Pauline dabs at her eyes even though nothing has happened yet. Beside her, Geraldine from the library looks stern with tissues already in hand. In the front row, Judy Waples and Joyce sit side by side, friends for the day.
We take our positions at the front—me, Austin, Scotty, James, Reese, and Fabrizio, who keeps tugging at his collar.
“Relax,” I tell Winnie’s brother. “It’s just a wedding.”
“Just a wedding? My sister is marrying a firefighter who runs into burning buildings for fun. This is stressful.”
“I don’t do it for fun.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Reese leans over. “What if you mess up the vows?”
“He won’t,” Austin says firmly.
“What if he cries?”
James grins. “He will. It’s fine.”
“What if?—?”
James says, “Breathe. She loves you. You love her.”
He’s right, but my stomach swoops like I crested a mountain switchback too fast.
“Maverick.” Scotty’s voice cuts through, reminding me who I am.
I nod, taking a breath, glancing at my father’s watch, the crew at my back. We’re a team. We’ve got this.
The music starts.
My heart stops.
The doors at the back of the chapel open, and Oreo trots down the aisle wearing his bow tie and carrying a small pillow with the rings tied to it. He makes it halfway before getting distracted by Mayor Barbie’s sparkly dress, but Grandma Joyce redirects him with a treat, and he completes his mission.
The congregation laughs. I barely notice because I’m waiting for my bride.
Winnie
I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror. She’s wearing an elegant lace dress that Mindy calls a confection.
My grandmother’s pearl necklace rests against my collarbone—something borrowed. Nonna’s lace handkerchief from Italy is wrapped around my bouquet—something old. New earrings from my parents catch the afternoon light streaming through the small room at the back of the chapel. And sewn carefully into the hem is a small blue swatch of fabric from Patton’s uniform. Something blue.
The woman in the mirror looks happy. Really, truly happy
Soon, she’ll be Winnie Cross.
That woman would be me.
My stomach swoops. I’m giddy and terrified in equal measure, which seems about right for someone who spent the first four months of knowing Patton Cross absolutely certain we couldn’t stand each other.
“Your grandfather would have loved him,” Nonna says in Italian from behind me, adjusting my veil with her knobby, arthritic hands.
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “You think?”
“I know.” Her smile is soft, certain. “Strong, quiet, protective. Takes care of what’s his.”
“I’m his,” I say, testing the words. They feel right. Solid. True.
