“Don’t make me regret this,” Liam says quietly.
“I won’t,” Ash says, just as low.
They release. The ground beneath my feet steadies.
“Okay, enough threatening,” Nina says briskly, clapping her hands. “Someone feed me before I start monologuing.”
We make our way to our seats at “Chapter One,” when Ash’s parents emerge from the crowd like the calm at the center of a storm. His mom reaches me first. “Olive,” she says, and then I’m wrapped in her hug. When she lets go, her hands linger on my shoulders, her eyes shiny. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I manage, already watery.
His dad shakes Ash’s hand like it’s a formality, then pulls him into a real hug—thumping his back the way dads do when they’re pretending not to be emotional and failing. When they break apart, his mom folds Ash in, too—no thumping, just that long, anchored hold that makes time behave.
“We wanted to tell you,” his dad begins, clearing his throat. “That we’re proud of you. Not just for today. For all of it. The way you carry yourself. The way you’ve grown.” He glances at me, includes me. “The way you two are choosing each other.”
His mom nods, smiling through tears. “We should’ve said it more. We love you, sweetheart.”
Ash tries for a joke, but it dies on his lips. He nods instead, jaw tight, eyes bright. “Thanks,” he manages, then laughs at himself because it’s not enough and we all know it. He pulls them both in again, one arm each. “I love you, too.”
We tumble into an awkward, perfect group hug that must look ridiculous from ten feet away. I end up pressed between Ash and his mom, his dad’s arm looping around all of us like he’s trying to hold the moment still.
When we break apart, his mom takes my hands. “And you,” she says softly. “Thank you for the way you look after him. And for letting him look after you.”
My face goes hot because there’s something so simple—and so right—about that. “He’s easy to root for,” I say.
“Debatable,” Ash mutters, sniffing a laugh.
Then we sit, and plates arrive like gentle surprises. Family-style bowls passed down the table; clinks of glass; the low roar of people enjoying each other. So this is what pure contentment feels like, I think.
The toasts begin.
Nina goes first, obviously, despite Celeste’s precise run-of-show. She starts by announcing that she has index cards and “not a single intention of using them,” and the garden groans affectionately. Her speech is somehow both roast and blessing: she calls me “the bravest softie I know,” and when her voice breaks onbravestthere is a very loud sound from Liam that suspiciously resembles a sniff.
Liam keeps it simple. “I love my sister,” he says, eyes steady on me. “Olive was always meant to be a main character, but she never believed it. I watched her shrink herself for years. Ash made her see her own worth—and that’s the kind of love I’ll always stand behind.” He turns to Ash for a beat. “Welcome to the family.” It’s perfect.
We eat before we greet (Celeste’s orders), then greet before we dance, and then we dance until the sky turns that perfect lavender that makes you believe in poems. There is no choreographed first dance; there is only us, swaying under café lights while the quartet slips into a song I once swore I hated and now adore because it is ours. He mouths,hi, wife.I mouth it back and try to memorize the exact weight of his hand at my waist.
Photos happen and then, mercifully, stop. Kids turn the garden path into a racetrack. Someone’s uncle attempts a spin that will go down in family lore. We cut the cake (vanilla with lemon curd, “the inside of a sonnet,” according to Nina) and hide behind the bar withtwo forks like thieves. Celeste keeps time with a glance; when my energy dips, she materializes with water and a canapé, and when it rises, she dissolves into the hedge so we can be swept back into the tide.
There are a hundred tiny moments I want to press like flowers: Ash slipping my flats back on under the table; Liam and Nina laughing together as if they’ve been friends forever; the way the stained glass throws patches of color across everyone’s faces so every smile looks holy. At some point I catch Ash watching me with that new softness in his eyes—it makes my stomach flip.
When the music slows and conversations thin to a warm murmur, Celeste passes out sparklers like a general arming a very cheerful army. Nina shrieks, Liam pretends not to grin, and our friends line the garden path between the hedges. Someone counts down, and then the courtyard crackles to life—gold fire kissing the dark, reflections winking in the stained glass above us.
Ash laces our fingers and pulls me forward. We walk through light and laughter and the soft hiss of sparks, people cheering our names like blessings. I smell rosemary and smoke; I see the faces I love turned saintly by the glow.Kiss!Someone yells—of course—and he stops halfway, dips me just enough to make the crowd howl, his mouth warm and smiling against mine.
When we straighten, the sparklers burn down to silver wires. We wave, we hug the last few bodies near the gate, and then we slip into the waiting car—breathless, laughing, the night still snapping with tiny stars behind us.
36
ASH
Hands-on Documentation
Iknew the suite was nice from the hallway, but stepping inside feels like walking into a hush with good manners.
Floor-to-ceiling windows pull the city up to the glass—bands of headlights and neon sliding over polished oak floors. Beyond sheer curtains, a private balcony waits, the door cracked just enough to let in a ribbon of cool night air and the far-off hush of Los Angeles breathing. The room smells faintly of bergamot and rain—the kind of spa scent that makes even your bones unclench.
Everything begs to be touched. A low velvet sofa, deep plum. A pale rug thick enough to swallow footfalls. Brass lamps dimmed to a honey-soft glow. On a marble credenza, a champagne bucket sweats beside two flutes and a handwritten card in looping script:For Mr. & Mrs.
