Chapter 47
brOOKE
The invitation came in the mail on a Thursday afternoon. I met Cade’s eyes over our mugs (mine tea, his coffee).
Fifteen years since graduation. How was it possible so many years had flown by?
Almost five years since I’d moved back to Vermont, into the charming yellow bungalow where my best friend still lived.
Four and a half years since I’d moved into Cade’s renovated home on Redbud Lane.
Three years since we’d gotten married, in a small backyard ceremony with Whit and Nic beside me and Bryan and Owen beside Cade. Our parents sat in chairs in the yard to watch the ceremony. Even Val flew out for the wedding, and Gloria sent her love in a card.
Precocious as ever, six-year old Ivy had declared herself “too grown up” to be a flower girl, instead insisting on dressing in a dress that matched Whit’s bridesmaid dress and carrying her own small bouquet down the aisle we set up in the Adlers’ backyard.
Of course we’d included the dogs. Echo, our ring bearer, had worn a velvet bow tie collar that matched the groomsmen colors, with our rings attached to it. Maple was our flower girl, wearing a floral wreath around her neck in the same flowers as the bouquets.
Three years.
We had developed a beautiful routine together in that time.
We were living our own version of happily-ever-after, which I had finally realized didn’t have to look exactly like everyone else’s.
For Cade and me, love mostly involved little daily acts that showed we saw and accepted each other. We showed up, every day, committed to our friendship, which was at the very heart of our love story.
We knew each other’s orders at all our favorite local eateries.
We had “our” shows, the ones we had alerts for, the shows we’d text and remind each other that there was a new episode coming out on Tuesday.
We had our sides of the bed, our preferred positions to cuddle while we watched TV, then the way we’d shift into our sleeping positions when we’d start to drift off.
He’d never forget to kiss my forehead when either of us left for a shift, and I never again missed an opportunity to say the words “I love you” while staring into those uniquely-colored eyes.
I told him how much I appreciated him every time he filled my water, brought my medicine to me, or cooked me dinner.
Most nights we laid on our sofa with my feet in his lap, and he’d rub them absently while we vented about our days.
We’d had more movie nights than I could count.
He’d fill my car up with gas every week, and I’d order him new socks when I saw his started to get holes.
He somehow knew when I’d want coffee in the morning or when I’d prefer tea, based on my mood or the current stressors in my week. And he’d always put it in my favorite mug.
He knew which towels I preferred, the ones that didn’t irritate my skin. He cut the itchy tags out of my shirts and always made sure we stayed stocked up on my preferred fragrance-free lotion.
He was my soft place to land when things got hard, my personal cheerleader when my brain went dark.
We knew each other’s quirks, all the little habits we’d roll our eyes about when we were out with couples.
“He always shoves his socks under the bed,” I teased to our new friends on game night. “Even though the hamper is right there.”
“Mmhmm,” he admitted, nudging my hip playfully. “Well, she always saves leftovers from restaurants just for me to have to throw them away two days later,” he ribbed back.
That was us, perfectly imperfect.
I gestured to the reunion invitation between us.
“Do you want to go?”
He shook his head, hitting me with the full force of that dimpled grin.
“I say we skip it,” he said firmly. “I’ve already had the most important reunion of my life.”