15. Amanda
— ? —
Amanda
Seven months later, the morning of my wedding, I wake up calm.
Not nervous. Not afraid. Not running through logistics or seating charts or all the things that could go wrong.
Just calm.
***
The cabin smells like coffee and wildflowers.
Roman made breakfast - warm biscuits and fresh berries from the garden - and we eat together at the small kitchen table, not talking much, just being. The silence between us is comfortable now. Familiar. The kind of silence that comes from knowing someone so well you don’t always need words.
“Ready?” he asks when we’re done.
“Almost.”
I stand up. Kiss him on the forehead.
“I need an hour. Then I’ll meet you in the garden.”
***
My dress isn’t white.
It’s pale blue - the color of the sky on a clear morning. Simple. Soft. Something I chose myself, not something Julian’s mother approved or a stylist recommended.
I slip it on in the bedroom. Look at myself in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me isn’t the one who stood in this same pose six years ago, wearing eight thousand dollars of silk and the desperate hope that marriage would make her enough.
This woman has short hair and tired eyes and scars she can’t see.
This woman spent two years in prison for a crime she didn’t commit.
This woman clawed her way back from the dead and chose to live anyway.
The divorce was final in the spring. Julian signed from his cell - no contest. I’ve been Amanda Reyes again for months.
“Not bad,” I tell my reflection. “Not bad at all.”
***
I braid wildflowers into my hair.
Daisies. Black-eyed Susans. Little purple things I don’t know the name of. Roman planted them all, and I picked them this morning while the dew was still on the grass.
No veil. No tiara. No jewelry except the ring on my finger - Roman’s grandmother’s ring, simple and beautiful and real.
I slip on flat sandals. Comfortable. Easy to walk in.
No more ankle straps.
***
The garden is transformed.
String lights wound through the arbor. White chairs set up in two short rows. A simple altar decorated with more wildflowers and the same reclaimed wood Roman used to build this place.
There are only a handful of guests. Roman’s lawyer - the one who helped free me. David Okafor, the witness whose sworn statement first cracked the case open. A few people from the town nearby who’ve become friends these past months.
And Vivienne.
She’s in the back row, Thomas on her lap. We’re not friends. We may never be friends. But she’s here, and that means something.
It means I’m choosing to move forward instead of staying stuck in the past.
***
Roman waits at the altar.
He’s wearing a simple gray suit. No tie. His hair is a little too long, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and he looks like himself - not some polished version designed to impress strangers.
When he sees me, his face does something complicated.
Joy and relief and love and wonder, all mixed together.
“Hi,” I say when I reach him.
“Hi yourself.” His voice is rough. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m terrified.”
“That makes two of us.”
***
The ceremony is simple.
No priest - neither of us is religious. Just a local officiant who knows our story and keeps things short.
“Roman and Amanda have written their own vows,” she says. “Roman?”
He takes my hands. Looks into my eyes.
“Amanda. I’ve loved you since the night before your wedding - the wrong wedding, the one that should have been ours.
I’ve loved you through distance and silence and years of watching you belong to someone else.
I’ve loved you through prison visiting rooms and cold showers and nights when you couldn’t stop shaking. ”
His voice cracks.
“I promise to love you through whatever comes next. The healing and the setbacks. The good days and the days when the walls close in. I promise to hold you when you’re falling apart and celebrate with you when you put yourself back together.
I promise to be your partner, your protector, your person - for as long as you’ll have me. ”
I’m crying.
I don’t care.
“Amanda?”
I squeeze his hands. Take a breath.
“Roman. I spent five years with the wrong person, trying to be enough. Trying to earn love that was never really offered. Trying to shrink myself down to fit into a life that was never meant to be mine.”
I look at him - really look.
“You saw me. Not the version I was performing, not the assistant or the wife or the prisoner. Me. The woman who laughs at her own jokes at two in the morning. The woman who falls apart on bathroom floors. The woman who’s still learning how to be whole again.”
My voice steadies.
“I promise to choose you. Every day. Not because you were useful in a war, but because you’re the person I want beside me in peacetime.
I promise to love you - the scars and the patience and the man who planted a garden just to give me something beautiful to look at.
I promise to build a life with you that has nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the future. ”
Roman’s eyes are wet.
“Then by the power vested in me,” the officiant says, “I pronounce you married. You may kiss.”
