Blakey immediately pats his own chair. “You can share with me, Max. We’ll be squished, but it’s okay.”
Max climbs onto his brother’s chair without hesitation, their shoulders bumping.
And along my back, I feel Beckett’s hand resting lightly.
“We’ve missed you, you know,” he says, like I’ve just come home from somewhere much farther than the head table. And for the first time all evening, I don’t feel like I’m watching my life from the outside.
I’m where I’m supposed to be.
For a while, it’s just food and laughter and clinking glasses, and the courtyard settles into that warm, fuzzy hum that only happens when people are full and happy.
Then the music shifts.
Chairs scrape back as the DJ announces the first dance. Luna and Noah step out into the center of the courtyard, slow, swaying, the two of them in their own little world. After that, Luna dances with our mom, Noah with his, a soft, sentimental song threading through it all. Then the DJ steps up to the microphone again.
“Alright, married couples,” he says. “I want all of you out here for this next one. We’re doing an anniversary dance.”
Couples start to rise, laughing and tugging each other along.
And Beckett stands as well. Holds out his hand.
I put my hand in his, warm. Like coming home.
“It’s been too long,” Beckett says as we step onto the dance floor, with a myriad of other married couples.
“I know.”
At Lastby Etta James is already playing as Beckett lifts my hand to his chest, slipping his arm around my waist.
I feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my dress. My free hand rests on his shoulder, then slides up to the back of his neck.
We start to sway.
I follow his lead, and it’s almost like we’re one person instead of two.
“Quite a crowd,” the DJ calls over the music. “Let’s thin this out a little. If you’ve been married less than a day, please leave the floor.”
Luna and Noah stop dancing, make a bow and curtsy to one another while everyone cheers.
I purse my lips and let out a small, dissatisfied hum. Because they’ve been married for, what, two weeks now?
Beckett’s eyes lock on mine, smiling secretly. “Are you still mad about that?” he asks.
“I don’t like secrets,” I say. “But I’ll get over it. Eventually.”
His steps falter, but only for half a second.
Instead of saying anything, he pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin.
“Thank you.” His voice rumbles from above me, and I have to pull back.
I have to see his eyes.
“I never said thank you.” His expression is suddenly too intense for the lazy sway of the music.
“For what?”
“For everything you’ve done this year.” His thumb draws slow circles at my waist. “With the boys. The house. And now, this week… Just… everything.”
