Chapter 60
CHAPTER
SIXTY
JULIE
I'm standing in front of the mirror in our bedroom, wearing my wedding dress. I recognize myself this time.
The dress is a 1950s vintage find—ivory silk with delicate beading along the bodice and a full skirt that hits just below my knee. It's elegant without being ostentatious. Classic without being boring. It's exactly me in a way my first wedding dress never was.
My mom stands behind me, adjusting the flowers in my hair—white roses and baby's breath woven through in a loose, romantic style. She's already crying, which makes me cry, which means we have to do a careful touch-up of my makeup.
"You look beautiful," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "So beautiful, sweetheart."
"I'm nervous," I admit.
"Good nervous or bad nervous?"
"Good nervous," I say immediately. "The best nervous. I just... I want everything to be perfect."
"It will be," she says. "Because you're marrying the right person this time."
There's a knock on the door, and Jamie pokes her head in. "Oh my God," she says, taking in the full picture of me. "Julie. You look incredible."
"Thanks." I smooth down the skirt of my dress, suddenly aware of every detail. "How does everything look outside?"
"Incredible. The flowers are everywhere. Ryan's dad is fussing with the grill, getting ready for ribs. His mom is taking approximately eight thousand photos. And Ryan is pacing like a nervous wreck, which is flipping adorable."
I laugh despite my nerves. "He's nervous?"
"Terrified," Jamie confirms. "He keeps asking if you're ready, if you've changed your mind, if you're sure about all of this."
"That man. I'm so sure," I say firmly. "I've never been more sure about anything in my life."
My mom squeezes my shoulders. "Then let's go get you married."
The backyard looks like something out of a dream.
Strings of Edison bulbs crisscross overhead, ready to glow once the sun sets.
White flowers are arranged in clusters around the chairs—roses and peonies and wildflowers.
And at the back of the yard here's a small arch decorated with greenery and more flowers.
The officiant is already in place, a kind-looking woman in her sixties who came highly recommended. My mom walks me down the aisle this time. It's what I've always wanted.
Ryan is wearing a charcoal suit with a white shirt and a soft blue tie that matches his eyes.
His hair is perfectly styled, and he looks so handsome it almost hurts to look at him.
But the moment he sees me, none of that matters.
His face transforms—wonder and love and absolute certainty written all over his features.
When I reach him, he takes my hands, and his are shaking slightly.
"Hi," he says softly.
"Hi," I say back.
"You're fucking beautiful, Buttercup."
"You're not so bad yourself, Shawshank."
The officiant smiles and begins the ceremony. We exchange vows that we wrote ourselves. When Ryan reads his, his voice cracks with emotion, and I'm crying so hard I can barely see him.
"I promise to love you exactly as you are," he says.
"I promise to show up for you, to fight for you, to never make you doubt that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I promise to build a life with you that's authentic and genuine and ours.
I promise to be your home, Julie. Always. Because you are absolutely mine."
I can barely get my own vows out through my tears, but I manage to tell him that he saved me.
That he showed me what real love looks like.
That I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure he knows how much he means to me.
And then the officiant is pronouncing us husband and wife, and Ryan is kissing me while our small family cheers.
When we pull apart, I kick off my heeled sandals because they were just for the ceremony. Ryan immediately shrugs off his tie and jacket, tossing them onto one of the chairs. Now it's perfect. We're just ourselves now. No pretense. No performance.
Just us.
There's no DJ, no string quartet. But there is a bluetooth speaker, which is infinitely better. We dance to The Luckiest by Ben Folds, and I weep through most of it. I chose the song, but Ryan says it fits both ways. And it does.
After dinner-- hot dogs, ribs, and burgers-- he takes my hand and leads me to one of the Adirondack chairs, then sits down and pulls me into his lap. I settle against him with my head on his shoulder taking it all in.
"Best day of my life," Ryan says softly, pressing a kiss to my temple.
"Perfect."
"Are you happy?"
