Epilogue
Five years later, and the fireplace alcove still didn’t work on the first try.
Beckett flipped the switch twice before it caught, and when the flame finally held, he turned to the small crowd on the Pixel Lofts rooftop and took a bow. “Third time I’ve fixed this thing,” he said. “It’s part of the charm.”
Hadley shook her head from the front row, Lachlan on her lap and their younger daughter leaning against her shoulder. “He says that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
I stood at the top of the stairs and listened to them bicker, feeling my chest get so full I thought it might crack.
The rooftop was dressed in white peonies and trailing greenery, the same way I’d dressed it five years ago for their wedding. Same alcove, same string lights, same chairs angled southwest. I’d planned all of it myself. Every flower, every place card, every detail down to the timing.
June twentieth. The summer solstice. The longest day of the year.
I’d chosen the date again. Not for a client this time. For me. For us.
Five years married. We’d done it fast the first time—a courthouse, no peonies, no solstice light, no rooftop. I could plan a dream wedding for any bride who walked through my door, but when it was my turn, I froze. This was the day I’d always built for everyone else and never let myself have.
Hadley appeared at my side, eyes already wet. “You look incredible.”
“Don’t start. If you cry, I cry, and I just got this mascara right.”
She laughed and handed me my bouquet. White peonies. What else?
“Ready?” she asked.
I looked past her at the rooftop. At the rows of chairs filled with people I loved.
Saylor was fixing Maddox’s collar again, the same gesture from five years ago, while Lily sat on his knee and played with his cufflink.
Sebastian had his arm around Margeaux, Spencer wedged between them, their infant daughter asleep against Margeaux’s shoulder.
Lark was barefoot at the rooftop edge—because of course she was—with Greer and Aria crouched beside her, pointing at something in the sky, and Kit stood behind all three of them with his hands in his pockets and a look on his face that hadn’t changed in five years.
Sayer and Tatum sat shoulder to shoulder, Tilly in Tatum’s lap, Sayer’s hand resting on Tatum’s knee.
And at the alcove, next to the fireplace that had finally decided to cooperate, Tristan was waiting.
Dark suit. Sleeves already pushed to his forearms because he’d never once made it through an event with his cuffs buttoned.
The coordinates tattoo catching the light.
The bold ink I’d traced a thousand times disappearing under his collar.
He was talking to Beckett, who was straightening Tristan’s tie with the same focused attention Tristan had given Beckett’s wedding five years ago.
Best man. Full circle.
Nolan was standing between them in a tiny suit, holding the ring box with both hands and a concentration on his face that was pure Tristan. Three years old and already steady. Already certain.
Elodie was in Hadley’s mother’s arms in the front row, two months old, sleeping through everything the way only babies could.
The music changed.
Hadley squeezed my hand and stepped onto the rooftop ahead of me. The guests turned, and I could see the moment Tristan realized I was there.
He looked at me the same way Beckett had looked at Hadley.
I’d cried when I’d seen it from behind my binder. I’d stood at the back of this rooftop and watched a groom’s face change and thought, this is why I do this. The moment the planning stops mattering and the only thing left is two people looking at each other like the rest of the room has dissolved.
I wasn’t holding a binder this time. I was holding peonies.
I walked toward him. The solstice light was doing exactly what I’d asked it to do—flooding the rooftop gold, warm and endless, stretching toward ten o’clock because the longest day of the year didn’t want to end.
The same light I’d given Hadley and Beckett.
The same light I’d danced in with Tristan while the reception emptied around us.
The same light I’d chosen, both times, because I understood what it meant to want the sun to stay.
I reached the alcove. Tristan took my hands. His were warm and steady, the way they’d been in the stairwell, the way they’d been in the pool, the way they’d been every morning for five years when he reached for me before he opened his eyes.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hi.” His voice was low, rough at the edges. “You’re here.”
I almost laughed. “I’m here.”
The officiant began. The rooftop was quiet except for the city humming below and the string lights buzzing above and Nolan asking Beckett in a stage whisper whether it was time for the rings yet.
It wasn’t. But it would be soon.
The sun held. The light stayed. The longest day stretched out around us, lazy and golden, and once again, I wasn’t building someone else’s perfect day.
I was standing in the middle of my own.
Eloise and Tristan sneak into the stairwell during a party on the rooftop of his fancy condo in this steamy bonus chapter, available exclusively to newsletter subscribers.