As if on cue, Rory perked up, hopped off the bed, and trotted over like he’d been personally invited.
“There we go.” Tyler crouched down to snap his harness together, then smoothed the mini tuxedo vest Dylan had sewn. Hidden in the lining was a tiny satin pocket that held their wedding rings. “Ring bearer reporting for duty.”
Cary leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You look incredible.”
She held up her navy bouquet—white roses, blue thistles, and silver brunia tied with a silk ribbon. “Let’s do this before I cry off all my makeup.”
“I’ll cue the music.” Cary pulled out his phone and tapped the screen.
They exchanged a look that said everything.
This was it.
They were getting married.
They laughed as theHockey Night in Canadatheme echoed through the house and into the backyard. It wasn’t Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus,” but they couldn’t think of a better wedding march.
Cary held Tyler’s hand as they stepped down the stairs, Rory heeling loyally—until a whiff of barbecue hit him and he bolted toward the yard.
“Rory!” Tyler called, but he was already gone, a black-and-white blur of FOMO.
Inside, Nadie stood in the kitchen, jaw unhinged. “Holy shit, Auntie Ty!”
Tyler smiled. “Holy shit is right, Nadie.”
As they stepped into the tent, Tyler scanned the scene, heart full. Everything was just as she’d imagined.
White linen drapes cascaded to the ground, mirrored in the matching chair covers and napkins—though soon, both would bear traces of hot sauce and cupcake frosting. Bouquets of roses, peonies, and lilies filled the air with fragrance, mingling with the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.
Not just a garden. A dream. A fairy tale come to life.
Guests turned to watch as she made her way down the makeshift aisle:
Bert dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.
Pamela buried her face in John’s shoulder as he silently handed her a napkin.
Perry, Stewart, and their wives shushed her rambunctious nephews.
Kim bounced on her toes, her pink hair bobbing with excitement.
Allie and Porter held hands—him in black shorts and a matching polo, no surprises there.
Marnie and Heather whooped like the Jets had just won Game Seven.
Bob Shaw lifted a glass of whatever non-alcoholic drink he was nursing.
And Rory darted around the tent, greeting guests like a self-appointed master of ceremonies.
Once Dylan and Vegas took their places on either side of the bride and groom, Joe stepped forward and raised his arms.
“Surprise!” he boomed. “Please take your seats.” He turned to Vegas. “Do you have the rings?”
Vegas made a grab for Rory, but the dog thought it was a game and tore off toward the yard.
“Fuck.” Vegas shook his head. “Cookie!” he yelled, and the crowd erupted in laughter.
Moments later, Rory zipped back into the tent and sat by Vegas’s feet, waiting expectantly.
