He has also stopped commenting on my body. He slips sometimes, and when he does, I correct him. He doesn't argue back anymore. He looks embarrassed, then he fixes it.
That's what repair looks like. It's not perfect, because nothing worth trying to fix ever is. "Thank you," I say, voice thick.
He nods once, then looks past me into the house. "Where's Jace?"
"Here," Jace yells, sprinting in with powdered sugar everywhere. "I'm ring security."
Dad blinks. "Ring what?"
"Security," Jace repeats. "Nobody gets the rings."
Dad glances at me like he's asking if this is a real job title.
"It is," I confirm.
Dad exhales through his nose, almost smiling. "Okay, then."
Gabe checks his watch and straightens his cuffs. "I should go. They're waiting on me."
My pulse jumps. This is the part where the day starts moving too fast.
He turns to Jace. "Suit time, buddy."
Jace groans like he's about to go to war.
Gabe crouches and speaks to him quietly, then stands again and meets my eyes. He holds my gaze for a beat, and I can see everything in it. The last year. The nights we talked. The day we went to court and watched Tom get sentenced because he couldn't control himself even after that night at the restaurant.The way Gabe kept his hand on my back when I felt sick from the whole thing. The restraining order. The fact that Tom tried one last stunt, and it didn't work because Gabe had already locked the doors on him with evidence, witnesses, and a paper trail that couldn't be talked away.
Tom is behind bars now, and I haven't heard his voice in months.
The silence is a gift.
Gabe's voice drops. "I'll see you in a bit."
I nod. "Go."
He hesitates, then steps back, because he's trying to behave.
Then he breaks and says, "You look beautiful," and walks off before I can answer.
I stand there in the doorway, watching him leave, and I press a hand to my chest like it might keep my heart from sprinting after him.
The rest of the morning becomes a blur of small things that matter. Jace fighting the suit, then accepting it when we promise he can take it off the second the party ends. My hair getting pinned up while I drink water because my friend Nora tells me I'll forget. Makeup that doesn't feel like a mask. A small bouquet that smells fresh and simple.
My phone buzzes once with a message from Mia.
Mia: You’d better cry at least a little or I'm taking my gift back.
I send her a selfie of my wet eyes.
Me: Happy?
Mia: Extremely.
I laugh, and that helps.
When I step outside, my neighbor Sarah is across the street, as predictable as ever, standing by her porch like she's waiting for a show.
She calls out, "Well, look at you."
