That got a laugh, enough to break through Danica’s nerves.
Kiera reached over, squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “Besides, nervous brides make the best photos. Very cinematic.”
Danica groaned, but she was smiling again, cheeks flushing.
Danica’s schedule ticked forward, boxes checked, hair curled, makeup powdered. The hum of women in various stages of preparation filled the air — laughter, teasing, the occasional yelp as a curling iron got too close. Maggie sat back in her chair, ankle propped, watching it all with a warmth flowing through her.
This was what she’d missed — the buzz, the belonging, the messy, loud little family that wasn’t hers by blood but hers anyway.
And then, like it always did in moments like this, the ache came sharp: Her mom would have been here, sitting next to Danica’s mom and laughing along. She would have been here, fussing over Maggie’s hair, telling the wrong stories at the wrong time, sneaking her a tissue before the vows even started. Maggie could almost hear her laugh blending into the noise, could almost feel her hand on her shoulder — and then it was gone again, just absence taking up space in her chest.
Even with the boot strapped to her ankle, even with Gwen just a room away somewhere in this house, Maggie let herself think that maybe things weren’t as broken as she’d convinced herself. But god, she wished her mom could’ve seen her like this — surrounded, not alone.
The ceremonyitself felt like a blur, the kind you almost want to hit rewind on just to catch every detail.
By late afternoon, the lake had turned to liquid silver, the sky streaked with pink. The tent glowed from the inside, lights strung like stars overhead. Guests gathered on the lawn, bundled in shawls and cardigans against the October chill, their breath puffing faintly in the air.
Pete and Danica had insisted on keeping things simple — no cathedral-length trains, no complicated readings — but somehow the simplicity made it perfect. The aisle was just a wooden walkway lined with jam jars of dahlias and roses from Aunt Jade’s garden. Maggie had a front-row seat, ankle propped on a pillow, tasked with “sitting still and looking pretty,” which she found both insulting and oddly nice.
The music started, something acoustic and bright, and everyone craned their necks as Pete walked in with Gladys on a floral-embellished leash from one side, Danica from the other. They met halfway down the aisle, both grinning like idiots, and proceeded together. Of course they did.
Danica’s curls caught the last of the sunlight, her dress simple and perfect, the kind of thing that didn’t overwhelm but suited her exactly. Pete looked sharp in her tux, though Maggie caught the glint of mismatched socks peeking from under her hem of her trousers.
Their vows were equal parts sweet and ridiculous. Danica’s made everyone tear up with soft words about finding someone who saw her for exactly who she was, even when she was obsessing over medical information at midnight. Pete’s started with “Wendell, you are objectively the hottest doctor alive” and ended with “I can’t wait for every little thing with you.” Gladys lay down and snored loudly through the event.
The guests laughed, sniffled, laughed again. Izzy actually wiped her eyes, though she tried to disguise it by tugging Kiera closer. Maggie pretended not to notice.
When the officiant — Danica’s aunt, ordained online for the occasion — pronounced them married, Pete dipped Danica so dramatically it made the crowd roar. Danica squealed into the kiss, clutching Pete’s lapels, and even the swan — lurking ominously somewhere unseen — let out a honk that sounded suspiciously like approval.
The applause rolled across the lawn, glasses clinked, andMaggie found herself laughing through the ache in her ankle, clapping harder than she should’ve. Because really, it was impossible not to.
It wasn’t Bulgaria. It wasn’t the grand European wedding Pete had once wanted. But here, on the edge of a Michigan lake with fairy lights swaying and family buzzing all around them, it was exactly right.
Maggie leaned back against her chair, warmth swelling in her chest, and thought if this is what love looked like — messy, funny, loud, and entirely imperfect — then maybe there was hope for her too.
Applause echoed across the lawn, and Maggie felt the familiar tug in her chest — joy tangled with ache. Like every wedding, it made her remember her own.
It hadn’t been this. Not fairy lights over a lake, not mismatched jam jars and socked tuxedo ankles. Hers had been in Austin, on a sticky June evening where the air clung to every dress shirt and her curls wilted within ten minutes of walking down the aisle. They’d chosen an art gallery that doubled as an event space — exposed brick, polished concrete, the kind of venue that looked chic in pictures and echoed in real life.
She remembered the way Gwen’s hand shook when she slid the ring on her finger.
She remembered the way she’d felt: so, so certain.
Certain that she’d chosen right, that whatever life threw at them, Gwen would always be there. That this was their foundation, unshakable, permanent.
But sitting on the edge of Walloon Lake, applause fading, her ankle throbbing inside the boot, Maggie couldn’t help but think about how fragile permanence had turned out to be. How a foundation could crack slowly, invisibly, until one day you looked down and realized you were balancing on rubble.
She pressed her lips together, blinking hard, forcing herattention back to the newlyweds who were glowing under the fairy lights.
It wasn’t about her. It was about them.
Still, as Danica laughed into Pete’s chest and the crowd cheered, Maggie couldn’t help slipping a glance to her left — where Gwen sat quietly, hands folded around her glass, eyes fixed on the couple.
For a flicker of a second, Maggie thought Gwen looked just as lost in memory as she was.
CHAPTER 32
Gwen