He kisses me.
And the handful of people in our garden cheer.
***
The reception is informal.
Food on long tables. Wine in mismatched glasses. Music playing from a speaker Roman set up that morning.
I dance with my husband - my husband - under the string lights, and I think about all the parties I hosted for Julian. The crystal and the champagne and the crowd watching, judging, waiting for me to make a mistake.
This is better.
This is real.
“Happy?” Roman murmurs against my hair.
“Getting there.”
“What do you need?”
I pull back. Look at him.
“You. Just you.”
***
The guests leave as the sun sets.
Vivienne is one of the last to go. She approaches me with Thomas asleep on her shoulder, her expression uncertain.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she says.
“Thank you for coming.”
We stand there for a moment. Two sisters who used to share everything. Two women who may never share anything again except blood and Thomas.
“I’m trying,” she says quietly. “To be better. For him.”
“I see it,” I say. “That’s enough for now.”
She nods. Walks away.
I watch her go, and I feel something shift inside me.
Not forgiveness. Not yet.
But maybe the beginning of letting go.
***
Roman finds me in the garden after everyone has left.
“Hey, wife.”
I smile. “Hey, husband.”
“Ready to go inside?”
“In a minute.” I look around at the flowers, the lights, the arbor he built with his own hands. “I just want to remember this.”
“Remember what?”
“This feeling. Being happy. Being safe.” I lean back into him. “I spent so long being afraid that I forgot what peace felt like.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m remembering.”
***
The cabin is warm.
Candles lit. Fire crackling. The bed made with fresh sheets that smell like lavender.
Roman closes the door behind us.
“Amanda.”
I turn.
He’s looking at me the way he looked at me under the arbor. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.”
He crosses the room. Cradles my face in his hands.
“I’ve imagined this night for five years.”
“Was it worth the wait?”
He kisses me softly. Once. Twice.
“You’re worth everything.”
***
He undresses me slowly.
There’s no urgency tonight. No desperation. No grief.
Just us.
The pale blue dress falls to the floor.
“Hold still.” He reaches up, starts pulling the wildflowers from my hair one by one. They scatter across the pillow like tiny stars. “I want to remember this.”
“Remember what?”
“Every second.” He plucks out a sprig of baby’s breath. “My wife. In our bed. On our wedding night.”
Wife.
The word does something to my chest. Cracks it open and fills it with light.
“Say that again.”
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “My wife.”
I pull him down and kiss him - slow, deep, tasting wine and cake and forever. His hands slide over my bare shoulders, down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth.
“You married me, remember?” He grins - that crooked smile I fell in love with and refused to admit.
“Vividly.”
He kisses down my throat. My shoulders. The soft skin just above where my bra begins. Then he reaches behind me, unhooks it, and tosses it aside.
“God.” He cups my breasts in his hands, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I arch into his touch. “I can’t believe I get to do this for the rest of my life.”
“Better make it good, then.”
He laughs - actually laughs, warm and rumbling - and bends to take my nipple in his mouth. I sigh, threading my fingers through his hair, letting the pleasure wash over me.
This is different. Everything before was either frantic with need or heavy with grief. This is joy. Pure and simple.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I murmur.
“Then do something about it.”
I sit up, push his jacket off his shoulders. Unbutton his shirt slowly, pressing kisses to each inch of skin I reveal. The compass. The Latin words. The heart.
“I love your tattoos,” I say against the compass. “I love your skin.” I kiss down to his stomach. “I love the way you taste.”
“Amanda-”
“I love that you waited for me.” I unbuckle his belt. “I love that you never gave up.”
“I never could.” He catches my hand, pulls me up to look at him. “Not on you. Not ever.”
He kisses me again, and we fall back onto the bed, a tangle of half-removed clothing and warm skin. We finish undressing each other between kisses - his pants, my underwear, his socks (which makes us both laugh again, because socks are ridiculous and we’re giddy and married and happy).
“Hi,” I whisper when we’re finally naked, finally pressed together from chest to hip.
“Hi, wife.”
“Hi, husband.”
He traces a finger down my body - from my throat to the curve of my waist to my hip. “I want to take my time tonight.”
“We have nothing but time.”
“We have forever.” He kisses my shoulder. “But I’m starting with tonight.”
***