Twenty – Two #3
We stand there, listening to the music, the murmur of the crowd, the high, sharp laughter of children. Grace stirs and lets out a contented sigh, then settles back into sleep.
“I’m happy for you,” I say. The words sound small, but I mean them so much it feels embarrassing.
Elsie looks at me the way she looked at me that day in the café, after Ethan left, after the world had crumbled and I was still standing in the ruins. The way she looks when she’s waiting to see if I’m going to break or if I’ve figured out how to be okay again.
“You look like yourself again,” she says.
“I think I am,” I answer, and I really mean it.
We clink glasses. No big speeches. No tears. Just two women who have survived themselves and are now quietly rooting for each other’s happy endings.
Back at the tables, the Rewrite Club is in full session: Luca, Liv, Adrian, me, Elsie.
The conversation is a whiplash of topics.
First: wedding fashion (“The lilac was a risk,” says Luca, “but it worked, you’re welcome”), then: the cake (“If it’s not chocolate, I’m not staying,” says Liv, with real menace), and finally, as always, the old war stories.
Liv insists she did not cry during the ceremony. “It was a medical event,” she says. “Allergies and, I don’t know, laser light from those awful Edison bulbs. Also, if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lying and I’ll sue them for slander.”
Luca pats her hand. “We all saw, darling. You’re not less of a sociopath for having tear ducts.”
Liv narrows her eyes. “You wept like a broken fountain. The man next to you offered you a tissue and you sobbed directly into his shoulder.”
“He had a very absorbent jacket,” says Luca, unbothered.
Adrian wraps an arm around him. “I loved every second of it,” he says, and Luca beams.
They turn on me, next.
“So,” says Luca, “our resident celebrity. Has fame gone to your head yet?”
I shake my head. “It’s all a scam. I still have to clean baby vomit off my shoes. If anything, I am now actively humiliated in more countries.”
Liv snorts. “Your ex is apparently giving interviews about how he ‘inspired’ the main character.”
I groan. “He’s a villain. How does that even work?”
Luca shrugs. “I read the book. He’s a compelling villain.”
Adrian raises a glass. “To compelling villains. And to better endings.”
They all drink. I join them, the bubbles prickling my nose.
A little later, the band picks up, and the dance floor fills with a predictable wave of children and uncles. Alexander appears at my side looking slightly sunburned from wrangling the kids outside.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. “Perfect.”
He takes Grace, who wakes up just enough to squint at him before deciding he is, in fact, worth the effort. He settles her against his shoulder and sways gently in time with the music, humming a little under his breath.
Across the lawn, Leo is still playing with the other kids. He looks over, sees me watching, and grins, the gap where his front tooth used to be now almost comical.
Liv is still holding court at the table, but something has changed.
She’s being approached by one of Noah’s groomsmen, a tall, easy-smile type with a jaw you could bounce a coin off.
He’s leaning in, saying something, but Liv is completely unmoved.
She takes a sip of her drink and, without breaking eye contact, raises an eyebrow so subtly it might be mistaken for a tic.
The groomsman looks thrilled, like he’s met his match, which means he is in for the ride of his life.
I watch this from across the garden, and the only thing I feel is amusement. For once, I’m not strategizing or calculating escape routes or wondering how the story ends. I am content to let it all just… be.
Grace is asleep again magically, I think weddings must work like melatonin for her, sadly we don't have them often enough for it to matter. Alexander shifts her so that her head rests in the crook of his arm. He looks at me, his eyes so open and steady that for a second I can’t breathe.
“Did you ever think it would end up like this?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not even in my dreams.”
He smiles, slow and crooked. “I like it.”
“Me too,” I say, and it’s the truth.
We stand at the edge of the lawn, looking out at the tables and the fairy lights, at Leo shrieking with laughter, at Liv preparing to eat a man alive, at Elsie and Noah dancing under the stars.
From somewhere behind us, Leo yells, “Is there going to be cake soon?!” with the voice of a child who has been promised the world.
“I hope so,” I shout back.
He runs over, out of breath, and tugs at my hand. “Mum, is the cake going to have a dinosaur on it?”
I look at Alexander.
“It might,” he says.
Leo’s face lights up like it’s Christmas and his birthday rolled into one.
“Best. Wedding. Ever.”
He runs off again. Alexander laughs.
The band is playing. The fairy lights are on. My daughter is asleep in the arms of a man I love. My son is somewhere out there, conquering the world one bread roll at a time.
I find that I am not waiting for the other shoe to drop.
With what seems like an exceptional amount of trust, I just let myself have the happy ending.