“Since Tuesday.” He stepped back, gave me a once-over, then nodded. “Your mom’s already crying, by the way. Told me not to tell you.”
“She cried over pancakes this morning.”
A knock came at the door. Aunt Ophelia peeked in.
“Mind if I steal him for a minute?” she asked.
Mike gave a small salute and slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Aunt Ophelia stepped inside, her eyes scanning me from head to toe.
“You look so handsome,” she said. “Just like your father.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I wish I remembered him.”
“I’m sorry you never got to meet him,” she said. “But he would’ve cried today. No question.”
I looked down at my hands. The knot in my chest didn’t loosen, but it shifted.
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything. For being there. For helping. For…”
“For cornering you into falling in love?” she said.
I smiled. “It worked.”
“That doesn’t mean I was right,” she said. She crossed her arms. “I didn’t ask. I pushed. I should’ve trusted you to figure it out on your own.”
“If you hadn’t pushed, I might never have reached out to Emily. I didn’t even know I still had a shot until she showed up at the diner. Then I realized I never stopped loving her.”
“I just wanted to see you full, Jason. Not alone.”
I met her eyes. “You didn’t make me fall for her. You just made sure I didn’t miss the chance.”
She stepped closer and adjusted my tie. Her hands shook a little.
“She’s good for you,” she said. “You’re calm. She’s sharp. You hold steady. She keeps you moving.”
“She makes the burnt toast taste better,” I said.
Aunt Ophelia let out a breath and laughed. Then she placed her hand on my chest.
“I’m proud of you. Not because you’re getting married, but because you showed up. You figured it out. You made a choice and followed it through.”
“Thank you. I’m ready,” I said.
She nodded. “Then go get married, sweetheart.”
She left the room without another word. I stood there for a second, staring at the door, then turned back to the mirror. I looked like myself. A little flushed, a little wrinkled, but ready.
I grabbed the boutonniere off the desk, pinned it in place, and walked out the door.
EMILY
The Lighthouse Diner had never looked more alive.
String lights shimmered across the windows, their golden glow spilling over the booths and dancing along the floor. Wildflowers filled every mason jar—zinnias, sea lavender, daisies—cut fresh before the sun had fully risen. The air carried the scent of grilled peaches and torn basil, warm and sweet, threaded with the salt of the ocean just beyond the open doors. Someone had turned on the old record player. Jazz crackled and swung through the air.
Everyone came. Not just to witness it. To be part of it. That was how things worked in Chrysanthemum Cove. You didn’t just attend a wedding. You brought your best pie. You held someone’s baby. You laughed too loud. You cried without shame. You made sure the coffee never ran out. And when someone started singing harmony, you joined in.
