Chapter 47
96 Words for Love
The wedding day arrives like a long-held breath released.
August on Orcas Island is the one month you can count on not being betrayed by the sky. It’s all blue above us—clear and unapologetic—and the late-summer light is soft enough to make everything look forgiven.
The garden, our improbable, unruly Eden we coaxed into bloom, is a cathedral of color and scent. Wild hollyhock rises along the fence line, tall and bright, their pink cups opening to the sun. Blackberries bristle on the brambles, still a week from peak ripeness, a promise that everyone can see coming.
It smells and looks like joy.
Guests drift in carrying cocktails, shoes sinking softly into the gravel walkways. The Olga Symphony tunes up under the arbor: Gordon—who takes French class with me at the chocolate shop—plucking at his banjo; his partner, Anita, drawing eerie magic from an ordinary wood and metal saw that makes the air shimmer when she plucks it.
Tara runs the bar. Salmonberry lemonade over pebble ice. Shrubs and sangria made from fresh garden herbs. Mixed drinks in glasses that sweat in the heat. Warm pidé made by Isabel in baskets on nearby tables.
There is mussel smoke in the air, éclade de moules roasting over pine needles the way they do it in France, shells blackening and hissing open. People cluster around it, delighted by the drama of food that announces itself.
I’m reaching for a glass of sangria when I see them.
Quinn drifts toward the bar, where Kiki is already holding court in a pair of sequined sandals that definitely weren’t meant for sand. He doesn’t see me. Not yet.
“Still not having sex?” he asks, grinning like the question is a sport.
Kiki doesn’t even blink. “I’m sure you’re having enough for everyone. Have you considered donating the excess to science?”
Quinn laughs—full-bodied, delighted—and for a second, he looks at her like she’s the only person on the island.
I don’t know what’s happening between them. But I wonder—not for the first time—if sometimes the people who confuse you most are the ones meant to make you braver.
Then Olivia steps into view. Sun catches the gold in her hair. The same careful smile. It’s like watching the villain of an old story walk calmly through the background of a new one.
For a second, I can’t move. Not from jealousy, but the whiplash of memory. The punch of seeing a past version of yourself reflected back through someone else’s choices. It should scramble me. Instead, it lands like a door clicking shut.
She crosses the gravel toward the bar. Toward Quinn. She slides next to him and takes his hand.
Cari leans in when she sees me stiffen.
“Gavin forgave them. We grew up with Quinn. He didn’t want to lose their friendship,” she says. “Honestly, I think he was relieved.”
“But he and Olivia. The Save the Date cards,” I whisper.
“Gavin didn’t call you?” she asks, surprised.
I remember him trying to tell me something in Hoboken—before I lied to him.
“I blocked his number. His emails.”
That admission lands harder than I expected. I wasn’t just protecting myself. I was choosing silence.
It’s time to take my place at the altar as the band cues guests to take their seats. Jared and John stand beneath the driftwood arch strung with the palest of flowers—white and blush—and hanging moss.
And then I feel it, that shift in the air. The heat that happens when someone steps a little too close.
The best man.
Gavin stands next to me. Opposite us, John stands with his sister and best friend. I hold my bouquet so tightly I can feel the stems bruise in my palm.
Gavin shifts subtly. Not obvious, not inappropriate, just enough that our arms brush. Hands nearly touching, but not quite. The restraint is almost indecent.
I don’t look at him. But I feel everything.
I can’t help it; I look at his hands.
They’re folded in front of him. Calm. Controlled.
I remember them differently.
I remember them as gentle but insistent. As the thing that made me believe I belonged with him before my mind could.
He catches my eye.
But it isn’t just a look.
It’s everything sharp and unfinished between us made visible.
Jared begins his vows, and his voice catches on the first sentence. John steadies him with a smile that says, always. I blink hard, like I can keep the tears inside by force.
Gavin keeps his eyes on Jared and John, but his body leans, slightly, imperceptibly, toward me.
I feel it like a touch.
And something in me cracks.
Because this moment, this altar, this garden—it exists because Gavin gave me room. He gave me time. Most of all, he never asked me to leave, even when I did everything I could to make him leave.
He chose me in actions. Just never in words.
And that kid in me, the one that learned love could evaporate if you named it too loudly, whispers: Don’t. Don’t ask. Don’t hope.
But the Ava that is me now needs to know.
The vows end. The rings go on. The music swells. The crowd cheers.
