Page 76 of The Unexpected

At the end of the aisle is the makeshift altar, a little rise built of railroad ties and a platform of whitewashed planks. It looks temporary, defiant, like something that could be torn down at a moment’s notice if the neighbors called the city. There are no flowers on the altar, just the riot of wisteria behind it, and the candles that edge each corner, flickering with the smallest tremor of wind.

Hunter stands at the altar in a suit that looks poured onto his body, charcoal with black satin lapels, his hair tamed and a little too short, his face half in shadow. Next to him, Lachlan is a vision in heather gray, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the forearm, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he’s not wearing his clerical collar. The absence of it is as loud as a fire alarm, and when I see the naked column of his throat, I feel a pang of something raw and animal. He’s changed so much to be with me. To be with us, in our taboo relationship, and yet I know he doesn’t regret it one bit.

Both men's eyes are on me, and the heat of it is so real that my legs go weak at the knees.

I take my time walking the aisle. No one gives me away, because again, I’m an iconoclast that way. With every step, the hum of the cello grows, the whisper of the guests drops away, and all I can hear is the click of my heels and the racing of my own pulse.

At the halfway point, Hunter’s gaze meets mine, and he tilts his chin just so. It’s a command: come here, now, I’m waiting for you. Lachlan’s eyes are a blaze of blue, but there’s something softer at the edges, a gravity that pulls at me in a way I have never felt before. I want to run to them, but instead I pace myself, each stride more deliberate than the last.

When I reach the altar, the cello draws to a halt, and there’s a breathless, suspended silence. I turn to face the rows of guests, and the garden is suddenly so silent I can hear the shiver of the wisteria as it drops a petal at my feet.

Hunter is first to speak. His voice is the kind of quiet that makes everyone lean in.

“Stella,” he says, “from the moment you stormed into my life, I knew there was no going back. You’re the only thing in this world that makes me want to be a better man, and the only person who could ever get away with talking to me the way you do. You are my obsession, my joy, my daily addiction. There is not a part of you I don’t crave, body and soul. And I swear to spend the rest of my life giving you everything you want, and then some. Even if it kills me. Especially if it kills me.”

He takes my hand, and the pressure of his fingers is a promise.

Lachlan goes next, his voice rough and a little unsteady, as if it has to travel a great distance to reach the present.

“I’ve never belonged anywhere,” he says, looking past me, then right into my eyes. “Never knew what it meant to be home. Until you. You make me want things I thought I’d buried, and you show me a mercy I don’t deserve. I want to be the man you think I am, every day, for as long as you’ll have me. You’re sacred to me, Stella, and I vow to worship you, protect you, and sin with you, over and over, until there’s nothing left but the memory of us.”

He takes my other hand, and for a moment I am held upright by the strength of them, by the truth of what they’ve just said.

Now, it’s my turn. I should be nervous, but I’m not. The words come out in a rush, like I’ve been holding them my entire life.

“I used to think I was broken,” I say. “Too much for anyone, or not enough. But with you two, I’m not broken. I’m just the right kind of wild, and you’ve never tried to tame me. I want you both—always, at the same time, every hour, every minute. I love you so much I’d burn down the world for you, or let you burn it down around me. I’m not afraid of the darkness, as long as you’re in it with me. I’m yours, Hunter. I’m yours, Lachlan. I always have been. I always will be.”

I hear a sound—maybe a sob, maybe a laugh—from the front row, and I glance over to see Andie with her fist pressed to her mouth, her eyes glistening. Next to her, Thomas hasn’t moved, but his face is proud. I hope he’s proud, at least. Kayleigh is openly crying, and Mary Kate’s hand is clamped so tight on Chloe’s arm I think the girl might faint.

There’s no officiant. No one to say “by the power vested in me.” No priest, no bishop, not even a notary. It’s just the three of us, and the garden, and the wisteria, and the candlelight, and the air so thick with jasmine you could get drunk on it.

Hunter slides the first ring onto my left ring finger. The band is warm, the metal heavier than it should be, and as it clicks home I feel my hand tremble. The engraving presses against my skin: SEMPER FIDELIS. Lachlan does the same, his ring fitting on my right ring finger, the two patterns aligning, catching the light. Perfect, as aways.

The guests don’t clap. They don’t have to. The moment is sealed by the hush, by the way the world shrinks to the space between our hands, by the slow, deliberate way Hunter brings my palm to his mouth and kisses it, and the way Lachlan pulls me in with an arm around my waist and holds me there, tight, like he’s afraid I might slip away if he ever lets go.

I glance back at the crowd, and my mother is sobbing, happy, her tears shining in the gold of dusk.

It is done. We are married, or whatever the world will let us call it. There’s no blessing, just the three of us, standing before a simple altar in a garden that smells like gardenia and sugar and something ancient.

In the darkening blue, the fairy lights come on all at once, and for a second, I think I can see the whole future lit up ahead of me.

I want to run into it, never stop.

Afterward, the garden empties the way a lake empties of swimmers: sudden, anticlimactic, the surface barely rippling with evidence of what just happened. The cellist packs up, the glasses get cleared, the chairs are stacked and carted away by men in all-black. There’s a moment in the hush where it almost feels like none of it was real, like I’ve stumbled into a dream where my mother sobbed through an entire wedding and my father hugged me so long afterwards I thought he might snap my spine.

And then it’s just us: me, Hunter, and Lachlan, slipping up the back staircase while the last of the guests are busy with their coats and rideshares, the three of us high on the scent of wax and wisteria and our own damn audacity.

The master suite is already prepared. There’s a chill from the open window, but the fire is going, flickering blue and orange behind its glass. The bed is turned down, the navy silk duvet strewn with white rose petals, as if some overzealous romantic had decided to dump an entire wedding’s worth of cliché in a single room. I love it. Marta, Hunter’s housekeeper, probably arranged it all, and she’s been a blessing since the moment Lachlan and I moved in.

The air inside is candle-warm and dense, the edges of the room fuzzed out by shadow. There’s a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the sideboard. Lachlan pops it, and the cork ricochets off the mantel. I laugh, almost feral, and Hunter pours us each a glass.

We toast. No words, just the clink and the burn.

I walk to the foot of the bed, every muscle vibrating, and turn to face them. Hunter stands straight, hands behind his back, suit jacket open, eyes all over me. Lachlan’s already lost the jacket, sleeves rolled and shirt half-unbuttoned, bare forearms crossed over his chest. Their eyes strip me before their hands do.

I don’t say anything. I reach behind my neck and find the clasp of my dress—the little hook that’s been itching me all night. It pops open, and the gown slides off my shoulders, catches for a second on my hips, then pools at my feet. I step out, totally nude save for my silver high heels.

Both men go silent. The air is thick, and I can feel their gaze like a force field, prickling every inch of my skin.