JAKE
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
Ifumble with my bow tie, fingers trembling slightly. I pause, staring at my reflection in the mirror, at the glint of my wedding band catching the light. It still hits me sometimes unexpectedly.
I’m married.To her.
I take a slow breath and let the thought settle in my chest like gravity. Amy. My wife. My anchor, my chaos, myperson. Just thinking about her steadies me the way nothing else ever has.
We’re about to celebrate our one-year wedding anniversary. A whole year creating a home, a life, and a family full of love, kisses, and cat toys everywhere. Of Pea learning to tolerate me. Of love that feels more real with every sunrise.
She doesn’t know yet, but I’m taking her away. Deep into the Canadian wilderness, just the two of us, a cabin, no cameras, no headlines. Snow instead of sun. Silence instead of noise. She’ll love it. I’ll love her in it.
I grin at the thought, my heart thudding like I’m about to kiss her for the first time.
God, I’ll never get enough of her.
I pat my jacket pocket, checking for the note again—my speech. A few lines of truth scrawled in my awful handwriting. Just in case.
I’m nominated tonight. Best Actor forEverything That Follows.
And yeah, Bob Nero was right. Going with your heart? Choosing the hard thing for the right reason? Turns out, that’s how you win the only thing that matters.
And then every thought, every award, every worry, every line of that speech in my pocket vanishes.
Because she walks into the room.
My wife draped in deep blue. My beautiful, brilliant, impossible wife.
She’s not in sky-high heels or some borrowed gown from a stylist who doesn’t understand her. No. I’ve learned. There’s no need for overpreparation or pretending. Tonight,she wears what makes her feel good. A flowing dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, flat shoes that keep her grounded, and that quiet, powerful confidence that makes her glow.
And she’s so tiny beside me; it still undoes me a little.
I cross the room to her without even thinking, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“You look like my every award-season fantasy,” I whisper.
She rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her. “That’s because I’m the prize, Hollander.”
“You always were.”
It’s not always easy for her. I know that. The spotlight can be cruel, especially when you don’t look like what the world expects you to. Even with the press beginning to lose interest because, apparently, happy couples don’t sell magazines, there are still whispers. Still cameras. Still days when I see the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before we step into public.
But she still stands beside me, unwavering.
And I’ll never stop standing by her.
I was right there, a proud, lovesick idiot, when she did her first book tour. I watched her speak to rooms full of readers who saw themselves in her words, in her truth. I watched her shine.
I’ve done some incredible things in my career. But none of them compare to watching the woman I love become everything she was always meant to be.
And she’s writing again, drafting her second book between cat cuddles and tea that somehow always ends upcold. Watching her create from a place of joy instead of pain? That’s the real award.
She straightens my bow tie, smoothing her hand over my chest with a touch that still affects me.
“Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
Every day, I think, but instead, I press a kiss to her forehead.
