Page 119 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

As Juliet reaches the end of the aisle, she throws me a wink. My knees wobble a little.

I watch her step away and then turn to the bridal side, her gaze on the end of the aisle, where Bea will show up any moment on Bill’s and Maureen’s arms.

But I don’t glance toward the end of the aisle. Not yet. Because Juliet is all I can look at, as light glances off her cheekbones, her full, soft lips. A dark tendril of hair sweeps across her face, and she tucks it behind her ear, then readjusts her grip on the delicate bouquet in her hands. My heart clutched when I overheard Bea talking to her last year about what size bouquet would be comfortable, because she didn’t want Juliet to hold something that would be hard on her wrists and fingers. I love the way Juliet’s sisters love her, in the big and small ways, that they cherish her the way I try to every day.

As Kate finishes her stroll down the aisle, she joins Juliet, shoulder to shoulder. She grins at Christopher and leans past Juliet, pointing to her cheek, mouthing,You’ve got something right there.

“Woman,” Petruchio mutters roughly. In my peripheral vision I catch him wiping away another tear from his face.

The sound of quiet acoustic guitar, its plucked-strings melody echoing in the air, grows richer, as the other guitarist joins in, loudand lively. My gaze finally follows Juliet’s, landing where her sister Bea stands in her long lace dress at the end of the aisle, arms locked with her parents’, a flower crown of yellow and blue blossoms woven around her dark hair, a matching bouquet clutched tight in her hand. Bea beams straight down the aisle at Jamie as she and her parents take their first steps.

A soft sound leaves Jamie, and I glance his way, where he stands in his deep-blue suit, eyes fixed on Bea’s, hand over his heart, fingers curled into the fabric, like it’s too much, he can’t contain it,everythinghe feels as he watches her walk toward him.

I know that feeling. I feel it every day I wake up to the sight of Juliet in my bed, snoring softly, mouth parted, her hair a wild, dark mess spilled across her pillow. I just lie there, watching sunrise warm her skin through the curtains, the rise and fall of her chest with each steady breath, and it feels like a miracle. That she loves me, that she’s made her life here, that it’s not a wild, far-off hope that one day she won’t just agree to make her life here for now but for always.

I’ve had a ring in my pocket for ten months. I bought it the morning of the day that Juliet moved in, because I already knew what I’ll know for the rest of my life—that I love her with all my heart, that I want every day she’ll give me, that I want to build a life with her and do my damn best to make her endlessly happy.

So many times I’ve almost done it, dropped to one knee, scrounged around within myself for words that could possibly do justice to how much I love her, how deeply I want our happily ever after. But it’s a bit intimidating, proposing to someone who’s read eight hundred (and counting) romance novels, who cries her way through every swoony, extravagant rom-com love declaration; someone who has such a beautiful way of expressing loving sentiment.

I’m not a man of extravagant words, much as I try. I’ve read my fair share of romance novels the past year, too, and every rom-com movie night, I sit on the couch with Juliet in my arms, trying to soak up every detail from those books and films, to figure out the perfect way, the perfect time, to ask her to be my wife. It’s never felt like what I planned would be enough, would sweep her off her feet the way I want to. I could kick myself for exhausting the most romantic gesture I’ve still been able to think of to date—serenading her on the guitar while she stood above me on my balcony.

I watch Juliet as she takes Bea’s bouquet and hands it to Kate, who smoothly adds it to her own. When Juliet turns back, as her eyes meet mine, it hits me square in the chest, the knowledge, the understanding:

There’s no such thing as the “perfect” moment or words. Or maybe it’s just that perfection is much simpler than I thought. Maybe perfection isn’t thehoworwhenbut thewhat—the truth, that I love Juliet and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Maybe that’s enough.

As if she knows what’s brightening inside me like a flame bursting to life with the rushing air of realization, Juliet smiles wide. I smile back.

Just over a year ago, Juliet and I pinkie-promised each other honesty always, never to hold back or hide our truth.

I can’t wait one more day to keep my word.

—

“Will!” Sula and Margo’s daughter, Rowan, yells my name at the same moment she connects with my legs, her arms wrapping tight around me. “Let’s dance!”

“I just escaped Eleanor,” I whine to myself, but I still scoop up Rowan, because I’m a sucker.

Over the past year, I’ve become another honorary uncle to Rowan, my go-to Guess Who partner for game nights in the city, and fellow lover of dogs. I adore her, and if I weren’t the closest I’ve been tofinallycatching Juliet’s parents to ask for their blessing after trying like hell the past three hours, I’d agree to dance in a heartbeat.

Maureen and Bill arerightthere, talking closely with my parents. It would be perfect.

“Willllll!” Rowan pleads. “Dance!”

“Come on!” Eleanor yells from the dance floor, doing the moonwalk. “You just danced with me! What’s stopping ya?”

I sigh and look up to the sky, begging for a way out of this that won’t crush little Rowan’s heart.

When I glance back down, my gaze instantly finds Juliet across the dance floor, where she’s standing with Toni, Hamza, Kate, and Petruchio, her head thrown back in laughter. As if she’s sensed me staring at her, she turns; her gaze meets mine. A smile warms her face as she glances down at Rowan in my arms, Eleanor shimmying toward me.

“I really am such a sucker,” I grumble, spinning with Rowan toward Eleanor.

“Wheeee!” Rowan squeals.

We dance our way through the song with Eleanor—a snappy number I don’t recognize but that seems to hold a special nostalgia for Jamie and Bea, who are dancing their asses off on the dance floor, smiling wide. When the music finishes, I’m saved from a feisty preschooler’s demand for an encore when her mothers swoop in and scoop her up.

“Let’s give Will a chance to charm someone else,” Margo says.

Sula winks at me, then gestures behind her shoulder, to where Juliet’s parents are now sitting at their table on the edge of the dance floor, no one else around them. “Go get ’em,” she says.

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