And I'll do that because I promised. The rest of the things I'll do... I'll do because I want to."

And because his smile was extending, she also had one on when she finished her vow. It might have been even bigger.

Now the focus was on the groom, and he was visibly harassed.

"I... You..."

She was amused to see him so out of his element. Except for the time he met her scars, Smart Words always knew what to say.

"If someone would have told me," Leo managed, "A year back... that  I'd marry a stripper that I only met days before. In Vegas... on our way to Canada, I'd have never believed it." Clearly entertained by his own cleverness. She rolled her eyes, and so he continued, "It sounds like something way too awesome to ever happen to me."

"But here I am," he rushed, because the minister showed the clock counting down. "Happy to be here."

Full names were said, so they exchanged "I do's" when prompted, then he leaned and chastely kissed her lips. Lizzie pressed them against his, biting his lower lip as they separated.

"It's because we waited 'till our wedding," Leo made one of his unnecessary jokes -- the rest of the room didn't think she was behaving remotely racy. It was only him that was taken by surprise.

"We get that a lot," the minister was unimpressed. "Usually, with couples that met the same day."

"We know each other... almost a week now," Lizzie said, pushed out by the old woman, who was on her way to marry more hopeful couples.

"Well, you know what they say," the minister said. "It's your wedding day. It's what you do from now on, that counts."

On their way out, the advertised-as-a-bonus-to-all-wedding-offers photobooth promised One Photo To Take Home. In the booth, a dreadlocked man welcomed them:

"Let me be clear. There will be only one photo. I don't care how much you cry or how many Instagram followers you have. There will be. One. Single. Photo. It's a Polaroid," he waved a demonstrative picture of two employees of the chapel, still in their uniforms. "There's no click to edit. You take it, and you can throw it out. But there will not be another one."

Because he was talking to Lizzie, the most probable to react negatively, she nodded, unconvinced she understood what exactly he was fighting against.

"Now," the man warned. "I will count down from three. Be ready!"

The new Ursu family both turned to the square device, smiles ready.

"Three... Two... One!"

Looking at the resulting picture, their heads made bigger by their grins, she put it in her purse, then realized, "Could you make two? I mean," she saw the photo booth man raise his head in astonishment, "Just another copy, not... another photo."

Because the employee wasn't answering, measuring her, she added, "So that we each have one."

"Isn't that kinda like the point?" the bored man said, unable to help Lizzie function as a human being, her stupidity on display. "You get one. What are you gonna do? Live apart?"

Leo was quick to intervene, "You can keep it, it's fine," letting her have the souvenir. As if knowing how rare it was that she wanted to remember things.