The reception is what one would expect from Maura—flashy, loud, and an absolute eyesore … for me at least.
Maura materializes beside me with a champagne in hand. "Dean, can we talk?"
"Congratulations on the wedding."
"Thanks. Look, I just want to say ... you don't have to keep pretending. The engagement. The relationship. I know Liz roped you into this to save face, but the wedding's over. You can drop the act now."
Without taking my eyes off Liz—she's across the terrace talking to a bridesmaid—I let out a deep sigh. "This is your wedding day, Maura. Give it a rest. Shouldn't you focus on yourself, Ted, and your marriage?" I cast her a sideways look. "She's all you think about, isn't she? Because this obsession with your sister is getting old. And probably unhealthy. Today's supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but here you are trying to sabotage something good in hers."
Maura's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Nothing comes out. But I do see her eyes moisten.
I walk away before she finds her voice or tears flow, whichever happens first.
I'm done letting her tear Liz down or pretending her cruelty is just "how she is" or protecting Maura's feelings at Liz's expense.
Liz is my best friend. The woman I love. And I should have said something years ago.
"All right, all the single ladies to the dance floor! Time for the bouquet toss!"
The other bridesmaids pull Liz, laughing and pushing her toward the center of the dance floor, where maybe fifteen single women cluster together, jostling for position.
I move to the sidelines with the other guests, watching as Maura turns her back to the crowd and raises the bouquet over her head.
"Ready, ladies?"
Liz isn't even trying to catch it. She's standing near the back, arms at her sides, clearly letting the others have their shot.
Maura hurls the bouquet over her shoulder. It arcs through the air in what feels like slow motion, spinning end over end toward the crowd of reaching hands.
The bouquet falls directly into Liz's hands.
Holy sh?—
She looks down at the flowers in her hands, and then her eyes find mine across the dance floor.
Liz smiles.
Not the polite smile. Not the performance smile.
That smile. The real one. The one that lights up her whole face and makes my heart feel too small to contain everything I feel for her.
That breathtaking smile I am so fucking in love with.
She runs to me—holding the bouquet, laughing—and throws her arms around my neck. I catch her automatically.
"I caught it," she says against my shoulder, breathless and giddy.
"I saw." My arms are around her waist, holding her close.
"Your turn is next, I guess." She pulls back enough to look at me, and there's something in her eyes—something bright and hopeful and terrifying.
"Sure, no pressure."
She leans in for a kiss, and I meet her halfway.
The kiss starts soft—her lips on mine, gentle pressure, familiar territory we've mapped a couple of times this weekend.
