Chapter 31
Maggie
By morning, the lake house had transformed.
Danica had taped a color-coded schedule to the fridge, complete with little boxes to check off like the most polite Bridezilla of all time. Maggie hobbled in on crutches, still bleary-eyed, and read it twice before muttering, “Scheduled to the minute mark? Unfair.”
“Organization,” Danica corrected sharply, sweeping by with a garment bag over one arm. “Hair and makeup in the dining room. Florals delivered at eleven. Pete’s tux steamed by noon. Pictures at three sharp.”
The dining room, formerly a place for pot roast and mismatched placemats, now looked like the backstage of a Broadway show.
Curling irons, hairspray cans, lip glosses, and enough eyeshadow palettes to paint a mural were spread across the table.
Danica’s mom, already in a silky robe, sat with hot rollers in her hair, gossiping with Danica’s aunt.
Annie — the neonatologist colleague Maggie had heard about but hadn’t officially met until yesterday — was perched on a chair with a mimosa in hand, laughing at something Danica’s mom had said.
The whole house smelled like hairspray and perfume, layered over coffee and blueberry muffins.
Meanwhile, Pete, Lillian, Izzy, and Gwen had been “banished” to town for massages.
Maggie knew the real purpose was to keep them out from underfoot, though she had to admit the thought of Gwen lying face down on a massage table while some stranger dug elbows into her back was more amusing than it should’ve been.
She was halfway through sipping her coffee when Danica’s mom appeared in the doorway, eyes warm. “Maggie,” she said, clasping her hands to her chest. “I just think it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Your wife flying across the country to be here with you? To take care of you?”
Maggie nearly choked on her muffin. “Oh, I — well—”
Her aunt joined in, fanning herself with a curling iron instruction sheet. “Truly. Like a movie. You should’ve seen the way she was looking at you last night. Oh, my heart.”
Maggie forced a smile, cheeks heating. “She, uh… yeah, it was sweet.” She waved her crutch vaguely toward the chaos of curling irons. “But let’s not get distracted. Today is about Danica, not about me.”
The diversion worked — for about thirty seconds.
From across the room, Kiera piped up dryly, eyes glinting. “Didn’t look very divorced to me.”
Danica, sitting with a stylist brushing through her curls, smirked into the mirror. “Agreed.”
Maggie gaped at them. “Oh, you two are menaces.”
“We prefer the term ‘meddlers,’” Danica corrected with a prim little shrug. “Lovingly.”
“Lovingly, my ass,” Maggie muttered.
By midday, robes were discarded for dresses, and the energy in the dining room shifted from frantic to giddy. Maggie leaned on her crutches by the mirror, smoothing the fabric of her dress down over her hip.
“I’m just saying,” she argued, pointing at her ankle. “I don’t have to wear the boot. It doesn’t go with the outfit.”
Danica spun in her chair, half a curl pinned to her head. “You absolutely have to wear the boot.”
“It ruins the aesthetic,” Maggie protested.
“It prevents further injury.” Danica raised one eyebrow. “Nonnegotiable.”
Maggie groaned. “You think your big fancy med school degree makes you a medical expert?”
“Yes, in fact, it does,” Danica answered firmly but with a sweet smile.
“Fine. But you’re letting me take at least one picture without it.”
Danica considered, then sighed. “One. Just one. And if you so much as twitch wrong, it’s going back on.”
“Deal.” Maggie grinned in triumph.
As the florals arrived, Danica was pacing in her robe, wringing her hands. “What if it rains? What if the tent collapses? What if Pete changes her mind at the last second?”
Kiera set down her mimosa, calm as a mountain. “You’re fine. It’s fine.”
Maggie leaned against the table, tapping her crutch like a gavel. “You’re nervous because you’re in love. That’s normal. If you weren’t jittery, we’d be worried.”
Danica shot her a wide-eyed look. “Really?”
“Really,” Maggie said firmly. “Also, you’re marrying Pete. The only thing she’s going to change her mind about is whether or not to wear socks with her dress shoes.”
That got a laugh, enough to break through Danica’s nerves.
Kiera reached over, squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “Besides, nervous brides make the best photos. Very cinematic.”
Danica groaned, but she was smiling again, cheeks flushing.
Danica’s schedule ticked forward, boxes checked, hair curled, makeup powdered.
The hum of women in various stages of preparation filled the air — laughter, teasing, the occasional yelp as a curling iron got too close.
Maggie sat back in her chair, ankle propped, watching it all with a warmth flowing through her.
This was what she’d missed — the buzz, the belonging, the messy, loud little family that wasn’t hers by blood but hers anyway.
