Cole laughed. I laughed. And somewhere, I liked to think, Lily was laughing too.
We were almost there.
And for the first time in a very long time, I couldn't wait to see what came next.
20.Cole
Iwas going to cry at my own wedding. The stoic mountain man, the guy who'd faced down bears without flinching, was about to ugly-cry in front of everyone because Emma Reed was walking toward me in hiking boots and a flower crown.
The morning had started with chaos. Sarah had lost one of her purple shoes, which was apparently a catastrophe of biblical proportions.
"I can't be a flower girl with only one shoe!" she had wailed, her carefully curled hair already escaping its pins.
"You could hop," I suggested.
"Uncle C, this is serious!"
"I'm being serious. Very dignified hopping."
Maggie found the shoe under the truck seat, where Sarah had kicked it off during the drive up. Crisis averted. I checked my watch for the fortieth time.
"You're going to wear a hole in that thing," Tom observed, handing me a cup of coffee.
"I'm not nervous."
"Your hands are shaking."
"It's cold."
"It's sixty-five degrees."
"High altitude cold."
He laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. "She's not going to change her mind, son. That girl loves you more than she's scared of anything."
We'd chosen to marry at Lily's lookout point. It was the only place that made sense, the ridge where Emma had finally made peace with her sister's memory, where she'd learned that the mountain could be both dangerous and beautiful. Someone, years ago, had carved Lily's name into the gnarled pine tree that stood sentinel at the edge. It had become Emma's pilgrimage site, a place to leave wildflowers and whisper to a sister who couldn't answer back.
Now it would be the place where we became a family. Officially. Permanently.
The guests were already gathered; it was a small group, just the people who mattered. Maggie was dabbing at her eyes before anything had even started. Tom stood ready to walk his daughter down the makeshift aisle we'd created with scattered wildflower petals. A few friends from town, the principal who'd watched Emma transform from a grieving ghost to a woman fully alive.
And hanging from the pine tree's lower branches, swaying gently in the mountain breeze, were two framed photos: Lily, laughing, her hair wild around her face. And Rebecca, holding a newborn Sarah, looking terrified and radiant and so painfully young.
Our sisters. Watching over us.
"Please, everyone!" Maggie called out, her voice cracking. "She's ready!"
I took my position at the front, facing the valley. The view was staggering; endless peaks rolling toward the horizon, the sky a perfect, impossible blue. I'd seen this view a thousand times. It had never looked like this before.
My hands were definitely shaking.
High altitude cold. Obviously.
The music started, an acoustic version ofPerfectby Ed Sheeran played in the background. Sarah appeared first, walking with exaggerated care, scattering purple flower petals from a small basket. She'd insisted on purple.
"Because it's the favorite color for both of my moms," she'd explained solemnly. "My mom up there and my mom here."
My mom here.That phrase still grips my heart every time.
