Page 117 of Strictly Pretend

Exactly how we want it.

The sun is going down, casting a candy pink glow over the little spit of water – technically the Atlantic Ocean – that separates us from the mainland. There’s a string quartet on the stage playing a Taylor Swift song I’ve forgotten the name of, though Linc is humming away because he’s the world’s biggest Swiftie.

I turn to look at the chairs laid out on the risers that we had erected to cover the sand. They’re full of our family and friends, but we still managed to keep the numbers low. My brothers and their families are here, along with my dad and moms and a few old friends we both invited, including Cassie and Mia and their husbands. Plus our guest of honor, Tex, who’s proudly wearing his mom’s wedding ring around his neck again.

Linc clears his throat and I see Emma walking down the path that leads to the beach, her hand tucked into her Granddad’s arm. The ocean breeze lifts her hair as they make their way to the water’s edge to join us.

The string quartet seamlessly switches over to a beautiful version of Pachelbel’s Cannon. My breath catches as the woman I love walks closer. She’s wearing a simple lace dress, one I know Rita spent weeks making, using Emma’s grandmother’s dress as the base. It’s high on the neck and long on the sleeves and emphasizes every single curve on her body.

Her red hair is loose, tumbling over her shoulders. She looks like a character from a Thomas Hardy book, all rural and pretty and more than a little bit wild.

And then our eyes meet. Her lips curl into a smile and I’m grinning back.

She’s about to be even more mine. And I’m here for that.

As they walk down the aisle, Emma and her granddad are all smiles. They’re nodding at friends and family, and then one of my nieces calls out to Emma that she looks like a princess and everybody laughs.

Like me, my nieces and nephews are in love with this woman. She’s a natural with kids. We’ve talked a lot about whether we want children of our own – either by adopting or with medical intervention – but right now we’re in agreement that we’re good. We love spending time with my family. And whenever we do we’re surrounded by kids.

But we like it being just the two of us, too. Or three – because when we’re not alone or with my family, we’re with her granddad and his friends, listening to them shoot the breeze. They’re fun and they’re irreverent and most of all they’re goddamn card sharks who are constantly trying to swindle me.

And I love every single one of them.

“Here she is,” Granddad says, his voice sounding like he’s a delivery man. “All yours.” He holds her hand out and I take it.

“You’re wrong,” I say. “I’m all hers.”

“You’re both each others,” he tells us. “That’s how it works. Now shut up, I have a reading to do.”

This was the one thing Emma insisted on. That her granddad did a reading before we get married. I take her hand, my eyes never leaving her face as I hear the shuffle of her granddad’s feet as he walks to the podium.

“This isLove Poem Number Three,” he says into the microphone. “By Sally Robbins.” He clears his throat and slides his reading glasses on.

Two souls, like wandering streams,

meeting in a boundless sea?—

gentle tides, weaving through time,

now flowing together as one.

Love, pure in its essence,

a dance of joy and grace,

where every touch,

every whisper,

brings us closer still.

We are stardust from distant skies,

designed for one another

in the pauses between breaths,

in the quiet that speaks forever.

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