29. Alejandro
Alejandro
The light hits right where they promised it would—low and warm. It softens the edges and makes everything look like a scene from a movie. The golden hour.
December in Miami doesn’t do snow, but whoever built this place made winter happen anyway. There's white bougainvillea tangled through archways, frosted branches tucked into tall glass vases, candles everywhere—down the aisle, under the altar canopy, on every ledge—so the whole courtyard glows.
I stand at the altar and try not to lock my knees. My palms want to sweat, my lungs want to sprint.
Gael nudges my shoulder once—no words, just that 'breathe, chico' look—and I nod without taking my eyes off the aisle. I’ve run out in front of eighty thousand people with less adrenaline than I have right now. I’d run a hundred more miles if it meant she’d get here faster.
The quartet begins “To Build a Home,” and the first piano notes thread through the air. That’s when the noise in my head goes quiet. It’s just the song, the aisle, and the place where the world is about to change forever.
The wedding party starts down. Andrea first, a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, because she knows what it took to get here and she's happy it's finally happening.
Camila next, hand light on her belly, eyes shining so hard I have to swallow.
Our guys line the side—Niko, Carlos, Diego—clean suits and dumb grins that hold nothing but joy.
But Gael is right there, right by side, steadying me with his hand on my shoulder when it feels as if my knees will give.
My heartbeat stumbles and then stops.
Senor Ayala steps into the archway with Beatriz on his arm.
My chest goes hot and then cold, and all I can do is plant both feet harder into the ground so I don’t move. I have never seen anything like her.
The silk crepe catches the last of the sun and turns it into something soft on her skin. The lace on her sleeves looks like it was sketched right onto her arms. The veil floats behind her like it was told not to touch the ground. She is every good thing, gathered, and more.
She finds me. She always does. And whatever I was about to do—blink, breathe, stand—changes. Her father’s jaw works once, and then he tightens his grip on her hand like he’s releasing her and keeping her at the same time.
Mamá, Papá, you can’t see this, but I wish you could.
The thought lands and lifts, all in one heartbeat. I hope they’d like who I am in this suit, in this moment, in front of this woman.
They arrive. Senor Ayala leans in to kiss her temple, and then he turns to me.
We’ve shaken hands before. We have not done it like this.
He offers his hand, and I meet it. His eyes hold mine just one second longer than they need to.
Something like cuídala, take care of her, moves there, and I nod once.
He places her hand in mine, and everything in me exhales as we step up together.
The officiant speaks, and I hear none of it for a few lines because my body is still relearning how to operate while her fingers are in mine.
When sound returns, it’s the good kind---a murmur of friends, a faint chime of glass somewhere, the whisper of her dress when she shifts.
The sky leans toward gold as the candles pick up the job of the sun.
Our vows come next, my stomach twisting with nerves, love, and an indescribable feeling that’s taking over every part of my body.
Bee goes first. She squeezes my hands once and laughs under her breath, the tiniest nervous sound.
She looks at me like we’re the only two people here, and honestly, that’s how it feels anyway.
“Alejandro,” she begins, and my name in her voice does that thing it always does—turns me inside out and then puts me back in order. “I’ve loved you since we were kids.”
She smiles softly, like she’s remembering the little dirt-covered boy who brought her yellow weeds, thinking they were flowers. And she treasured them anyway. She kept them in her math book like they were little pieces of gold.
I don’t forget things like that. I never will.
“You were my best friend before you were anything else,” she says. “You made me laugh when things got hard. And when life felt heavy, you reminded me who I was.”
It hits fast. Her mom. The quiet we all lived through after. I feel it move over us and then through us.
“We lost each other once,” she goes on, steady, “and it almost broke me. But we found our way back.”
Me too, I think, because the space she left never filled, not once, not with anything I tried to pour into it. I learned that the loudest stadium in the world can still feel empty when the person you love isn’t there to hear it.
“I used to think love had to be perfect to last,” she says, eyes bright and sure. “But you taught me it just has to be chosen—every single day. So that’s my vow to you. To choose you. Even when you steal the covers. Even when you think you’re right and I know you’re wrong.”
