Chapter 39
Theo
As the ceremony concluded and the newly married couple made their way back down the petal-strewn aisle, the crowd began filing toward the main building of the botanical gardens.
The transition from the outdoor ceremony to the indoor reception felt like stepping from one beautiful dream into another.
The building’s interior had been transformed into something magical. I immediately suspected Matty, wearing a fairy godmother outfit, flitting about while sprinkling sparkly dust everywhere, just had to “gay it up” for the happy couple.
Exposed brick walls were draped with swaths of cream-colored fabric, while twinkling lights cast a warm glow over everything.
Long wooden tables were arranged throughout the space, each one decorated with arrangements of white roses, eucalyptus, and baby’s breath in rustic wooden boxes that complemented the venue’s natural aesthetic.
Again, it was a woodworker’s dream, the perfect homage to Shane’s life work and greatest passion (after Mateo, of course).
But it was the cake table that drew everyone’s attention.
There were two masterpieces of the flour variety, actually, positioned side by side like complementary works of art.
The first was traditional—three elegant tiers of white fondant decorated with delicate sugar flowers cascading down one side, topped with two groom figurines that someone had clearly taken great care to customize.
One wore a tiny tool belt around his waist, while the other held a basketball under one arm and sported a whistle that dangled below his bow tie.
The second cake was pure Shane—a rectangular creation that had been sculpted to look exactly like a woodworking table, complete with wood grain painted in perfect detail across its surface.
A faux miter saw made entirely of cake and fondant sat at one end, so realistic I had to look twice to make sure it wasn’t Shane’s actual equipment.
Scattered across the “table” were tiny fondant tools—a hammer, chisels, and measuring squares—each one crafted with the kind of attention to detail that suggested the baker had spent considerable time studying Shane’s workshop.
“Holy shit,” Jeremiah breathed beside me, staring at the cakes with obvious awe. “Someone put some serious work into those.”
“Language, babe,” I murmured automatically, though Debbie was already distracted by the fairy lights overhead and probably hadn’t heard him anyway.
“That’s incredible,” Sisi said, appearing beside us with a champagne flute in hand. “Mateo’s been planning this for months. He wanted something that represented both of them—the traditional romance and Shane’s practical side. I knew it was going to be good, but this is . . . it’s insane.”
The reception was everything one might expect from a wedding planned by people who cared more about love than protocol.
Round cocktail tables were scattered throughout the space for mingling, while the long rectangular tables were set with simple white linens, mason jar centerpieces, and enough mismatched vintage chairs to seat everyone comfortably.
Shane and Mateo stood behind the traditional cake, both still looking slightly dazed by the reality of being married, while the photographer captured what had to be their hundredth picture of the day.
“Make a wish!” someone called out from the crowd of gathered friends and family.
“Already came true,” Mateo said, looking at Shane with the kind of dopey expression that made my chest tight with happiness.
They made the first cut together, Shane’s large hands swallowing Mateo’s smaller ones on the knife handle, both of them grinning like teenagers.
The crowd applauded as they each took a bite, managing to feed each other without the traditional cake-smashing disaster that seemed to plague most wedding receptions.
“They’re so sweet it’s making my teeth hurt,” Sisi declared from beside me, though her voice was thick with emotion.
“Don’t get sappy on us now,” Mike warned, but he was wiping at his eyes, too.
As the happy couple moved away from the cake table to accept congratulations and pose for more pictures, I felt Debbie tug on my sleeve.
“Daddy, can I have cake now?”
“After dinner, Button. The grown-ups have to make speeches first.”
She sighed dramatically, the way only five-year-olds could when faced with the incomprehensible delays adults imposed on everything good.
The speeches wouldn’t make it into a Marha Stewart book on elegant weddings, but they fit the misfit group perfectly. Mike stepped up to the microphone first, adjusting his tie with the practiced ease of someone who’d clearly done this before.
“Good evening, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Mike, Shane’s best man and the person responsible for making sure he showed up today instead of hiding in his workshop until this whole ‘feelings thing’ blew over.”
He paused for the expected laughter before continuing.
