“Harley,” she says, her voice dropping to that quiet, no-nonsense tone that has guided me through every crisis since I was ten. “Are you sure this time? Truly sure? Because the doors are unlocked. Your dad has the truck gassed up. If there’s even a flicker of doubt, we can just go to the movies instead.”
“I’ve never been sure of anything else.” My voice is level. No tremor. No hesitation.
I give her a smile that feels like it’s coming from my bones. It’s a wide, confident thing. Maria watches me for a long beat, then nods, a single, decisive motion of approval. She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, her grip warm and solid.
“Good,” she says. “Then let’s get you married.”
I pause at the door and peek down the hall, glimpsing what used to be the guest room, where Skyler is standing in front of a much smaller mirror. Not in a tuxedo, but a navy-blue suit. It’s well-tailored, but off-the-rack. His shirt is crisp white, no ruffles, no fanfare. His hands, the knuckles still showing the faint scars from the site, are steady as he adjusts his lapel.
Steven leans against the doorframe, a silver flask in one hand and a lopsided grin on his face as he stares at his brother. There’s no sardonic wit today, no barb about the ‘Thompson Black Sheep.’
Their muffled voices come from the hall, and I allow myself a listen.
“You look like a man who actually knows where he’s going,” Steven says. He pushes off the frame and walks over, offering the flask. “A little liquid courage? Or are we staying sober for the plunge?”
Skyler shakes his head, pushing the flask away gently. “I want to remember every second of this.”
Steven nods, slipping the flask into his pocket. He reaches out and straightens Skyler’s tie—a simple, forest green silk that matches the bows on the chairs outside.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Steven says, his voice losing its edge. “The job, the truck, the ramen… I kept waiting for the ‘I’m a Thompson’ reflex to kick in. I kept waiting for you to call Dad.”
“That man stayed at the country club,” Skyler says, looking his brother in the eye. “I like the guy in the truck better.”
Steven gives him a heavy, supportive pat on the shoulder. “Me too, Sky. You earned this. This isn’t a gift from the family foundation; you built this second chance with your own two hands. Don’t forget that when you’re standing out there.”
“I won’t,” Skyler says.
Smiling to myself, I reach up and touch one of the flowers in my crown. A small, white daisy.
I take a breath, the air filling my lungs easily. My chest doesn’t feel tight. My head doesn’t ache. I look at the cracked mirror one last time and realize that the reflection is finally, perfectly whole.
Twenty minutes later, the twilight is a deep, bruised violet, the kind of light that makes the world feel small and intimate. The heat of the day has retreated, leaving behind a cool breeze thatstirs the leaves of the oaks and carries the faint, sweet scent of the wildflowers.
The sixty people sitting in the folding chairs aren’t names from a social registry. They’re the people who showed up when the glitter washed away. My sister Lily is in the front row, looking like she’s ready to fight anyone who suggests a navy napkin. Next to her is Steven and his partner, looking genuinely happy for the first time in his life.
And there, in the center of the front row, is Mrs. Delgado. She’s wearing a bright floral shawl. She catches my eye as I reach the beginning of the aisle, and she gives me a slow, knowing wink.
Skyler and I have no bridesmaids or groomsmen. It’s just us.
My father’s arm is a solid, unshakeable weight under mine. He smells like cedar and peppermint. We stand at the edge of the clearing, the grass soft under my feet.
“You okay, Harl?” he whispers.
“I’m perfect, Dad.”
“I’m proud of both of you,” he says, and I can hear the thickness in his voice. “He’s a good man.”
Skyler is waiting under the arch as my dad walks me down the aisle.
Skyler looks like he’s holding his ground against the world. His shoulders are back, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes everything else—the trees, the chairs, the guests—fade into a soft blur.
When we reach the end, Dad places my hand in Skyler’s, who then intertwines his fingers with mine. He’s warm, his grip steady. We don’t have a priest this time, but a friend from the Habitat crew.
The vows are short.
“Harley,” Skyler says, his voice carrying through the quiet clearing. He doesn’t look at the guests. “I choose you. Not because I need you to anchor me, or because I’m looking forsomeone to complete a version of myself. I choose you because loving you makes me want to be a better man every single day.”
I feel a tear slip down my cheek, but I don’t brush it away.
