30. Saying I Do #2
He laughs under his breath, and together we slip out the back where Hazel secretly hid our overnight bags in her trunk.
Our honeymoon isn’t a week in a foreign country or a beach escape—it’s a two-night stay in a quiet cabin an hour away, a gift from his parents and the most practical choice for two exhausted, financially stretched adults with a toddler.
And honestly? It sounds perfect. We drive mostly in silence—not uncomfortable, just saturated. Every few minutes, Reid reaches over and brushes his thumb across my knuckles like he’s checking if I’m still there. Each time, my chest warms.
The cabin is small and tucked among trees lit by soft pathway lights.
Inside, someone arranged a basket on the table—snacks, chocolate, a handwritten note from Reid’s mom that says, Be good to each other.
I set the basket aside and toe off my shoes.
Reid locks the door behind us and exhales like he hasn’t breathed properly all day.
“Husband,” I say, testing the word.
He looks over his shoulder, half smiling. “Wife.”
It hits different when he says it—solid, grounding, terrifying in a way that feels almost right. We unpack just enough to stop tripping over things. Then we sit on the couch with our legs tangled, splitting a slice of leftover cake his mom insisted we take.
“This is weird,” I say.
“What part?” he asks.
“All of it. Being married. Sitting here like this. Existing.”
He laughs. “You say that like we haven’t been doing life together for years already.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But it still feels big.”
He rests his hand on my knee. “Anything this important should feel big.”
We stay like that for a long time—quiet, comfortable, full. Eventually, he leans in and kisses me, slow and deliberate, like he wants to savor the moment instead of rush through it. I kiss him back, feeling the weight of the day melt away one breath at a time.
Later, when we finally crawl into bed, I’m so tired I think I might pass out mid-sentence. But Reid curls an arm around me and pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin. I listen to his heartbeat and try to memorize the steadiness of it.
For the first time in a long time, there are no alarms set. No daycare reminders. No schedules pressed against our ribs. Just silence and warmth and the careful hope that maybe this next chapter can hold joy without demanding perfection.
The cabin is still when sleep finally drags me under—quiet in a way our real life never is. And for a few beautiful hours, it feels like we really did step into something new, something untouched by pressure or deadlines or distance. But morning is coming. So is reality.
And under the softness of his breath against my shoulder, I already feel the faint edge of everything waiting for us when we go home. The drive home after the honeymoon is quiet, but not in a bad way.
It’s the kind of quiet that happens when you’ve stepped out of a bubble and you’re trying to carry the softness with you as long as possible. Reid keeps glancing over at me like he’s trying to memorize my profile before we walk back into everything waiting for us.
By the time we get to the apartment, the honeymoon glow hits its first wall—literally. There’s a stack of mail wedged under the door because the last delivery person didn’t bother sliding it all the way inside.
“Welcome home,” I mutter.
Reid laughs under his breath and picks up the pile. “Bills. Ads. More bills. One thing addressed to ‘Resident.’ Amazing. Truly romantic.”
I unlock the door, and the moment it opens, the real world crashes into us. Not dramatically—just in the small, inconvenient ways it always does. Liam barrels toward me before I even get a foot inside.
“Mama!” he yells, crashing into my legs hard enough that I stumble.
“Hey, baby.” I scoop him up, breathing him in. I missed this smell—shampoo, juice, and whatever chaos he gets into when I’m not looking.
Mom stands behind him with a tired smile. “Welcome back, newlyweds.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “Was he good?”
“He was a tornado with legs,” she says. “But a lovable one.” She hugs me, then looks at Reid. “You too. You look… married.”
Reid gives her a small, bashful smile. “That good or bad?”
“Ask me after you change a few more diapers,” she says, grabbing her purse. “I’m going home to sleep for eighteen hours.”
After she leaves, the apartment feels too full and too small at the same time.
Liam talks nonstop as Reid carries in our overnight bag.
I put the leftover snacks in the pantry.
It’s only when I open the fridge that the next wave hits—half the food we meant to use before the wedding expired while we were gone.
“And reality returns,” I say.
Reid leans into the counter beside me. “Hey. We survived vows. We can survive spoiled yogurt.”
“Can we, though?” I ask, pointing to the green fuzz creeping inside one of the containers. “Because that looks like a biohazard.”
He grimaces. “Okay, yeah. That one might kill us.”
The joking helps, but the little cracks are already forming. We’re back in our real life—tight schedules, responsibilities, the three-person dance that never lets us forget someone always needs something. My phone buzzes. I already know who it is by the tone.
Eric: Welcome back. Sorry to hit you the second you return, but we’ve got an issue with the integration logic. No emergencies—yet. I’ll send a summary in the morning.
I close the notification before Reid can see it. I shouldn’t. But I do. He walks into the living room with Liam on his hip, still humming the song we played in the car. For a second, he looks so… young. And old. And mine. And still figuring out his own life.
“Amelia,” he says when he sees my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Just tired.”
The truth is louder than that. The truth says: We’re married. Nothing got easier. Everything got heavier.
Reid steps closer, free hand brushing down my arm. “Today was good,” he says quietly. “The honeymoon. All of it.”
“It was,” I say.
But the second we walked in the door, the weight reattached itself. Liam wiggles to get down. Reid sets him on the floor, and he runs straight to his favorite truck. The moment feels too real, too symbolic. Honeymoon over. Real life beginning. No fade-out. No credits. Just the next page.
Reid leans against the counter. “I know everything’s going to get crazy again with school and your job. But we’ll figure it out.”
“We said that before,” I remind him softly. “And we barely kept our heads above water.”
“We weren’t married then,” he says, trying to sound light, but his voice cracks.
Marriage didn’t change the circumstances. It just tied us closer inside them.
I pull in a breath and let it out slowly. “I love you. You know that.”
“I do,” he says. “I love you too.”
The simplicity of it makes something inside me ease—but only a little. This is the part no one warns you about. Not the vows. Not the dress. But the moment you realize nothing magical happened to erase the pressure. Marriage didn’t fix us. Marriage just made everything matter more.
Later, after Liam is asleep and the dishwasher hums in the background, Reid and I sit on the couch with our knees touching. He rests his head against mine, and for a moment the quiet feels soft again—like the world shrank enough for us to breathe in the same rhythm.
“This is where the real work begins,” I say under my breath.
Reid laces our fingers together without hesitation. “Then we do the work.”
No promises of ease. No sugarcoating. Just the truth—and two people trying to hold onto each other inside it.
I lean against him fully, letting his warmth settle into my bones.
The honeymoon glow is fading. Real life is already climbing back onto our shoulders.
But we’re still here. And for tonight, that’s enough.