Epilogue Both Today
There is a firepit. A spit. A smooth sand beach. A long communal table with a white tablecloth, set with brightly colored plates and cloth napkins with gold deco napkin rings. There are bud vases of wildflowers and goblets waiting to be filled to their brims.
There are beach blankets in neon at each seat. Hoodies that read DILLON BEACH—parting gifts for the guests for when it gets chilly.
There are twinkle lights strung above in the cypress trees. And a cocktail bar set up inside a mini retro airstream. There is beer on tap. There is rosé ready to flow.
There are bowls of cannabis gummies—but not for the bride.
There are oysters, prepared over the fire. Platters of shrimp cocktail. Multiple goat cheese plates—with apricot preserves. Dishes of dates and Marcona almonds.
It all awaits.
But before they dig in, there is a wedding. A ceremony on the beach, presided over by a driver named John, where the bride wears a white dress—a mod A-line mini—and the groom wears a collared shirt, the color of well-worn denim.
There is family in the seats—and friends who are family too. Moms and sisters and brothers and trusted confidantes. There is even a professional baseball player or two. And they all look on with joy and relief at something that has worked out in a world full of chaos.
There are vows and promises and titters of laughter, happy tears that flood the ducts of watching eyes. There are hands to chests, and tilts of heads onto neighboring shoulders, squeezed hands.
“They say you can never go back,” the bride says, clutching her wildflower bouquet with ease thanks to months of PT. “And I think that’s true. But it turns out, if you’re lucky, you get to move forward.”
There is a broken glass, shouts of Mazel tov! A real kiss. The bride dipped. Cheers and music as the newly married couple walks down the sandy aisle, hands woven together.
“So, what now?” Noah asks, as they retreat toward a secluded spot behind the dunes to quickly regroup, the sand cool beneath their feet. “Now that we’ve got everything we want.”
“Good question,” Nellie says, turning toward him, lifting her hand to toy with the buttons on his shirt.
“Do we try for goats?” he asks, his hands resting at her waist.
“Hmm,” she says, tilting her head to gaze up at him. “I hear they eat shoes. And I like my shoes.”
“A Cheerios farm then?” He raises a hand to untangle her necklace, lays it flat. His fingers are warm as they brush her skin.
“I think that’s not how that works.”
“I’ve got it then,” he says, a glimmer in his eye. “An oyster bed!”
At that she smiles, sliding her hand down his chest and stepping in so close they’re basically one. “Bed,” she says. “Now that sounds like a plan.”
THE END