ASHLEY
The rehearsal takes place on a private deck near the stern, tucked away from the main traffic of the ship. No arches. No elaborate florals. Just a handful of white chairs, a small table for the rings, and the ocean stretching endlessly behind it all.
As the sun sinks lower, the sky does most of the decorating for us—soft gold fading into pink, the water catching the light like glass. It’s quiet out here. Intimate. Almost reverent.
The rehearsal itself is simple.
Too simple, maybe.
Without the pomp and spectacle, the familiar rituals feel sharper somehow. More exposed. More real.
Max and Blakey absolutely nail their entrance.
Apparently, Noah and Beckett had been coaching them on the fine art of the dramatic wedding strut-slash-dance. Each of them were in charge of a ring—one to Luna, one to Noah—while grooving down the aisle to Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk”, cute little finger guns and booty wiggles and totally unhinged confidence.
Was it traditional?
Not even close.
But Luna can’t stop grinning and approves whole-heartedly.
And judging by what I saw tonight?
Yeah. The boys definitely inherited Beckett’s rhythm.
God help us all.
But the part that really gets to me is when Beckett walks Luna down the aisle.
In our dad’s place.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this moment was coming, and I knew it was going to be hard. But knowing and feeling are two very different things.
I catch Luna’s eyes as she clasps Beckett’s arm, and there’s no missing the wobble in her smile.
When Beckett and I got married, Dad was there. He was the one to walk me down the aisle.
Luna always assumed he’d be here for hers too. We both did.
Our dad wasn’t a loud man. Not the toast-giving, let-me-walk-you-through-your-entire-childhood kind of father. That had always been more of Mom’s role.
But Dad… he had presence. Quiet, steady, enduring.
The kind you didn’t realize you counted on until it was gone.
And today, we felt its absence.
All of us did.
Standing beside Luna, at the “altar”, I watch her shoulders lift in a slow inhale.
She’s keeping it together. Barely.
When I glance over at Mom, I catch her pressing her fingers beneath her eyes. A single dab, quick and discreet.
Babs touches her other hand, and I am so glad my mom isn’t here alone—that she has at least one very good friend.
Maybe this is why people do rehearsals. Not to get the timing right—but to get a preview of the emotional sucker punches heading their way.
