10. Grayson
10
GRAYSON
W e go for a walk because Margot says we need air, but I can tell she’s really just trying to outrun the chaos curling around her thoughts. She walks fast, boots kicking up gravel, jaw tight, and I match her pace without saying much at first. The laptop back in the cabin is still open to that blurred photo of us outside the chapel, mid-laugh, arm-in-arm. I’m not saying it’s the best wedding photo in the world, but I’m also not saying it isn’t kind of perfect.
The trail behind the cabin winds through trees and brush, sunlight slipping through branches in thin gold lines, peaceful, but not quiet. She’s stewing. I can feel it in every clipped step and tight breath.
“So…” I say, nudging a pine cone with my boot. “Do we register at Crate & Barrel, or are we more of a Vegas-themed Target aisle couple?”
Margot snorts, and there it is, the edge softening. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll design a registry that’s ninety percent USB-powered kitchen tools and glitter shot glasses.”
I grin. “Honestly? Kind of hot.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Yet legally yours,” I grin.
“I swear, if you say ‘ball and chain’ I will throw you into the nearest patch of poison ivy.”
I laugh and bump her shoulder. “You’re the chain, Evans. I’m the guy who keeps running straight into it.”
She pulls out her phone as we slow near a fallen log, scrolling through the drive Olivia sent. “Okay, this one’s inside the chapel. I think that’s you… dancing with the officiant?”
I lean in. “Oh my God. Is that a conga line?”
She zooms in. “That is definitely a conga line, and, wait, am I leading it?”
I bite back a laugh. “You look like the tequila took over your entire soul.”
She groans. “This is not how I imagined my wedding.”
“You imagined it?”
She glares. “Don’t push your luck.”
We keep walking. There’s a new kind of silence between us, not tense, not distant. Just… lived-in. Our steps sync without thinking, and the smell of pine needles and woodsmoke filters through the trees. Birds flit above us. The world is so quiet out here, it makes everything loud inside.
“I still can’t believe we got married by a man in an Elvis jumpsuit who also offered to bless our WiFi,” she mutters.
“To be fair,” I reply, “he had really great posture. I respect that.”
Margot lets out a laugh and it hits me harder than it should. She laughs like the world’s still worth it.
“We are the weirdest almost-couple in the history of love stories,” she says.
“We’re not an almost-couple,” I say. “We’re married.”
“That’s even worse,” she adds.
“You’re smiling again.”
She tries to hide it, but I see it. And I think she knows I do. Back at the cabin, I make peppermint tea and grab the trail mix we both pretend to like. When I hand her a mug, she gives me a look that says she’s still processing everything, and probably ranking my snacks as part of her mental to-do list.
She asks quietly, “Do we tell people?”
“Eventually, or we let them find out in the company newsletter.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You like me anyway.”
“Jury’s out.”
She opens her laptop again but doesn’t do much with it. Just stares at the photo. I recognize that look. It’s the same one she had the day we launched the algorithm. Overwhelmed. A little scared. But determined.
“Do you think it means something?” she asks. “That we did it without realizing?”
I close my eyes and lean back. “Sometimes the things that make the least sense are the ones that matter most.”
She asks if I remember what we said to each other that night. I tell her about her lecture to the bartender and how she kissed me like it was the only language she knew. She nearly drops the laptop. I grin. I remember that part vividly. She stretches her legs across my lap, the laptop forgotten. I tease her about the vows. She threatens me about video footage, and then she laughs again, this time quieter. Realer.
A little later, I pretend to sleep while she sits at the kitchen table, her tea untouched, staring out the window. Eventually, I sit up, rubbing the back of my neck. "You’re not fooling anyone, Evans. What are you thinking about?"
She hesitates, then exhales through her nose. "I was thinking… what would it have looked like if we’d done it for real? If it wasn’t Vegas and neon and tequila-fueled karaoke."
I lean against the doorframe, watching her carefully.
She stares at her mug. "I think I’d want something on the coast. Somewhere quiet. Maine, maybe. A little fog. A lot of wind. A simple dress. Olivia crying, Priya pretending not to. And you…”
She stops, eyes flicking up to mine.
I step closer. "Me what?"
She smiles faintly. "You’d be in that navy suit again. Looking annoyingly good. Hair a little messy. Tie abandoned before dessert. You’d kiss me like we wrote the ceremony in code."
I ease into the chair beside her, letting my elbow brush against hers, the soft contact grounding me in the quiet between us.
"And your parents?" I ask, voice low, careful not to shatter whatever fragile thread she’s following in her thoughts.
She huffs a breath that’s part laugh, part exasperation. “My mom would’ve dramatically gasped the moment she saw the coastal venue. Something about the humidity and lighting ruining her hair and the entire aesthetic. She’d probably demand a full do-over with a private florist and imported linens. And my dad? He’d pull you aside mid-reception and hand you a customized spreadsheet labeled ‘Post-Marital Financial Risk Assessment.’”
I chuckle, already picturing it. "I’d survive the theatrics. Especially if it meant kissing you right after."
She doesn’t reply at first. Her gaze drifts to the window again, far away and focused all at once. The quiet stretches between us, not heavy, but full.
"It’s ridiculous," she murmurs, shaking her head just slightly.
"It’s not," I say, softer now. "Not even a little."
Her fingers begin to trace lazy circles along the rim of her mug, her lips parted like there’s more she wants to say but isn’t quite ready to speak aloud. “I can’t believe I’m even entertaining the idea. That I’m picturing it. The dress, the setting, the people. You.”
“I can,” I answer, without hesitation.
She turns her head, meets my gaze, and for the first time in hours, maybe days, she really lets me see her. The fear, the hope, the what-if of it all. Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to measure how much she can trust this moment. And I hold that look, don’t shy away, don’t crack a joke to fill the silence. My hand finds hers beneath the table, fingers curling gently over her knuckles. Because whatever she’s imagining…It’s starting to matter to me, too, and I want to be the one she keeps imagining it with.