I look around at our backyard—the home we've built together, the life we're creating, the people we love surrounding us. I think about how far I've come. How I survived something that could have destroyed me. How I found my way back to myself and, in the process, found him.
"I'm so happy," I say. "I've literally never been happier."
"Good," he says, wrapping his arms around me tighter. "Because I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you stay that way."
And I believe him. Completely.
The house is quiet when we finally slip inside, our small wedding party having left an hour ago with hugs and promises to call tomorrow. Ryan locks the door behind us, and I lean against it, suddenly aware of how surreal this all feels.
"Hi, Mrs. Callahan," he says, and there's a playfulness in his voice that makes my heart skip.
"Hi, Mr. Callahan," I say back, and then I'm laughing because it sounds so formal and so us at the same time.
He crosses the room and pulls me into his arms, spinning me around until I'm dizzy and breathless. When he sets me down, he's grinning like he's won the lottery.
"What?" I ask, still laughing.
"I married you. In our backyard. With flowers in your hair." He reaches up and gently touches one of the white roses still woven through my curls. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"I'm covered in dirt and my feet are filthy now. There's a spot of mustard on my dress too," I laugh.
"I know," he says, and there's something tender in his smile. "It’s perfect. I wouldn’t have said you could get more beautiful, but you did it."
He takes my hand and leads me upstairs to our bedroom.
He leads me into the bathroom and turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it's warm and perfect.
He helps me out of my dress carefully, kissing my shoulders as the fabric falls away.
Then he undresses and steps into the shower with me.
Under the warm water, he washes the dirt from my feet, his touch gentle.
He plucks the flowers from my hair and sets them on the shower bench, then washes and conditions my hair.
His hands move slowly over my skin—my shoulders, my back, my arms—and I do the same for him.
There's an intimacy to it that goes beyond the physical. This is us, starting something sacred.
When we're dry, he tells me to wait. He leaves the room for a few minutes before calling my name. The candles flicker as I step into the bedroom, the honey-apricot scent of one my favorite blends filling the air. Ryan stands by the bed, looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world.
"Come here," he says, and his voice is rough with something that makes my whole body warm.
I cross to him, and he meets me halfway, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones. He kisses me slow and deep, like we have all the time in the world, like he's memorizing the taste of me. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark.
"I'm going to take my time and worship you," he says, and the words send a shiver down my spine. "Every inch. Will you let me?"
I nod, unable to speak, and he guides me to the bed.
He lays me down gently, the candlelight dancing across his skin as he helps me get comfortable.
Then he's kissing down my body - my throat, my breasts, my stomach - until his mouth is between my thighs and I'm gasping, my fingers tangled in the sheets.
His tongue finds me, slow and deliberate, and I arch off the bed with a cry that sounds like his name. He doesn't rush. He builds me up with steady, devastating pressure, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still while he works me toward the edge.
"Ryan," I gasp, and I'm already close, already trembling. "Please make me-"
He lifts his head, his mouth wet, his eyes burning into mine. "Not yet. I want you sucking me while I make you come."
I crawl up his body and turn, positioning myself above him, my knees sinking into the pillows on either side of his head. His cock is right there, thick and hard and straining toward me, and I lower my mouth onto him just as his tongue finds me from below.
The sensation is overwhelming - his tongue working me from underneath, his cock filling my mouth, the intimacy of it almost too much.
I brace my hands on his thighs and work him with my lips and tongue, feeling him groan against me, the vibration shooting through my whole body.
I'm on top but he's in control, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me down onto his mouth, his tongue relentless.
I can feel him getting harder, can taste the salt of him, can feel my own orgasm building with every stroke of his tongue. He licks me slow and devastating, his hands spreading me open for him, and I'm moaning around his cock, the sound muffled, desperate.
When he sucks my clit into his mouth and presses his tongue against me hard, I come apart.
I cry out around him, my whole body shaking, my nails digging into his thighs.
I stop sucking his cock because I need more air, my body undulating against his mouth as his wicked tongue keeps me coming.
