Apparently, Luna and Noah made quite the impression. Half the passengers they met on that bus seem to be here, all of them waving, hugging, and ready for almost anything.
It’s like being trapped in a Hallmark movie sponsored byParadise Cruise Line.
And I’m the cranky supporting character whose job is to make sure no one misses the boat. Or falls into the ocean.
Although…
No! Bad thought, Ashley.Beckett actually showed up, for better or for worse, and I intend for him to stick around until Luna and Noah are riding off toward their honeymoon.
The line shuffles forward as we approach security. Two uniformed port officers stand at the podium, scanning passports and matching faces to photos with bored efficiency. Behind them, the conveyor belt hums as passengers heft carry-ons up and unload backpacks, purses, and water bottles.
The boys are bouncing on their toes, buzzing with excitement. I tighten my grip on their hands and inch us closer.
I’ve got our passports ready, the boys’ tucked neatly behind my own, boarding paperwork in perfect order. We should glide right through.
And we do.
Easy. Smooth.
I direct Max and Blakey through the metal detector, help them help each other with their backpacks, but when we’re put back together, I turn to look for Beckett and?—
He’s not behind us.
He’s still back at the podium. Two uniformed officers are bent over the computer screen, while a third man—this one in a suit—is on his phone, his posture all quiet authority.
The suited man sets a hand on Beckett’s shoulder, says something I can’t hear, then gestures toward a side door.
Beckett looks up and finds me. There’s a flicker in his expression—almost a wince—before he smooths it away and mouths, “Go on. I’ll catch up.”
I don’t move right away.
Because… what am I supposed to do with that?
This man travels constantly. Airports, conferences, red-eyes—he’s a pro. It’s not like he’s dealing with an expired passport or… I don’t know, a fake identity.
Right?
Maybe he spilled coffee on the photo page.
Or left it in a jacket pocket with an exploding pen…?
But my mom and the entire group are already way ahead of us. People edge around me, grumbling at the hold-up, and… well, Beckett isn’t my responsibility anymore. So I plaster on a smile for our boys, take their hands, and move us along.
“Is Dad coming?” Blakey asks, worry creasing his little forehead.
“Of course.” I keep my tone bright and breezy as I scan the directional signs overhead.
Distraction is the name of the game.
“Help me find our line, guys. Do you remember which deck we’re on?”
“Twelve! Twelve!” Max bounces like a pinball, and together we navigate the maze toward the larger boarding lanes.
“There!” Max points—both at the “Decks 10—12” sign and the rest of the wedding party already queued up.
My mom glances behind me.
“Did you lose that husband of yours again?”
