Another knock at the door.
“Come in,” Luna calls.
The door opens—and Beckett steps in.
For a second, for me anyway, all the air in the room shifts.
He’s in a tuxedo, black and perfectly fitted, white shirt crisp at his throat, bow tie straight. His hair is tamed but still a little unruly at the front, like he ran his hands through it one too many times. He looks at me with those blue eyes that have been undoing me since I was nineteen.
And just like that, I’m right back at our own wedding, standing at the end of an aisle, heart pounding, watching this beautiful man waiting for me. I see flashes—holiday parties, charity events, friends’ weddings—both of us dressed up, hands linked, believing we had it all figured out.
He takes a few steps toward me.
“You look…” He stops, blinks, then finishes, softer, “Stunning.”
Suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything I’m wearing.
The pastel sage dress skims my body, same easy, romantic style as Luna’s, but simpler—clean lines, a soft, fluttery skirt that brushes my calves when I move. My hair is swept up into a neat chignon, not a strand out of place, and I can feel the faint breeze from the open door on the back of my neck.
There’s a moment, humming with things we haven’t said, things we’ve said too many times, and promises of things to say in the future.
He clears his throat and drags his gaze to Luna. “Is the bride ready?”
Luna pops up from behind me like she’s been waiting for her cue. “I am so ready,” she says, grinning. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
The moment breaks—but it doesn’t disappear. It just slips into the background, following us out the door.
THE CEREMONY
ASHLEY
Beyond the courtyard, on the large covered terrace, chairs line the aisle in neat rows, more of them filled than I’d expected. Faces I know, faces I don’t—friends from Providence, family from both sides. All these people who love Luna and Noah enough to follow them onto a ship and up into the hills of Mexico to watch them say “I do”.
The band has switched from background music to something more deliberate: a slow acoustic guitar with a hint of Mexican bolero in it.
Tay goes first.
She steps out, bouquet in hand, dress swaying, and floats down the aisle with a calm, easy smile.
Then it’s my turn.
I hook my fingers a little tighter around my bouquet and take a breath. People look at me, smile, and I do the same—trying to soak it in, trying not to think too hard.
At the front, I take my place off to the side, facing the aisle.
The boys are next.
Max and Blakey appear together, looking like the cutest miniature adults. Tuxedos to match Noah’s, bow ties both a little crooked, and shoes so shiny I could probably see my reflectionif I tried. I make myself really look at them, because I know how this goes—how moments slip past when you aren’t paying attention. These two suave almost eight-year-olds won’t be like this forever. Soon they’ll be racing ahead of me, shrugging off my hand, and I’ll wonder how the boys who once fit so perfectly in my arms are already standing so tall.
They start down the aisle with a sort of half-jig, half-strut, each holding a hand in the air, twirling what I hope aren’t the actual rings on their little fingers. A few guests chuckle under their breath, Mom presses a hand to her heart, Roger pops up and snaps their picture, and someone sniffles.
Me. I’m the one sniffling.
Once they’ve each delivered their rings—Luna’s to me, Noah’s to Simon—they scamper over toward the first row, where my mom is waiting to corral them.
I stand there, taking it all in. The flowers. The arch. The sunshine. The cool breeze.
The people.