People laugh. I do, too, because she’s not wrong. She never is. Not that I’m going to say that in front of witnesses.
“I’ll still choose you,” she finishes. “Because you’re my best friend, my safe place, and the only man I can picture standing beside for the rest of my life.”
The breath I’ve been holding goes somewhere useful again. I can carry the rest, I think.
Give me the heavy, mi amor.
I’ll take it every time.
Now it’s my turn. And although I have notes in my pocket, I don’t need them.
“Bee,” I say, and the word cracks a little, so I clear it and keep going. “You’ve been mine in some way since we were kids. Back when I was a dirty, grass-stained boy trying to make you laugh—and somehow, that was enough.”
I look at her, and it steadies me. “When I lost you, I tried to drown it out with noise—games, trophies, crowds. It wasn't enough. None of it ever filled the space you left. It never could. That space was always yours.”
Next, I promise what matters. No drama, no big metaphors, just what I intend to do.
“I promise to never waste this second chance. To carry the weight when you’re tired.
To make you laugh when life feels impossible.
To keep my mouth shut when you’re right—” laughter again, because I play off her vows—“and to fight for us, never against us.”
I swallow once and say the part I want her to hold onto when days get long. “I promise to love you out loud, so there’s never a doubt. To make our life together the place you feel safe, and the place you want to come home to.”
My voice dips on the last line, but I make it out. “There’s never been anyone else. There never will be anyone else. It’s you. It’s only ever been you.”
A breeze moves through the courtyard, picking up the stray strands of her hair and brushing them over her face as her eyes hold mine.
The officiant nods and we turn to Gael, who steps forward. He presses my ring into my palm—matte band, simple, exactly what I wanted—and then offers me hers, a slim gold band that slides under her engagement ring like it’s part of a set when it's not.
“Repeat after me,” the officiant says.
“I give you this ring,” I say, “as a sign of my love and my faith, in all that we are, and all that we will be.”
Her fingers tremble. Mine do too. She slides the band onto my hand and says the same words back to me. It should be a simple moment, but God, is it far from it. It feels like the earth stopped, granting us an extra second to feel this moment. The moment our lives truly start.
“By the power vested in me,” the officiant says, warm and sure, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He smiles at me. “You may kiss your bride.”
I don’t rush, but I don’t waste it either.
I take her face in both hands and kiss her like this is the first and last and every kiss in between, like the two of us just walked the longest road to meet exactly here.
The courtyard erupts—cheers, claps, a whistle I know is Niko’s because he only has one volume.
We walk back down the aisle to strings and the last rays of sunlight, the low hum of everybody we love saying our names at once. Someone tosses flower petals. Someone else cries like they’re getting paid for it.
Senor Ayala doesn’t move from the front row right away. He just stands and watches us, chin high, eyes bright. When we pass him, he inclines his head the smallest bit in my direction. It lands in me like permission and pride and 'I see you' all at once.
The reception is a flip of the switch—golden hour turning to twinkle lights, candles multiplied, the 'winter wonderland' sliding from ceremony quiet to party spark.
The tables glow with white runners, glass chargers, little clusters of white roses and greens that look dusted with frost. The air smells like cinnamon and citrus from the sangria, like ropa vieja and arroz from the buffet.
Bee squeezes my hand every time someone shouts “?Felicidades!” and I keep forgetting I can put my mouth on her whenever I want now without scandalizing anybody.
“Ready?” she asks.
“For what?”
“Our song.”
Algo Mágico starts soft, and she looks at me like we’re about to get away with something.
We step out under the lights and find each other’s rhythm in two seconds flat.
The opening is slow, an easy sway, forehead-to-forehead.
Her breath eases my chest, my hands low at the small of her back.
I can feel the whole night waiting for the beat to drop.
When it does, the floor fills. Niko spins Andrea and she lets him, laughing and pretending to hate it.
Gael pulls Camila carefully into a sway and Carlos claps off-beat on purpose just to make las tias yell at him.
Bee leans in during the slow part and whispers, “Remember the night we made this our song?”
“How could I forget?” I murmur against her temple. “My shitty car. Large planes flying overhead. You breaking curfew.”
“We always broke curfew.”