To step back.To let him “take care” of me in a way that shrinks my world.
Something tells me no.But I’ll ask him about it anyway.Because this time, I won’t just assume.I’m not going to be a passive player in this relationship like I was before.
Right now, I’m standing in his beautiful house with his arms wrapped around me, watching my son laugh under the glow of patio lights, and I feel something stronger than doubt.
I feel anchored.
For better or worse.
I’m in this.
And in no time at all the organist will start the march, and it’ll be“Here Comes the Bride”for real.
Funny thing is I’m not nervous about it.Not like I was the first time I got married.Not when I didn’t know what I was getting into.
I’ve known J.T.for years.Know what he’s like.And with him, I feel eager, excited, and maybe a little bit happy.
The evening settles soft and golden over J.T.’s property, the kind of quiet mountain dusk that makes everything feel slower, gentler.
My mind replays dinner tonight.It had been simple—pasta, roasted chicken, and the salad J.T.insists makes him feel “less like a caveman.”
Evan ate like an ogre.Two full bowls of pasta and talked more than I’ve heard him talk in days, asking J.T.questions about the goats, the swans, the old barn, and whether the chickens really know their own names.
Now the three of us are walking through the backyard.
The air smells like pine and warm earth, and somewhere in the distance I can hear the faint rush of the creek that runs along the lower edge of the property.
The mountains surrounding Woodhaven are painted in shades of blue and lavender as the sun dips lower behind them.
Evan walks ahead of us, his sneakers kicking lightly at the dirt path as we pass the goat enclosure.
“Hey!”he laughs when one of the smaller goats sticks its nose through the fence.
“That one’s Peanut,” J.T.says beside me.
Evan turns, eyes wide.“You name them?”
J.T.shrugs like it’s no big deal, though I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Some, but Maddox did most of that.I just feed ‘em.”
Evan crouches near the fence, and the goat sniffs at his fingers.
“He’s funny,” Evan says.
“He’s an asshole.He’ll eat your shoes while you’re still wearing them,” J.T.replies dryly.
Evan bursts out laughing.
My heart squeezes.
We keep walking past the pens and toward the far edge of the property where the trees thin out around a small clearing.
The pond sits there like a piece of glass, reflecting the sky as twilight creeps across the mountain.
Two white shapes glide slowly across the water.
The swans.