“I’m pretty sure there’ll be a different kind of blowing in a couple of hours, and Shane will learn a whole new set of feelings.”
Shocked laughter spread throughout as our friend group hooted and others tried to decide if laughter was appropriate.
Mike went on, “Now, Shane asked me to keep this clean, which is challenging because most of my stories about him involve power tools, questionable safety practices, and at least one incident with a circular saw that we’ve all agreed never to mention in polite company.”
Shane was already turning red.
“But what I can tell you is this: I’ve known Shane as long as Mateo. We met him on the same day, at the same craft fair, with the same hopeless dream of getting Mateo’s television off the floor for all time. Yeah, there’s a story for ya.”
The crowd chuckled politely, though I wondered how many actually knew the tale of how the pair met.
“In all that time, I’ve never seen Shane smile the way he does when Mateo walks into a room.
It’s like watching a piece of furniture finally find its perfect spot in the house.
And trust me, as someone who’s helped one member or another of our little family move approximately seventeen times, I know the importance of things fitting exactly where they belong. ”
Mike raised his glass with a grin.
“To Shane and Mateo—may your love be as enduring as Shane’s collection of wood glue, and may your fights be as brief as Mateo’s attention span during horror movies. Cheers!”
After the applause died down, Matty bounced up to the microphone, his platinum curls catching the fairy lights as he beamed at the wedding party.
“Oh my God, hi everyone! Isn’t this just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
I literally cried seven times today, and we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet!
” He dabbed at his eyes dramatically. “So, I’ve known Mateo since we were both terrible at dating and even worse at adulting, and let me tell you, watching him fall for Shane was like watching a Disney movie come to life.
Except with more anxiety and significantly better abs. ”
Matty reached down and pretended to pull Shane’s tux shirt up so everyone could see the aforementioned abs.
A chorus of “take it off” had to be waved down.
“Matthew,” Mike warned from his seat, but he was smiling.
“What? I’m being supportive! Anyway, the first time Mateo described Shane to me, he spent forty-five minutes talking about his hands.
Just his hands! I was like, ‘Honey, either you’re developing a very specific fetish or you’re falling in love with a carpenter.
’ Turns out it was both!” The crowd erupted in laughter while Shane covered his face.
“But seriously, you two are proof that opposites attract, that love conquers all, and that somewhere in the universe, there’s a perfect person for everyone—even if that person happens to be a strong, silent type who communicates primarily through furniture construction and animalistic grunts. ”
As Matty finished his toast, the crowd applauded and began turning back toward their respective table guests.
But that was when Mrs. H stole the show.
She rose from her seat with the bearing of someone about to address Parliament, tapping her fork against her wine glass with enough force to crack the crystal.
“If I may have your attention, you beautiful disasters,” she announced, her voice carrying easily across the reception area. “I have something to say about love and marriage and the general foolishness of the human heart.”
Shane and Mateo exchanged a glance that suggested they were already regretting whatever was about to happen.
“Marriage,” Mrs. H continued, “is like attempting to assemble IKEA furniture while blindfolded and slightly drunk. You think you know what you’re doing, you’re pretty sure you have all the pieces, and inevitably someone ends up crying in the corner wondering why the hell they thought this was a good idea. ”
The crowd was already chuckling, but she was just getting started.
“But every once in a while—very rarely—you end up with something that doesn’t fall apart the first time you sit on it.
Something sturdy and functional and occasionally even beautiful.
And these two idiots”—she gestured toward the happy couple with her wine glass—“have managed to build themselves something that will probably last longer than most people’s wet dreams.”
Mateo fell forward, his head landing on his arms now folded on the table. Shane simply covered his face with paws larger than Smokey the Bear’s mitts.
Mrs. H paused to take a sip from her glass—though I was beginning to suspect that what she’d been calling “tea” all evening contained significantly more alcohol than actual tea leaves.
“Now, I know what you’re all thinking. ‘Mrs. H, what do you know about marriage? You’re a crazy old Scottish woman who threatens people with kitchen knives and makes haggis that could be classified as biological warfare.’”