“And he’s yours.”
We hug and I try not to cry while my mother dabs at her own tears and smiles at me. My father keeps checking his watch because he’s afraid we’ll be late, even though the ceremony is a mere three yards down the hall, but his eyes are suspiciously bright.
This is family. This is love.
My mind flips through mental snapshots like pages in my photo album—my whole life leading to this moment. The album sitting at home on our coffee table is nearly full now. Photos from this past year, including our first official date, at Crush Cakes when he proposed, my family moving to town over the summer, planning this wedding, just living our normal, beautiful, everyday life together.
Today’s photos will complete it.
“You ready, sweetheart?” Grandma asks.
“I think so. Yes. Definitely yes.”
She laughs. “That’s how I felt marrying your grandfather.”
“Really?”
“Really. Petrified and certain all at once.”
“That’s exactly it.” I squeeze her hand.
My mom asks, “Do you love him?”
“So much, Mama.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
We hug again, both crying, and she laughs amidst her tears.
Through the door, music starts. The soft rustle of guests settling into their seats. My pulse is pounding out a steady beat.
My father offers his arm. His expression is teasing, but his voice cracks slightly. “You sure about this guy?”
“More sure than anything.”
“He’s good to you?”
“The best.”
His eyes get misty as he glances at his watch one last time. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”
We walk to the doors, and through the narrow opening, I can see the candlelit chapel, the flowers, the people we love. And at the front, in his navy suit, looking handsome and hopeful and like he might actually be as excited as I am, stands Patton.
My heart nearly bursts.
Everyone stands. But I only see him.
The moment Patton’s gaze lands on me, his face opens with pure love. Pure joy. His rare, beautiful smile that used to be so hard-won and now comes easier, especially for me.
I walk toward him, toward our future, my father’s arm steady beneath my hand. When we reach the front, Dad kisses my cheek and places my hand in Patton’s.
“Take care of my girl.” He says it in Italian, but somehow Patton understands.
“Always,” Patton promises, his voice rough with emotion.
Our fingers tangle together, holding tight, and we turn to face each other. His hazel eyes are more whiskey than green today, warm and full of everything he’s learned to let himself feel.
The officiant talks about love and choice and bravery. About two people who found each other in a small town through bets and bickering, through squirrels and blizzards, through fear and trust.
