Epilogue Part One Jay #2
Rosalyn's husband Mitchell is there, quietly directing traffic, making sure everyone finds a seat, setting up last-minute details.
He's a tall, steady man who doesn't say much, but when he shook my hand after I asked for his blessing to marry Ivan, his grip was firm and his eyes were genuinely kind.
"Welcome to the family, son," he said, and that was enough. That was everything.
The officiant—a woman named Pastor Daniels from a small inclusive church nearby—takes her place under the arch. She's in her sixties, with silver hair and warm brown eyes, and when Ivan and I met with her last month to plan the ceremony, she listened to our entire story and actually cried.
"You two have already survived the hardest part," she told us, taking both our hands. "The wedding is just the celebration of everything you've already overcome."
The string quartet Rosalyn hired—really just four college students who play at events for extra money—begins a soft instrumental piece. The signal that it's time to start.
Ivan appears at the back door, and everything else in the world fades completely away.
He's wearing a navy-blue suit that makes his shoulders look broader, his waist narrower, the fabric perfectly tailored to fit his lean frame.
The white shirt underneath is crisp and clean against his skin, open at the collar just enough to show the hollow of his throat.
A forget-me-not is pinned to his lapel, the same delicate pale blue as his eyes.
God, those eyes.
The same pale blue I remember from when we were kids, the color of a winter sky just before snow falls. The color I memorized in Henderson's kitchen, across that table where we ate in silence.
There's a flush on his cheeks—nervousness or excitement. His jaw is clean-shaven, showing the sharp masculine line of it, the face that's become more angular since we were teenagers but still holds the same fundamental gentleness underneath.
He's been the most beautiful thing I've ever seen since I was fourteen years old and didn't have words for what that meant.
Rosalyn stands beside him, offering her arm. She's walking him down the aisle. When she suggested it last month, Ivan cried for ten minutes straight, and Rosalyn held him and called him her son.
The music shifts to something slower. A processional.
Diana and Destiny go first, walking side by side down the aisle in perfect sync, scattering flower petals from small wicker baskets.
They're serious and focused, determined to get it exactly right, their faces set in concentration.
When they reach the front, they separate to stand on either side of the arch, perfect and poised.
Then Caleb.
He walks carefully, the velvet pillow held out in front of him like he's carrying the crown jewels. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration, and I hear a few guests chuckle softly with affection. When he reaches the front, he comes to stand beside me, looking up with a triumphant grin.
"I didn't drop them," he whispers loudly.
"I knew you wouldn't," I whisper back.
And then Ivan.
He and Rosalyn begin their walk down the aisle, and I forget how to breathe all over again.
Every step brings him closer. Every step carries the weight of all the years we spent apart, all the searching, all the hoping, all the nights I lay in that motel room wondering if I'd ever see him again.
I watch him come toward me, and I memorize everything. The way his lips are pressed together, fighting emotion that's clearly overwhelming him. The way his pale blue eyes never leave mine, not for a single second, like I'm the only thing in the entire world that matters.
Rosalyn releases his arm when they reach the front, kissing his cheek and then mine before taking her seat in the front row beside Mitchell. Ivan steps up to stand across from me.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi," I whisper back.
Up close, he's even more gorgeous. His eyes are swimming with tears that haven't fallen yet, making the pale blue even more vivid. I want to reach up and touch his face, trace the line of his cheekbone, brush my thumb across the corner of his mouth where I know a dimple hides when he smiles.
But I keep my hands at my sides and let Pastor Daniels begin.
"Dearly beloved," she begins, her voice warm and steady and carrying across the small gathering, "we are gathered here today in the presence of family and friends to witness and celebrate the union of Ivan Collins and Jay Morrow."
Ivan's hand finds mine, and I hold on tight enough to leave marks.
"Marriage is not something to be entered into lightly," Pastor Daniels continues.
"It is a commitment, a promise, a declaration to the world that two people have chosen each other—not just for today, not just for the good days, but for all the days that follow.
