Tristan’s P.O.V

I had been sitting in my car for what felt like forever, engine off, fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel, staring at the huge wooden doors of the church where Sophia was supposed to walk down the aisle any moment. My chest was tight, not because I was nervous about what I was about to do, though maybe I should have been—but because I had no idea how to time it.

Do I wait until she’s at the altar? Do I stand up when the priest says the ...