Noelle
“I can’t believeyou’re wearing a wedding dress andhiking boots,” Shane said, adjusting his tie in the reflection of a food truck window. “And…well, that I’m waiting to walk you down the aisle at a carnival.”
“It’s not a carnival; it’s a cryptid festival,” I said. “And I’m sorry, but I’m not breaking an ankle just to impress your Instagram followers.”
Shane put his hand to his chest in mock offense. “Excuse you. I’m not live-posting. I’m savoring. There’s a difference.”
“Did you do an entire story about the guy in the Mothman outfit who ended up in all our wedding photos?”
Shane sniffed. “That was journalism. I mean…what if it was actually Mothman? You never know around here.”
I rolled my eyes and tugged at the edge of my veil—borrowed from Willow, like half the things I was wearing. The silk clung to my hair like mist, more ethereal than bridal, and it felt exactly right. All of it did, somehow.
We were standing in the park, lights from the Gloaming Festival flickering like fireflies behind the trees. The scent of sweetgrass and woodsmoke drifted through the air, thick withcotton candy and cider. There was festival punch on my lips, sweet and strong.
I turned to him. “You sure you’re okay doing this?”
“Walking you down the aisle like the queerest man in a Hallmark movie? Hell yeah. I’m honored.” His expression shifted—gentler, steadier. “You found your weird. You’re not running anymore.”
“Neither are you,” I said, nudging him with my elbow.
“Yeah, well. You always were the brave one.”
My eyes darted around the food truck, where our guests had assembled on the lawn. Festivalgoers looked on, peering at us as if it was all part of the show.
“I don’t know,” I said. “You seemed pretty brave during the rehearsal dinner with Ash.”
Shane flushed, pink blooming up his cheeks. “Okay…he may or may not be planning a trip out to Austin to visit after this is over…”
I grinned so hard it hurt. “You slut.”
“Excuse you,” Shane said primly. “I am a deeply spiritual person who believes in soul connections. Also, have you seen his forearms?”
“I have. You pointed them out during the prayer.”
“Don’t bring God into this,” he whispered, horrified.
“Too late. I already asked Her to bless your hookup.”
The music swelled—Dolly Parton, of course.
Guests turned in their seats.
I swallowed hard. “That’s Dolly,” I said. “Go time.”
“You ready?” Shane asked.
I nodded, unable to get the grin off my face. “I can’t wait.”
He offered me his arm with a flourish, and I looped mine through his. “Let’s go give ‘em a show.”
The music floated through the trees, bright and lilting, and the crowd hushed as we stepped onto the lantern-lit path. We walked slow, my boots scuffing the grass and his dressshoes catching the glitter of string lights above us. Somewhere to our left, someone let off a sparkler too early. To our right, the churro truck was still open for business. I could smell sugar and cinnamon, hear the rustle of the leaves and the soft hum of insects beyond the lights.
And then I saw him.
Beau Ward.
Standing at the altar, wearing the world’s least formal button-down with the sleeves rolled up, grey slacks, and a look in his eyes that stole the breath right out of my chest.
