Not during the late nights reviewing case files. Not during the conversations where we'd finally cracked open the past.
He came for me. And I wouldn't even come downstairs.
He'd carried it quietly. The way he carried everything. And he'd chosen not to make it a weapon.
I'd promised him I would. And when he'd met Garrett again for the first time in years, over dinner at my parents' house, I'd watched my brother shake his hand, hold it a beat too long, and say,Welcome back.That was enough. From him, that was everything.
On the other side of the aisle, Garrett's mother sat with her husband, Richard. She'd flown in from San Diego three days early, insisted on helping with every detail, and cried the first time she saw the firehouse decorated.
She and I had our own reckoning to navigate. A quiet lunch, just the two of us, two weeks after Garrett told her we were engaged. She'd sat across from me at a café in Park Slope, stirring her coffee for a long time before she spoke.
I'm not going to pretend I wasn't angry with you,she'd said.When you left, it nearly broke him. And he'd already lost so much.She'd looked up at me then, and I'd seen Garrett's eyes in her face. That same steady gaze that missed nothing.But he loves you. He's always loved you. And I've watched my son go through the motions of a life for eight years, and I will not watch him do it for more.She'd reached across the table and taken my hand.So. Welcome to the family. Again. Don't make me regret it.
I'd laughed. Then cried. Then she'd cried. And by the time we'd split a piece of cake, something between us had mended.
Not perfectly. Not all at once. But enough.
Now she sat in the front row, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, Richard's arm around her shoulders.
Beside her, an empty chair. A single white rose laid across the seat.
For Garrett's father.
"Ready?" My father appeared beside me, straightening his tie for the tenth time. His eyes were red.
"Dad. Are you already crying?"
"No." He cleared his throat. "Allergies."
He offered me his arm. Squeezed it against his side when I took it. "Your mother and I had a bet. About how long it would take you two to figure it out."
"Who won?"
"She did. She always does." His voice roughened. "I thought it would take longer. She said the minute you two were in the same room again, it was over."
He looked down at me, and the tears he'd been fighting slipped free.
"I'm proud of you, sweetheart. Not for the career or the awards. For being brave enough to go back."
I leaned my head against his shoulder. Just for a second.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I'm ready."
The music started. Not a wedding march, something softer. A song we'd danced to years ago, in our old apartment, when we were young and stupid and certain we had forever figured out.
The doors opened.
And there he was.
Garrett stood at the front of the bay. Shane beside him. Both in dress uniforms.
His eyes found mine immediately, and something in his face crumpled. Joy and grief and love, all tangled together.
His mother pressed her fingers to her lips. My mother gripped the armrest.
I walked toward him. Past Maya, who was already crying. Past Brian, who was pretending he wasn't. Past Ava, one hand resting on her pregnant belly. Past Rodriguez, standing at attention like he was guarding something precious. Past my brother, who gave me the smallest nod. Past Garrett's mother, who was smiling through her tears.
Past all of them, to the man I'd loved for ten years.
