“Too late,” I say, dizzy with relief and the smell of her and the way this room looks when it’s full of our yes.
We turn to the people we love. The library glows like it’s been waiting its whole life for this. The clock over the mezzanine ticks on, unconcerned. The doors stand open to the day we almost missed and didn’t.
I take Olive’s hand and we walk down the aisle that looks like a river of light.
35
OLIVE
Husband and Wife
When we step into the courtyard, sunlight spills over the stone in a warm wash. Ash tugs me into a quiet corner of the gardens, stealing a moment for just us before we face the throng of well-wishers. Across the courtyard, Celeste’s voice carries: “The couple will join you in the garden shortly. Champagne is that way.”
She steers the tide of people toward the long tables, where strings of lights hang overhead, unlit for now but ready to glow once the sun goes down.
Ash’s hand threads through mine, steady and warm, and we slip behind the ivy wall where the library’s reading garden tucks into a quiet L-shape. The hum of the crowd fades to a soft thrum. It smells like sun-heated stone and rosemary and whatever magic lemon oil the custodians use on the wood inside. A small bistro table waits under a strand of café lights Celeste must have thrown up at dawn—two flutes already sweating, a plate with exactly six perfect bites of something flaky and herby.
I didn’t know I was shaking until we stop and the shaking has nowhere else to go. Ash notices first. He sets both glasses down and cups my elbows, thumbs finding that spot on my arms he’s learned will calm me faster than words.
“Hi, wife,” he says, voice rough with joy and nerves and the tail end of unshed tears.
I laugh, which comes out like a hiccup. “Hi, husband.”
We stand there for a breath, forehead to forehead, letting our bodies catch up to what our mouths just promised in front of everyone we love. The ivy throws dappled shadows across his shirtfront; a blue shard of stained glass light from the window above paints his jaw. I think: remember this. The color. The hum. His hands.
He pulls back just enough to see my face. “You okay?”
“Better than okay,” I say—and I am. There’s relief and lightness and a thousand small tremors settling into something that feels like certainty.
“I was afraid you weren’t gonna come,” he admits quietly.
“I almost didn’t. I only listened to your message a few hours ago.” Suddenly I remember why I never got to hear the message earlier. “Yesterday was a crazy day… I was busy. I’ve been writing like a maniac. I almost finished writing my book this week. And there’s more.”
He’s already grinning, pride blooming before the details. “Tell me.”
“A publisher reached out,” I say, the words giddy even in the shade. “Through the anonymous inbox on my blog. She said they loved my blog. We had a video call. They want to see the full manuscript. If it’s what they think it is, they want it for their spring romance lineup.”
For a beat he just looks at me like I hung the moon. Then he laughs—full-bodied, incredulous joy—and scoops me in, careful of the dress, not at all careful of his heart. “Of course they do,” he says into my hair. “Of course they do. They’d be idiots not to.”
My heart feels so full it could burst. It’s the dizzy kind of happiness that only comes after heartbreak and too much adrenaline. I want to hug the whole world, and my cheeks ache from smiling.
He gives me a goopy smile, like he can read my thoughts. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
“We already did,” I say, and the truth of it lands like a soft weight in the center of me. “But yes. We’re really doing this.”
We lift our glasses—orange juice, mine champagne—and clink the thin rims so gently they barely make a sound. The library’s clock hums somewhere inside; a breeze stirs the ivy and brushes cool leaves over my bare arm like a blessing.
“Can I ask you one thing?” I say, sudden curiosity blooming. “What were you going to do if I didn’t come?”
He seems to ponder this. “I actually don’t know. There was never a plan B. I probably would’ve just stood there until it got dark.” He gives a helpless shrug. “So yeah, I’m really fucking glad you came.”
“Me too,” I whisper. Then, quieter: “You mentioned something in your vows… Do you know I actually saw the list you made about me on your phone?”
His eyes shut like the light’s too much. When he opens them, they’re clearer than I’ve ever seen. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “For writing it. For needing it. It was never meant for you to see—and when I wrote it, I wasn’t in the same place I am now.”
“I know,” I say. “But you need to know how it felt. After I told you I loved you, finding that list… It was like walking into a room I thought I belonged in and seeing a checklist pinned to the wall that said,You’re convenient. Don’t get any ideas.”
His grip on my hand tightens. “I can’t imagine how that felt.” He swallows, then pulls his phone from his pocket. A few taps and there it is:FAKE WIFE CRITERIA.Even now, the sight of it stings.