The hard ones. The impossible ones. The ones where choosing each other is the only thing that gets you through. "
She pauses, looking at us both with eyes that have clearly seen their share of weddings, but still seem genuinely moved by ours.
"But I suspect," she says gently, warmly, "that Ivan and Jay already know something profound about commitment. About promises kept across years and miles and impossible circumstances. About choosing each other, again and again, even when the world tried its hardest to pull them apart."
I squeeze Ivan's hand harder. His fingers tighten around mine until I can feel my pulse throbbing.
"Love is patient," Pastor Daniels says, beginning the familiar passage. "Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."
Ivan's eyes are locked on mine. The pale blue is almost silver in this light, shimmering with unshed tears that make them look like water.
"Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."
Those eyes. I could drown in those eyes. Even when his face got fuzzy in my mind, even when I couldn't quite recall the exact sound of his voice, I remembered his eyes.
"Love never fails," Pastor Daniels finishes softly.
She lets the words settle over us.
"Ivan and Jay have written their own vows," she says, looking between us.
"Words they want to speak to each other, promises they want to make in front of all of you.
These are the vows that will guide their marriage, the foundation on which they will build their life together.
These are the promises they're choosing to make. "
She turns to Ivan. "Ivan, whenever you're ready."
Ivan takes a shaky breath. He reaches out and takes both my hands in his, his fingers trembling visibly against mine. His are so full of emotion I don't know how he's still standing upright.
"Jay," he begins, and his voice cracks immediately on the single syllable, breaking apart.
He laughs wetly, wipes his eyes with his shoulder, takes another breath.
"Jay, I've been trying to write these vows for weeks.
I kept starting over, throwing things out, telling myself nothing was good enough, nothing could possibly capture what you mean to me, what you've always meant. "
He pauses, steadying himself visibly. I watch a tear escape and track slowly down his cheek. He doesn't bother to wipe it away.
"But then I realized—the words I need have been with me since I was twelve years old. You gave them to me the night before they took you away from me."
My throat tightens painfully. I know what's coming, and I don't know if I can survive it.
"You held my face in your hands," Ivan continues. "You looked into my eyes, and you said, 'Whatever happens, don't forget me. Remember my name. Say it back to me so I know you'll remember.'"
He squeezes my hands so hard it almost hurts, but I don't care. His eyes bore into mine, and I can see the twelve-year-old boy in there, the one who was so terrified of losing the only person who ever protected him.
"And I said it back," Ivan whispers. "I said everything you told me to remember.
Jason Michael Morrow. Birthday March 15th.
Born in Macon, Georgia. Mother Rebecca Morrow, maiden name Thorne.
Scar on the left hand from the glass bottle.
" He shatters completely on the next words.
"Safe place is a beach with white sand and blue sky and seagulls. "
I'm crying now. I can't help it. The tears are streaming down my face unchecked, and I don't even try to stop them.
He takes a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself enough to keep going, his chest heaving.
"For seven years, those were the words I held onto like a lifeline.
Every single night before I fell asleep, I said them out loud in the dark.
Jason Michael Morrow. March 15th. Macon, Georgia.
Rebecca Morrow, maiden name Thorne. Scar on the left hand.
Beach with white sand and blue sky. Over and over, like a prayer.
Like a promise I made to you that I wouldn't break. "
He lifts our joined hands and presses them against his chest, against his heart, and I can feel it racing.
"I never forgot. Not once. I never stopped looking for you. Because you asked me to remember, and I did. I remembered every detail, every word. And when I finally found you—" He has to stop, has to breathe before he can continue.
"When I finally found you," he says again, barely above a whisper, "I was so scared that I was too late. That I'd find you just to lose you again."
"You weren't," I choke out.
"I know." He smiles through his tears, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "Because you're here. You're right here in front of me, and you're alive, and you're healthy, and you're choosing me."
He takes another breath, and when he speaks again, he's steadier, full of absolute conviction.