A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You want to know all the gory details?”
“I want to know everything,” he replies with intent.
“Okay.” His stare on me makes it hard to focus at first. “I once had a groom’s mother release doves during the ceremony. I specifically told her not to, and she did it anyway—without telling anyone, including the bride and groom. Sure enough, one of the birds flew straight into the minister’s face.”
“No.” His eyes widen, delighted.
“Yes,” I wince. “Mid-vow. The bride was screaming, guests were ducking, and I stood there trying to herd panicked birds out of a chapel with a broom.” I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “The photographer got the most amazing shot, though. Pure chaos but absolutely worth it.”
Damon laughs—warm, genuine, the kind that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “That’s incredible. Did the couple survive it?”
“They thought it was hilarious once the shock wore off and they realized no one was hurt. Sent me a bottle of wine last Christmas.”
My shoulders ease, the tightness I hadn’t noticed slipping away into the warm night air.
“See, that’s what I don’t understand about weddings,” he says, gesturing with his fork. “People spend thousands of dollars chasing perfect, and somehow the disaster becomes the memory that sticks.”
“It’s the imperfection,” I say, surprised by how easily the words come. “Perfect is boring. And it almost never exists.”
His smile lingers, but there’s something sharper underneath it.
“Maybe I should come watch you work sometime. See the method behind the madness.”
“Maybe.”
The conversation keeps flowing—easy, weightless. Damon makes me laugh with quick, dry humor that lands effortlessly, without history attached.
“I can’t imagine doing what you do,” he says. “It must be either incredibly romantic…or completely exhausting.”
“Both,” I admit. “Some couples are real fairy tales. Others…” I shrug. “Let’s just say I’ve talked more than one bride off a proverbial ledge.”
He smiles at that. “And yet you keep doing it.”
“I guess I do.”
“Most people would’ve burned out by now.” His gaze is thoughtful, not probing. “Or stopped believing in it altogether.”
“You say that like you have.”
“Not exactly.” He pauses, considering. “I just don’t chase the big, dramatic version of things anymore.”
“You seem cynical.”
He chuckles softly. “Practical, is the term I’d use.”
The word settles between us. Solid. Reasonable, but…cold.
His fingers brush mine as he reaches for his glass—brief, unassuming. The contact is easy but not electric.
That’s the thing. It doesn’t unsettle me. Doesn’t spark or linger. It’s simply as it is. That should come as a relief, but it doesn’t. Why is that? I should have my head examined.
He leans back, relaxed. “I like knowing where I stand. I’ve found things tend to last longer when you don’t ask them to be everything.”
I nod, even though something in my chest tightens.
After dinner, he gestures toward the shoreline. “Walk with me?”
Moments later, the sound of the waves fills the quiet between us. The calm stays, but the absence has weight. Like I’ve forgotten something but can’t name what.
