Carlie breezes past the doorway at one point, arms full of programs and flowers. She catches my eye and presses a hand to her heart dramatically. “I’m fine,” she insists. “I’m totally fine.”
She is absolutely not fine.
Garrett appears behind her, straightening his tie with exaggerated seriousness. “I just want to go on record that if I cry today, it’s because of allergies. Or the sun. Or childhood trauma.”
I snort despite myself. “The sun is almost set. Can’t blame it.”
Down the hall, I hear Mason’s voice, loud and earnest. “Again! I need to practice again!”
He bursts into the room a second later, ring pillow clutched carefully in both hands, brow furrowed with concentration. He’s wearing a small suit that makes him look impossibly grown-up, and he’s taking his role more seriously than any job I’ve ever had. “I have to walk slow. And not trip. And not drop the rings.”
“You’ve got this,” I tell him, crouching down so we’re eye level. “Want to practice one more time?”
He nods solemnly and does another careful lap across the rug, chin up, shoulders back, beaming when he finishes without incident.
“You nailed it, kid.”
“Alright!” We high five, before he runs away to find the other kids.
I find myself drawn toward the water more than once, shoes abandoned near the porch, bare feet pressing into the cool grass. The earth is damp, and the scent of pine and lake water fills my lungs every time I breathe deeply.
Six years ago, standing here felt like standing on the edge of something I didn’t trust myself to survive. Today, it feels likestanding inside a choice I’ve already made, one I’m no longer questioning or negotiating with fear.
Garrett joins me after a while, his usual swagger muted by the quiet gravity of the day. He stands beside me without speaking, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the lake as if he’s giving me space to think without saying so out loud. But then he asks, “You’re sure about all this?”
I tell him the truth. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
He nods like that’s exactly the answer he expected. “I’ve got a full tank of gas, in case you change your mind.”
“I thought you liked Harper.”
“Almost as much as you do. She’s good people, Aiden. But that doesn’t mean a man is ready for marriage.”
I elbow him. “I get your meaning. Don’t need the escape plan. But thanks.”
He nods again and goes back to being silent.
As more guests arrive outside, I shake hands, accept congratulations, and exchange brief hugs, but my attention keeps drifting back to wondering how long she’ll be. I hope she’s having fun, keeping me from seeing her.
Brat.
No.Mybrat.
Standing here right before sunset, surrounded by the people who matter most, I understand something I didn’t six years ago. Love doesn’t demand perfection or fearlessness. It demands presence and commitment, again and again, even when it’s uncomfortable. And those moments don’t matter, because when they’re over, they’re nothing.
Love isn’t daily fireworks. Love is in the quiet moments. The ones we don’t notice, if we aren’t paying attention. Love is making sure we have the lactose free half and half because she knows my stomach gets upset with the regular stuff, even thoughI handle ice cream just fine. Love is making the coffee before she wakes up, because she needs caffeine for her brain to work well enough to make coffee. It’s filling her gas tank for her, because she always forgets, and it’s setting out my lunchbox the night before, because she knows I’m in a hurry in the morning.
Love is when you do everything you can to make their life better, and they do the same.
Carlie gets a text and says, “It’s time.” The crowd settles, and me and my sister take our places in the grass by the lake. The moment Harper appears at the far end of the path, the world narrows again.
Today is our day. Our step into forever.
The low murmur of conversation fades into a collective hush as people turn, chairs shifting softly against the ground. The string lights flicker on almost imperceptibly as clouds drift across the setting sun, bathing the lakeside in a warm, golden glow that feels deliberate, like the evening itself is a quiet guest.
Harper is barefoot, standing at the edge of the grass in a simple ivory dress that moves gently in the breeze. There’s no veil, no elaborate styling, nothing designed to distract from who she is. Her hair falls naturally around her shoulders, and for a split second, she looks exactly like she did that first night here—open, curious, unguarded.
Except now, she’s stronger.
