Chapter 49 The Ceremony
THE CEREMONY
ASHLEY
Beyond the courtyard, on the large covered terrace, chairs line the aisle in neat rows, more of them filled than I’d expected.
Faces I know, faces I don’t—friends from Providence, family from both sides.
All these people who love Luna and Noah enough to follow them onto a ship and up into the hills of Mexico to watch them say “I do”.
The band has switched from background music to something more deliberate: a slow acoustic guitar with a hint of Mexican bolero in it.
Tay goes first.
She steps out, bouquet in hand, dress swaying, and floats down the aisle with a calm, easy smile.
Then it’s my turn.
I hook my fingers a little tighter around my bouquet and take a breath. People look at me, smile, and I do the same—trying to soak it in, trying not to think too hard.
At the front, I take my place off to the side, facing the aisle.
The boys are next.
Max and Blakey appear together, looking like the cutest miniature adults.
Tuxedos to match Noah’s, bow ties both a little crooked, and shoes so shiny I could probably see my reflection if I tried.
I make myself really look at them, because I know how this goes—how moments slip past when you aren’t paying attention.
These two suave almost eight-year-olds won’t be like this forever.
Soon they’ll be racing ahead of me, shrugging off my hand, and I’ll wonder how the boys who once fit so perfectly in my arms are already standing so tall.
They start down the aisle with a sort of half-jig, half-strut, each holding a hand in the air, twirling what I hope aren’t the actual rings on their little fingers. A few guests chuckle under their breath, Mom presses a hand to her heart, Roger pops up and snaps their picture, and someone sniffles.
Me. I’m the one sniffling.
Once they’ve each delivered their rings—Luna’s to me, Noah’s to Simon—they scamper over toward the first row, where my mom is waiting to corral them.
I stand there, taking it all in. The flowers. The arch. The sunshine. The cool breeze.
The people.
And the fact that somehow, despite missing licenses and runner-up photographers, forgotten phones and carsick kids… we’re here.
Then the music shifts again—same guitar, but slower, sweeter. Everyone rises.
Luna appears at the end of the aisle.
With one arm tucked through Beckett’s and the other holding her bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath, she takes her first step. But it’s her face that holds me—her eyes drifting over the room, searching, until they finally find her groom.
And when they do, certainty settles there, as if the world has narrowed to the single man waiting at the end of the aisle.
My sister—the girl who once stole my clothes and hid my diary—looks… so very grown up. Happy.
Time does that strange thing it always does at weddings.
It freezes. And it speeds by.
One moment, she and Beckett are starting down the aisle, the next she’s at the front. He kisses her cheek, murmurs something I can’t hear, and then he’s gone—slipping into the front row beside my mom, with Max and Blakey flanking him like bookends.
I can feel him, even from here.
Not physically. Just… his presence. Anchoring.
The way he leans toward our boys when they fidget. The way his attention never strays as Rocky starts the ceremony, his jaw set, expression unreadable.
Luna and Noah say their vows under the arch, voices soft but steady, each promise more tender than the last.
And underneath their vows, I hear my own. The ones I made to Beckett. The ones I still mean.
I’m all in.
But the not-knowing hangs there. Just beyond the sunset and the string lights and the music.
What happens after the cruise?
That question presses at the edges of my thoughts like wind rattling against a door I don’t want to open.
Beckett hasn’t told me everything, but he wouldn’t hurt people. He’s not like that.
And every time that little thread starts tugging, I remind myself of who he is, and I focus on the ceremony.
Which, like all really good weddings, turns out perfect because of, not in spite of, a few hiccups.
The microphone gives one sharp squeal before Rocky smacks it back into submission, a breeze keeps tugging Luna’s veil sideways until Noah gently straightens it with a grin, and at one point Luna has to pause her vows because she’s laughing and crying at the same time.
Rocky’s smile goes wide as he looks between them. “By the power vested in me by the worldwide internet,” he says, earning a ripple of laughter, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Noah, man, you can now kiss your bride.”
Noah doesn’t hesitate.
He cups Luna’s face oh, so tenderly, and when he kisses her, the courtyard erupts—cheers, whistles, applause.
Then, making the most of the moment, Noah deepens the kiss and smoothly dips her backward, one arm strong around her waist.
Luna laughs against his mouth, one leg kicking up in a perfect storybook moment. Her skirt flares, the ballet slipper flashing, and my veil—her veil now—slips right off the back of her head and drifts to the ground like a cloud.
I step forward automatically, like I’m there, but also not, and scoop it up before anyone can step on it.
The lace slides through my fingers, soft and familiar. And for half a second, it’s all I can focus on—the texture, the tiny stitches I’d sewn, the weightlessness of it.
And as I smooth the tulle through my fingers, a stray thought sneaks in—how easily things slip. How something can fall away without anyone even noticing.
By the time I straighten, the couple is upright again, foreheads pressed together, both of them grinning like idiots.
The sun sinks behind the horizon at that exact moment, washing the sky in gold and pink, and for one suspended breath it feels like the entire universe is glowing just for them.
They walk back up the aisle hand in hand, petals floating through the air around them. My heart squeezes so hard it almost hurts.
My baby sister.
Married. Happy. Certain.
And I cling to that certainty—hers—like it might be contagious.