Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Galeana
It’s past midnight, and the house is quiet now. The kind of quiet that only settles after a big event—when the music has stopped, the laughter has faded, and everyone has either gone home or well, I don’t know where Ledger is.
The point is that I have the place all to myself.
I’m perched at the massive marble island in the kitchen, still in my wedding dress but barefoot, my heels abandoned somewhere back in the hallway. My hair’s a wreck, a few pins barely holding the curls together, and I probably look like the less glamorous, slightly crumpled version of a bride you’d find on some “After the Party” picture.
But I don’t care. Because right now, it’s just me and the leftovers.
I stab my fork into the last bite of filet mignon, already eyeing the slice of wedding cake sitting in front of me. There’s something about sneaking into a pristine kitchen in the middle of the night to eat leftovers straight from the fridge that feels both rebellious and comforting. It’s a ritual I haven’t let go of—a habit passed down from my mother.
I was a teenager when it started. She’d come back from a date, kick off her shoes, and we’d curl up on the couch with the food she’d brought home. We’d split everything down the middle—especially dessert. Mom had a sweet tooth like no one else, and we’d fight over the last bite of tiramisu, laughing like two kids who didn’t have a care in the world.
The memory sneaks up on me now, and I have to blink quickly as tears well behind my eyes. I clear my throat, trying to swallow them down, but one escapes anyway. I swipe it away with the back of my hand, irritated.
Today, I miss her. God, I miss her so much.
Maybe if she were here, none of this would have happened. She’d sit across from me, a fork in hand, and say, “Don’t do it, Gale. Leave the money to those greedy assholes. You have it all.”
But did I? Did I really have it all?
The fork trembles in my hand as I stare at the cake, tears blurring my vision. I thought coming to Birchwood Springs would bring me closer to what I was looking for—a community, a family, a place to belong. And yet, as I watched the guests swirl around me today, smiling faces in borrowed happiness, I felt completely alone.
I don’t belong here. This town will never accept me and there’s no family left. No Doherty blood and Monroe . . . was that even a last name that existed in my lineage? I don’t know my father’s name so it’s not his. Who am I?
The thought pierces through me, sudden and certain, and I let the tears fall this time. They’re quiet, restrained tears—the kind you cry when there’s no one to hear you. My shoulders tremble slightly as I think of her—of the nights we’d sit together with takeout containers and stolen bites of dessert.
“Mom, where are you?” I wish this was like one of those times. Those were the nights we’d talk about love. Real love. The kind that makes you feel like you’re flying and falling all at once, the kind that shifts your whole world into focus.
“Gale,” she used to say, her voice soft but steady, “when you find it, you’ll know. And when you know, don’t let the noise of the world ruin it. Make it yours.”
I sniff, setting the fork down and brushing my damp cheeks with my hands. Her words feel closer tonight, like she’s here with me, sitting across the counter with her teasing grin and a forkful of cake.
But this isn’t her. This isn’t us.
And this wedding—no matter how beautiful, no matter how perfect it seemed—wasn’t mine.
I press my fork into the frosting of the cake, drawing patterns absentmindedly, when I hear footsteps.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Ledger’s voice is low and smooth, breaking the silence but not intruding on it.
I look up, surprised to see him standing there. His tie hangs loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks like he stepped straight out of an old Hollywood movie. The crisp white shirt clings just enough to hint at the strength beneath, and the perfectly tailored tuxedo trousers sit low on his hips, as if even formal wear can’t quite tame him.
His hair is a little mussed, like he’s run his hand through it one too many times tonight, and the edges of his calm composure have softened now that the night is over. The faint stubble along his jaw catches the low kitchen light, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
Of course he looks good in a tuxedo—too good. Like the kind of man you’d see in a magazine, the photo captioned with some insufferable line about timeless elegance. Except this isn’t a magazine. He’s here, in my kitchen, looking at me with those flirty eyes that have a way of pulling you in and making you shiver without a touch.
I glance at my dress. “I haven’t even been upstairs. It’s leftover time,” I say.
“Leftover time?” he asks, confused.
“It’s a tradition I had with Mom,” I say with a small shrug, as if that explains everything.
He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can’t quite place—somewhere between amusement and something gentler, softer. “Adorable.”
“Adorable?” I scoff, even as my cheeks warm. “I’m sitting here eating cold steak and leftover cake in a wrinkled wedding dress. I’m not sure that’s the word you’re looking for.”
Ledger pushes away from the doorway and crosses the kitchen. When he sits on the stool across from me, he’s so close I can see the faint shadows under his eyes—like the exhaustion of the day is finally settling in, softening the edges of his usual composure.
“I think it is,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Real.”
I look at him for a beat, surprised by the sincerity in his tone, before picking up my fork and offering him a bite of cake. He hesitates only a second before leaning in and taking it, his lips curving into a faint smile as he sits back.
“This is what I used to do with my mom,” I admit softly, not looking at him as I swirl my fork through the frosting. “When she came back from her dates. She’d always bring the leftovers home. Especially dessert. We’d split it and talk about everything—whether the guy was worth a second chance or not.”
Ledger says nothing, just watches me, his gaze steady and unhurried.
“And tonight,” I continue, “this wedding . . . it was beautiful. Perfect, even.” I pause, the words catching somewhere deep inside me as I try to push them out. “But it wasn’t mine. It didn’t feel like me. It felt like I was playing a part—like someone else was wearing this dress and walking down the aisle.”
I meet his gaze then, my voice soft but certain. “When I get married for real—when I fall in love—I want something different. Something small. Just the two of us, maybe by the ocean, during the sunset.” I smile faintly at the thought. “Something quiet, but mine.”
Ledger is silent for a moment, his eyes holding mine like he’s memorizing every word. Then, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter as his voice drops low. “You’ll have it.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“You’ll have exactly that,” he says, his tone steady and sure. “When it’s real. When it’s yours.”
I search his face, my heart giving an unsteady lurch at the way he looks at me—like he’s already picturing it.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The kitchen is quiet again, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant creak of the old house settling.
Then Ledger reaches for the fork still in my hand and scoops up a bite of frosting, smirking as he pops it into his mouth. “You’re right about leftovers, by the way. This cake’s better the second time around.”
I laugh, the tension easing as I swipe the fork back from him. “Told you.”
And just like that, the moment settles—soft and fleeting, but something I know I’ll remember. Because for all the pretending we’ve done today, this, right here, feels real.