Page 128 of Wild Then Wed
Maybe because she doesn’t expect anything from anyone. Maybe because she’s scared of what happens when you do.
But me?
I’m the one who watches her too long and thinks too much. And I hate that I’m the one standing here, dressed in a too-stiff suit, tying a bow tie that feels like a noose and wondering how it would feel if this wasn’t all fake.
The silence stretches and I realize I haven’t moved. I’m still standing in front of the mirror like I’m waiting for it to show me a version of myself I can live with. I clear my throat. Adjust my cuff again—not because it needs it, but because I need something to do with my hands.
“Hart?”
Dom’s voice cuts through the quiet, and I blink, realizing he’d asked me something—how I’m feeling, I think—but I never answered.
“I’m okay,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I’ll be okay.”
Dom doesn’t answer right away. He’s still behind me, arms crossed, watching the way a man watches the horizon before a storm—patient, knowing whatever’s coming can’t be stopped. He’s always been like this. Never pushing, just standing there until the truth has no choice but to crawl out of me on its own.
“You know,” he says finally, voice steady as stone, “you’re not replacing Jules by doing this.”
I look up, meeting his eyes in the glass.
“You’re not erasing anything, either.”
No sugarcoating. No careful tiptoeing around the wound. Just the truth, laid bare between us like a knife on a table.
I nod once. I know he’s right. But knowing it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“And it’s okay,” he adds, voice dropping lower, “if this thing with Wren maybe isn’t as fake as you’re pretending it is.”
The words land like a sucker punch to the ribs.
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Jesus. Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “I’m just saying, you’re allowed to feel something. At some point, you have to give yourself permission to be happy again, Sawyer. You’ve gotta let yourself live a bit. Have some fun.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, glancing at him. “When the hell did you get so wise?”
Dom’s grin cracks through. “Therapy. I told you. Turns out it’s not complete bullshit after all.”
I shake my head, but there’s a smile tugging at the edge of my mouth.
“Ask me that again though after I shotgun some beers at your reception.”
That gets me. A real laugh this time—rough and short but genuine. It breaks the tension in my chest just enough to let some air in.
Dom walks over and claps a firm hand to my shoulder. “Let’s go play husband, brother.”
* * *
The venue isfull.
Every chair is filled. People are lined up along the back wall, shoulder to shoulder. Some are even pressed into the side aisles, fanning themselves with the paper programs Mom had printed last week. A few toddlers squirm in their parents’ laps, and somewhere near the middle, I hear a baby start to fuss before a soft shushing settles it.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m a Hart. Vaughn Hart’s son. My family name has a way of drawing people out in this town, whether you ask them to come or not. My dad might be half retired from public life, but people still love him. Still talk about him like he walks on water. And Mom? She’s basically Summit Springs royalty.
And then there are my siblings. Shit, they could fill two of the rows by themselves.
The venue is beautiful in that quiet, unassuming way. It feels like it’s been holding stories longer than any of us have been alive. The air smells like worn wood and melted wax, the floor creaks under foot like it’s whispering secrets, and the light cuts through stained glass in ribbons of color, painting the pews in blues and golds. Up front, two arrangements of white flowers rise tall and simple.
I walk down the side aisle with Dom a step behind me. People turn. Heads shift. There’s a murmur that rises and falls as I pass, like the sound of a wave breaking then pulling back.
