Page 70 of Rhett & Moses
Moses nodded, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. “She said her mother has started calling more regularly. Not her father yet, but... it’s progress, I suppose.”
“More than you’ve had with your parents,” I observed gently, aware of the lingering pain their continued distance caused, despite Moses’s outward acceptance.
He shrugged, a gesture I’d come to recognize as his way of acknowledging hurt while refusing to dwell on it. “Their choice. I’ve made mine.”
The simple statement contained volumes, about chosen family versus biological ties, about prioritizing authentic relationships over obligatory ones, about the life we were building together, free from the constraints of others’ expectations. It was a philosophy we both embraced, though arrived at through different paths.
“Any word from Maxwell about their adoption process?” I asked, changing the subject to something more hopeful. Our friends had begun the journey toward parenthood several months ago, a complex and often frustrating bureaucratic maze that tested even Cole’s legendary patience.
“Still waiting,” Moses replied. “But he sounds optimistic. The home study went well, and they have an excellent support network in place with the guys in New York. I mean they have enough aunts and uncles to support and help them if they need the support at all. Imagine keeping Hardin or Kellan away. Or us for that matter.” He chuckled. “It’s just a matter of time now.”
I nodded, trying to imagine Maxwell and Cole as parents, it was both terrifying and heartwarming as a concept. They would make excellent fathers, I had no doubt: supportive, loving, and grounded in the kind of security that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what matters most.
“And what about us?” I asked, the question emerging before I’d fully formed it in my mind. “Have you thought more about what we discussed last month?”
Moses turned to look at me, his expression thoughtful. “Marriage, you mean?”
I nodded, remembering the late-night conversation that had begun casually enough but quickly evolved into something more profound; a discussion about legal protections, shared assets, the formal recognition of what we both already knew to be true.
“I have,” he admitted, setting his coffee mug on the small table between our chairs. “And I think... yes. For all the practical reasons we talked about, but also because I want to stand up in front of the people we care about and make those promises formally. I want that moment with you.”
Relief and joy flooded through me, not because I doubted his commitment, but because the idea of marriage held significance for me that went beyond the legal benefits. It represented adeclaration, a celebration, a milestone in the journey we were crafting together.
“But,” Moses continued, a hint of mischief entering his expression, “if you think this means I’m agreeing to a big, elaborate wedding with all the traditional trappings, you’ve severely miscalculated who you’re dealing with.”
I laughed, the sound echoing across our peaceful property. “Trust me, I know exactly who I’m dealing with. Something small, meaningful, and just the people who matter most to us. Here, maybe? In the garden next spring when everything’s in bloom?”
Moses reached for my hand, our fingers interlacing with practiced ease. “That sounds perfect. Though it does raise the question of who we’d actually invite. Our guest list would be... unconventional.”
“Bronwyn, obviously,” I began, playing along with the hypothetical planning. “Maxwell and Cole. Vanessa, if she’s available. My sister and her family. A few close friends from Boston, your regulars from the bar.”
“A motley crew,” Moses observed with a smile. “But our motley crew. The people who’ve supported us, individually and together. The ones who showed up when it mattered.”
The concept resonated deeply; our wedding, like our home, and like our relationship itself, would be built on authenticity rather than convention, on meaningful connections rather than obligatory invitations. It would reflect who we were, separately and together, rather than adhering to external expectations or traditions.
“We could send an announcement to the Gomillion High Alumni Association afterward,” I suggested with mock seriousness. “For the next newsletter. ‘Rhett Callahan and Moses Morley, the unlikely pair, finally got their act together after twenty years of unnecessary separation.’”
Moses laughed, the sound warming me more than the morning sunshine. “I can just imagine Tom Jenkins choking on his coffee when he reads that thinking how the hell did Moses Morley end up with an architect.”
“Don’t you mean how I ended up with the owner of many fine bars?” I chuckled before winking. “Worth the price of a stamp, then,” I declared, squeezing his hand gently.
We fell into comfortable silence, watching as a pair of cardinals flitted between the trees at the edge of our property. The female settled on a branch near the porch, observing us with bright, curious eyes before rejoining her mate in the dappled shade.
“I never pictured this,” Moses said after a while, his voice soft with wonder. “Even in my most optimistic moments after we reconnected in Gomillion, I couldn’t quite imagine... this. This house, our businesses thriving, this life we’ve built. It felt too perfect, too much to hope for.”
I understood completely. Our journey had not been without challenges, the logistical complications of maintaining ties to both Boston and Atlanta, the occasional friction as two independent adults adjusted to shared space and decision-making, the inevitable stresses of running businesses while renovating a house. But those challenges paled in comparison to the joy of waking up together, of sharing both burdens and triumphs, of building something lasting and real.
“I think that’s why it works,” I replied, watching a butterfly land on one of Moses’s carefully tended lavender plants. “Because we don’t take it for granted. We know what it’s like to lose each other, to live with regret and unresolved questions. Everything since then, every day together, every challenge overcome, feels like a gift rather than an entitlement.”
Moses nodded, his expression suggesting he was turning the concept over in his mind. “That makes sense. Though I hopeeventually we can just... relax into it. Trust that it’s real and lasting without constantly comparing it to what we lost before.”
“I think we’re getting there,” I assured him. “Each month, each project completed, and each routine we’ve established, they’re all the building blocks of that security, that certainty.”
“Speaking of projects,” Moses said, shifting topics with the ease of someone comfortable in both introspection and practicality, “have you thought more about the workshop renovation? Now that the main house is finished, it seems like the logical next step.”
I had indeed been thinking about the weathered outbuilding we’d discovered during our first visit to the property. What had once been a simple storage shed had featured prominently in my daydreams over recent months; it had transformed in my mind’s eye into a woodworking studio where I could explore the tactile creativity that had always balanced my more technical architectural work.
“I’ve drafted some preliminary plans,” I admitted. “Nothing elaborate, just clearing out the space, reinforcing the structure, adding proper ventilation and lighting. A workbench along the north wall, storage for tools, and maybe a small wood kiln for drying lumber.”