He keeps licking me through my orgasm, gentle now, drawing it out until I'm boneless and gasping.
Then he's lifting me, turning me, flipping me onto my back. He moves between my legs and pushes inside me in one slow, deep thrust. I gasp at the fullness of him, at the rightness of it.
"Look at me," he says, his voice rough. He frames my face with his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "Don't look away. I want to see you and I want you to see me."
I lock eyes with him and he starts to move. Slow, deep strokes that hit exactly where I need him. The candlelight flickers across his face, and I can see everything in his eyes - love, devotion, the raw need.
"You're my life," he breathes, and he says it like a prayer. "My everything. My Julie. My wife."
"Yes," I whisper, and I'm already building again, already close. "Ryan, I'm-"
"Watch me," he says, his voice strained. "Watch me come apart for you. Only ever you."
His thrusts get harder, deeper, and I'm moaning, my legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. I can feel him swelling inside me, can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes never leave mine.
"Now," he groans. "Come with me. Now."
I shatter. I cry out his name as my orgasm crashes through me, and I watch his face as he follows me over, his eyes locked on mine, his body tensing, his breath catching as he spills inside me.
He keeps thrusting through it, slow and deep, drawing out every pulse, every aftershock, until we're both trembling and breathless.
He collapses beside me, pulling me into his arms, our hearts pounding in sync. The candles still flicker, honey-apricot thick in the air, and I can feel his smile against my hair.
"Hi, wife," he whispers.
I laugh, breathless and happy and utterly spent. "Hi, husband."
He kisses my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. "I love you, Mrs. Callahan."
"I love you too, Mr. Callahan."
We lie there in the candlelight, tangled together.
His arm is heavy across my waist, his breathing evening out against my neck.
I think about how close I came to never knowing this.
To spending my life with someone who performed intimacy instead of living it.
Instead, I'm here. In this bed. With this man who looks at me like I'm the answer to something he's been asking his whole life.
I drift toward sleep with his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, and I know that this is it. I'm never letting it go.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and the smell of coffee. Ryan's side of the bed is already cool, which means he's been up for a while. I pull on one of his t-shirts—it hangs past my hips—and pad downstairs barefoot.
He's in the kitchen, humming to himself as he cracks eggs into a bowl. He's wearing sweatpants and nothing else, and his hair is still messy from sleep. He looks happy. Genuinely, completely happy.
"Good morning, wife," he says when he sees me, and the word still feels new and wonderful.
"Good morning, husband," I say back, moving to wrap my arms around him from behind. "What are you making?"
"Breakfast. Thought we could eat on the patio. It's a beautiful day."
I help him cook, and it's so easy and comfortable. I chop vegetables while he handles the eggs.
We eat on the patio with our feet up on the chairs, watching the birds flit through the trees. Our backyard looks like a dream.
"So," Ryan says, setting down his coffee cup. "Are you still glad you decided we should stay home for our honeymoon?"
I look at him, and I think about all the places we could have gone.
We have the time and the money and the freedom to do anything we want.
But then I look around at our backyard, at our house, at this man sitting across from me in his sweatpants with bedhead and a smile that makes my heart feel too big for my chest.
"Absolutely. I wanted to stay right here. With you. In our house. That we built together."
He smiles. "Nowhere in the world has ever felt as good to me as being anywhere with you."
God, I love him. So damn much. "Thank you," I say softly.
"For what?"
"For this. For all of it. For waiting for me. For believing in me when I didn't believe in myself. For building this life with me."
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Julie, you did all of that. I just got to be here for it. I just got to love you."
I think about the woman I was a year ago—trapped in a marriage built on lies, doubting herself at every turn, afraid to trust her own instincts.
I think about the journey that brought me here, to this man, to this house, to this life.
I think about how I survived something that should have destroyed me.
How I found my way back to myself. How I learned that real love doesn't manipulate or control or demand.
This is what real love looks like. Not grand gestures or expensive gifts or three-hundred guest weddings with couture dresses.
The real stuff is, undeniably, so much better than the illusion ever was.