And then, like it always did in moments like this, the ache came sharp: Her mom would have been here, sitting next to Danica’s mom and laughing along.
She would have been here, fussing over Maggie’s hair, telling the wrong stories at the wrong time, sneaking her a tissue before the vows even started.
Maggie could almost hear her laugh blending into the noise, could almost feel her hand on her shoulder — and then it was gone again, just absence taking up space in her chest.
Even with the boot strapped to her ankle, even with Gwen just a room away somewhere in this house, Maggie let herself think that maybe things weren’t as broken as she’d convinced herself. But god, she wished her mom could’ve seen her like this — surrounded, not alone.
The ceremony itself felt like a blur, the kind you almost want to hit rewind on just to catch every detail.
By late afternoon, the lake had turned to liquid silver, the sky streaked with pink. The tent glowed from the inside, lights strung like stars overhead. Guests gathered on the lawn, bundled in shawls and cardigans against the October chill, their breath puffing faintly in the air.
Pete and Danica had insisted on keeping things simple — no cathedral-length trains, no complicated readings — but somehow the simplicity made it perfect.
The aisle was just a wooden walkway lined with jam jars of dahlias and roses from Aunt Jade’s garden.
Maggie had a front-row seat, ankle propped on a pillow, tasked with “sitting still and looking pretty,” which she found both insulting and oddly nice.
The music started, something acoustic and bright, and everyone craned their necks as Pete walked in with Gladys on a floral-embellished leash from one side, Danica from the other. They met halfway down the aisle, both grinning like idiots, and proceeded together. Of course they did.
Danica’s curls caught the last of the sunlight, her dress simple and perfect, the kind of thing that didn’t overwhelm but suited her exactly. Pete looked sharp in her tux, though Maggie caught the glint of mismatched socks peeking from under her hem of her trousers.
Their vows were equal parts sweet and ridiculous.
Danica’s made everyone tear up with soft words about finding someone who saw her for exactly who she was, even when she was obsessing over medical information at midnight.
Pete’s started with “Wendell, you are objectively the hottest doctor alive” and ended with “I can’t wait for every little thing with you.
” Gladys lay down and snored loudly through the event.
The guests laughed, sniffled, laughed again. Izzy actually wiped her eyes, though she tried to disguise it by tugging Kiera closer. Maggie pretended not to notice.
When the officiant — Danica’s aunt, ordained online for the occasion — pronounced them married, Pete dipped Danica so dramatically it made the crowd roar.
Danica squealed into the kiss, clutching Pete’s lapels, and even the swan — lurking ominously somewhere unseen — let out a honk that sounded suspiciously like approval.
The applause rolled across the lawn, glasses clinked, and Maggie found herself laughing through the ache in her ankle, clapping harder than she should’ve. Because really, it was impossible not to.
It wasn’t Bulgaria. It wasn’t the grand European wedding Pete had once wanted. But here, on the edge of a Michigan lake with fairy lights swaying and family buzzing all around them, it was exactly right.
Maggie leaned back against her chair, warmth swelling in her chest, and thought if this is what love looked like — messy, funny, loud, and entirely imperfect — then maybe there was hope for her too.
Applause echoed across the lawn, and Maggie felt the familiar tug in her chest — joy tangled with ache. Like every wedding, it made her remember her own.
It hadn’t been this. Not fairy lights over a lake, not mismatched jam jars and socked tuxedo ankles.
Hers had been in Austin, on a sticky June evening where the air clung to every dress shirt and her curls wilted within ten minutes of walking down the aisle.
They’d chosen an art gallery that doubled as an event space — exposed brick, polished concrete, the kind of venue that looked chic in pictures and echoed in real life.
She remembered the way Gwen’s hand shook when she slid the ring on her finger.
She remembered the way she’d felt: so, so certain.
Certain that she’d chosen right, that whatever life threw at them, Gwen would always be there. That this was their foundation, unshakable, permanent.
But sitting on the edge of Walloon Lake, applause fading, her ankle throbbing inside the boot, Maggie couldn’t help but think about how fragile permanence had turned out to be. How a foundation could crack slowly, invisibly, until one day you looked down and realized you were balancing on rubble.
She pressed her lips together, blinking hard, forcing her attention back to the newlyweds who were glowing under the fairy lights.
It wasn’t about her. It was about them.
Still, as Danica laughed into Pete’s chest and the crowd cheered, Maggie couldn’t help slipping a glance to her left — where Gwen sat quietly, hands folded around her glass, eyes fixed on the couple.
For a flicker of a second, Maggie thought Gwen looked just as lost in memory as she was.