A few years before the pandemic, I was in Las Vegas for a panel about why we sometimes root for villains in fiction. When my work was done, I looked at my wife and said, “Okay, now what?”
Neither of us gambles. Neither of us shops. She shrugged and said, “Get married again?”
It was a joke, but the sort with legs because we were in Las Vegas. Also? I had been calling her “my lovely bride” without a touch of irony for years. So, we spent that afternoon in Ubers, visiting chapels on the strip. We saw the Bellagio, for instance, which had two chapels, a terrace, and a courtyard with a fountain. They could handle up to 80 guests.
“Well, we have three,” my wife told the woman there, and that included the two of us and a friend of ours who was also in town. As we were leaving, she whispered to me, “We’re thinking too high-end.”
Years ago, on an earlier trip to Vegas, my wife—a photographer—had taken lots of photos off the strip, including wedding chapels. She recalled one she’d liked because of the modesty of its name: “A Little White Chapel.” Not the little white chapel. A little white chapel. Downright humble, which is, perhaps, the antithesis of Las Vegas.
So, we went there next. It was bigger than we remembered, and the renewal packages included flowers and boutonnieres and a certificate suitable for framing—because who doesn’t frame their wedding renewal certificate? We told the wedding planner that we wanted Elvis to officiate. The planner said sure, we could do that...but if we wanted “a really good Elvis,” we should consider returning at 10 p.m., when her favorite Elvis was available. This was fine with us, because Vegas is, by design, a world without clocks.
We were back at the appointed time, and the chapel attendant gave my wife a bouquet of antique ivory roses. And then we met our hunk of burning love. Our Elvis. The guy never once broke character. He sang “Love Me Tender” as he escorted my wife down the aisle. Trust me, everyone on this planet should get to watch the love of their lives walked down the aisle while Elvis sings “Love Me Tender.” The band was a very tight karaoke machine, and nothing says Vegas wedding like Elvis and a karaoke machine. But perhaps the most unforeseen part of the ceremony was this: Elvis himself.
The small, daily things, like the romantic text or Words with Friends in bed. But we have always understood that the big, silly, romantic gestures matter, too.
He looked deep into our eyes, his bearing more Obi-Wan Kenobi than pop star, and spoke of commitment and forgiveness and patience. He spoke of laughter. He kept the “I’m so proud she’s my buttercup” jokes to a minimum, which might have disappointed me if I hadn’t so completely fallen under the incandescent spell of the moment. He brought up the chapel’s “recipe” for love, a sort of down-home version of First Corinthians 13 (“Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast”), and stressed the importance of kindness, friendship, and warmth in a marriage.
My wife and I found ourselves nodding as if we were contestants on Squid Game and were hearing the rules for the first time.
After the ceremony, Elvis serenaded us with “Can’t Help Falling in Love” as we danced together. Much to my surprise, that dance was as affecting as our first dance at our real wedding. Suddenly, this silly renewal was giving me all the feels. Moreover, unlike at our actual nuptials, we knew what song we were dancing to. No one had at our wedding. Our first dance that day had been to the Rickie Lee Jones ballad “We Belong Together,” but it was played by a New York society band my mother-in-law liked, and they had no idea how to make a Rickie Lee Jones torch song work at a wedding.
There are a thousand reasons why my lovely bride and I have been together since we were teenagers. Yes, flowers and love letters matter: the small, daily things, like the romantic text or Words with Friends in bed. But we have always understood that the big, silly, romantic gestures matter, too: There’s a reason why they ground the very best rom-coms. It’s why, over the years, my wife once surprised me when I was on a book tour, appearing out of nowhere when I was speaking in Memphis. Likewise, there is nothing more beautiful than your wife’s eyes when they’re wide with wonder because it’s her birthday and somehow you’ve gotten 25 of her friends into your yard without her having her clue. (I’ve actually accomplished this feat twice.)
Which, perhaps, is our own recipe for love: Always think rom-com. And always go big.
Chris Bohjalian
Chris Bohjalian is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of 24 books, including his most recent novel, The Princess of Las Vegas.
