He gives me a real, fully formed, honest-to-Godswoonsh.
I press my thumb to it, and for these few borrowed minutes, a break in the storm we both know we’re going to have to weather, Reid and I feel perfectly like each other’s shelter. The only two people in the world who understand each other this well. Letters, numbers.
The perfect code.
“Reid,” I whisper to him. “It wasn’t a mistake.”
“No,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “It was a sign.”
Epilogue
It wasn’t part of the plan, to return to the wedding business.
In the back room of the shop, I sit in the same seat I’ve sat in so many times before, a gallery of pages set out in front of me. It’s all there, mockups for each part of the job: save the dates, invitations, place cards, and even—oh, yes—aprogram. Across from me sits a couple who for weeks has been poring over ideas and suggestions, a couple who came in today hoping to see all of those ideas transformed into something special. Something unique, cohesive,them.
It’s so familiar.
And yet.
“Oh, Meg. This isperfect. It’s all so . . . it’s so . . .”
“Whimsical?” I say, grinning across the table.
Sibby looks up from the sketches, her eyes bright and her grin matching mine. “Yes,” she says. “That’s exactly it. Whimsical! Isn’t this whimsical, Eli?”
“Yes?” Elijah says from beside her, looking back and forth between us. I’m reasonably sure he doesn’t really know why anything he’s looking at qualifies as “whimsical,” but he looks happy nonetheless, as he has through every one of the preparations having to do with his wedding to Sibby.
Over the last year and a half or so, as Sibby and I have worked on the new version of our friendship we found ourselves in after that day she came back to the apartment, part of the work we’ve had to do—in addition to the long, sometimes painful conversations, in addition to establishing new routines and new traditions—is to learn about the parts of each other’s lives we missed during the time we weren’t close. For me, that’s included getting to know Elijah better, and the best part about that is how much I like him, and in a way that’s more than “at least he picks up after himself” or “at least he doesn’t eat any of your food out of the fridge without asking.” He’s soft-spoken, content to let Sibby shine, but he’s got a sly sense of humor and good taste in music, and whenever I go over to their place to watchThe Bachelorette, he makes the popcorn.
“Now on the program,” I say, moving that to the center, “I think with the metallic accents you’ve chosen for the illustrations, you should keep the information to a minimum. Your names, your parents’ names, the—”
“Your name here, right?” Sibby says, cutting me off. She taps her finger beneath the lettering that spells outWedding Party.
“Right,” I say, looking up at her and smiling. She moves her hand from the program to squeeze mine briefly, her eyes welling with tears. I’ve seen it before, of course, emotional brides—those flare-ups of sentiment or stress or simple, pure happiness. But with Sibby I know the emotion of this moment is different. It’s taken us a while, after all, to get here. A new version of being best friends, one that’s not so rooted in our past—and past patterns—together.
I squeeze her hand back and go over a few more elements of the job, offer some suggestions for some additional changes. Then I stand, the same as I would have were this any old wedding job. It was always a good idea to step away for a few minutes, to give the clients some time to really see the work, without my presence looming.
I let them know I’ll return shortly, taking one final look at the treatments from this more distant angle. I’m proud of how they turned out—the sleek, upturned serifs reminding me of Sibby’s favorite winged-eyeliner look, the extra-tall ascenders on the complementary cursive reminding me of Elijah’s height. Anyone who looks closely would see the hidden message here, the only one that matters:
Someone who knows Sibby and Elijah—someone who loves them—created these letters.
“They liked it?” Lachelle says when I come up to the front desk, taking in what I’m sure is my relieved smile. She’s got three supplier catalogs open in front of her and a red Sharpie in her hand, her tidyX’s of interest marked next to the items she’s considering for the shop.
Six months ago, Cecelia announced that she wanted less day-to-day involvement in the shop, since her kids would be headed off to college soon and she and Shuhei wanted to spend as much time with them as possible. After that, they planned to travel more, and so the timing seemed perfect. She wouldn’t sell, but she would reorganize, shutting down the retail part of the store so that she could run it as a custom invitation business only, everything by appointment with either her or one of her contractors.
To Lachelle—and honestly, to me, though it wasn’t quite my business—that idea had been outrageous, and she’d put up a big fight. A couple of times, in the weeks following Cecelia’s initial announcement, I’d come into the shop, hunting down supplies, only to find the two of them orbiting around each other in strained politeness;excuse methis andcan you pass me the inkthat. Once upon a time, it might’ve made me nervous and uncomfortable enough to avoid the place altogether, but by that point, deep into the aftermath of Reid’s revelations, I’d felt almost fireproof against life’s petty confrontations.
And anyway, soon enough, they’d come to a solution—Lachelle would buy in, taking over retail and operations, and Cecelia would manage the contractors and the custom service. Mostly, the shop runs the same way it always did—a steady stream of visitors and regulars, the usual upticks in custom services during wedding and holiday seasons. But Lachelle is changing things, too. A switched-up floor plan means more space for the new retail, more evening classes taught by some of the contractors, and—of course—a brand-new window display every month, all of them the likes of which this stretch of street has never seen.
“They love it,” I tell her, and we both glance up at where Elijah and Sibby sit, their heads bent together, still smiling dreamily at my work.
“Young love,” Lachelle says, shaking her head. “He probably still puts the toilet seat down.”
I nudge her. “He’s nice. Anyway, what are you ordering? Those samples I tried from—”
“I’ll tell you what I’mnotordering,” she says, capping the Sharpie and crossing her arms before facing me.
“Iknoooooow,” I groan, pulling my phone from my pocket. “I’ll check again.”
