She ends the call, staring at her phone in disbelief.
“What happened?” I ask, reaching for her elbow.
“Asia quit,” she says, her voice shaky. “She’s self-deporting. Been in the country illegally and doesn’t want to mess up her chance to return legally someday.”
“Tabarnac,” I mutter. “Is there anything we can do to help her?”
“Not really,” Meesha sighs. “She’s marrying her boyfriend before she leaves. Says she’s hoping to return within two years once every thing’s sorted out legally.”
“Mon Dieu, what terrible timing,” I say, momentarily forgetting our argument.
“Connor, we have two months until the wedding. Two months!” Panic edges into her voice. “The venue is booked, but everything else—the catering, the flowers, the photographer—she was coordinating all of that.”
I pull her into my arms, and she doesn’t resist. “We’ll figure it out,” I assure her, stroking her back. “We can find another planner.”
“In Winter Bay? During wedding season?” She pulls back. “Everyone good is booked solid. This is a disaster.”
I squeeze her shoulders gently. “We’ll handle this. I’ll make some calls.”
Meesha takes a deep breath, but I can see she’s spiraling. This wedding means everything to us. And now, on top of the situation with Frédérique and my mother...
“First your ex moves in, and now the wedding planner quits? It’s like the universe is telling us something.”
“You don’t mean that.”
She doesn’t answer, just moves toward the foyer.
I pull her back into my arms, holding her close against my chest. Her body is rigid at first, but gradually softens as I stroke the curve where her spine meets her shoulders.
“Listen to me, Meesha Williams. Nothing is going to stop us from getting married, comprends-tu? You understand me?” I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. “I’ve loved you since I was eighteen years old. That’s never going to change.”
Her eyes, still bright with unshed tears, search mine. “Connor...”
“Non, écoute-moi. Listen to me. You are everything to me. Tout pour moi. Everything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Fréd. I should have.”
A tear escapes, trailing down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb, imagining us standing in our new kitchen on Sunday mornings, flour on her nose as she attempts those croissants she’s determined to master, me sneaking up behind her to steal a taste. Our future, so close I can almost touch it.
“We’ll figure out the wedding planner situation together. I promise.”
She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her face against my chest. I hold her tightly, feeling her take several deep breaths against me.
What always amazes me about Meesha is how differently we handle anger. While I nurse grudges for years—like I still do with Coach Leblanc for that playoffs benching and my dad for divorcing maman—Meesha’s forgiveness flows like water.
Seven years ago, after she’d seen misleading photos of me with a hockey groupie, she’d been livid. I’d prepared for days of cold silence—the Beauregard way. But that same night, she’d appeared at my door.
“I know you wouldn’t,” she’d said simply. “I let my insecurities win.”
As we’d lain in bed afterward, I’d promised never to take her capacity for forgiveness for granted and I would always offer her the same grace.
And I’d meant it. When she’d accidentally stained my vintage Habs jersey, I’d kissed away her apologies and told her it added character. When she refused to move in with me after I bought this house, I’d respected her decision to honor her parents’ traditional values.
Small moments of choosing love over pride was how we’d weathered life’s disappointments together. Forgiveness isn’t just grand gestures but daily choices to see beyond the misstep of the person you love.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into my shirt. “It’s just been a lot. Vegas was—” She stops abruptly.
“Vegas was what?” I ask, pulling back to look at her.
“Exhausting,” she finishes, not quite meeting my eyes. “And coming home to find your ex here...”