John and Jared kiss.
And it’s beautiful.
And it hurts.
Because it reminds me how simple love can be when people are brave.
After the ceremony, the lawn becomes a living painting. Family photos, congratulations, more photos, laughter skipping across the grass like thrown stones. Female guests hijack Gavin for pictures and selfies. For conversation. For the kind of flirtation that gathers at weddings like bees to honey.
Jared pulls me in for a photo, one arm warm around my shoulders. “Hey,” he murmurs under the noise of the crowd. I glance up. His eyes flick past me—to Gavin—then back again. “You know he still looks at you like that, right?”
“Like what?” I ask.
Jared’s smile softens. “Like he never stopped hoping.”
I watch Gavin smile with relatives. He’s polite with everyone.
But his eyes keep finding me.
Not in a possessive way.
In a searching way.
Like he’s asking: Are we doing this again? The running?
I tell myself I’m fine.
Then I go to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I have a team I trust with the food, but I stay hands-on anyway. Partly because it’s my menu. Mostly because it’s easier to be a machine than a woman in love.
The crab bisque course was a hit. The salmon is glazed, seared perfectly, skin crisp. The risotto is rich with chanterelles and matsutakes I foraged myself at Doe Bay, mushrooms that smell like forest and rain and the kind of wild you can’t buy.
Wildflower salads go out like bouquets in the hands of servers. I wipe the edges of plates. Taste sauces. Adjust salt.
Service has a rhythm.
It lets me breathe.
Focus.
Not feel.
Then I hear someone announce Gavin’s name. Through the doorway to the garden, I see him walk toward the stage.
Patricia said he’s been invisible for weeks. Now he steps under the arbor with his guitar, caught in that honeyed golden hour light like the universe decided to be generous.
The song is an original, which means he’s been using the studio. The one I helped paint and patch and fill with furniture and better faith. Because I believed he had something in him that deserved a place to create.
He doesn’t say who the song is for.
Everyone assumes it’s for Jared and John.
I know better.
//Loving is so short// Forgetting is so long//
Every lyric peels me open.
And still—beneath the ache—something warmer curls in my chest. Pride. Not because I helped him get there. But because he let himself arrive.
When it’s over, Gavin is handed a glass of champagne, and the toasts begin.
He doesn’t do speeches, which is how I know he means every word.
“Jared,” he says. “My whole life, I’ve watched you seek joy even when it scared you. That’s your best instinct. And a kind of bravery. You’re the baby brother, but when it comes to love, I’ve watched you choose, at every turn, to love more, not less, to keep the important people in your life even when it’s hard.”
There’s a pause. A swallow.
“I didn’t always understand it,” he adds. “But I do now.”
He laughs once, tight, controlled. “Also, I’d like to formally apologize to everyone for any emotional constipation I’ve brought into group settings over the years.”
The crowd laughs.
I don’t.
Because then he says, quietly, almost like he’s not sure he’s allowed to—
“And Ava… thank you. For feeding us. For building this place. For staying.”
My name, in his mouth, lands like his hand at my waist.
I go cold.
Then hot.
Then I can’t breathe.
I don’t even hear the end of the toast.
Then the cake—lemon and elderflower—is being sliced. Pale, perfect layers, and the scent is suddenly a memory of being twelve and finding a rare dessert at a foster home, something sweet that didn’t belong to me, something I was told to take only a small piece of, because I wasn’t allowed to want too much.
Sweetness has always been conditional.
Joy has always come with fine print. Even now, my body waits for the catch.
I grab a piece of cake and lift a forkful to my mouth.
It blooms on my tongue—soft, bright, sweet.
And something in me collapses.
Because it’s not just cake.
It’s proof.
Proof that I built a life that can taste like this.
Proof that I’m still terrified it will be taken away. But why?
I cry.
Not the elegant kind.
The full-body kind that makes you grip the counter, shoulders shaking, breath snagging like you’ve been running.
Kiki is there in seconds.
She doesn’t speak.
She just hands me a kitchen towel and rubs my back in slow circles like she’s smoothing out a panic attack.
“I love him,” I gasp.
Kiki leans in, eyes sharp, voice gentle. “Then tell him. Not because you’re guaranteed the ending. Because you deserve to stop swallowing your own heart.”
My throat burns, and the girl in me panics.
But the woman I’ve become stands up anyway.
Through the swinging kitchen door, a cheer rises, the scrape of chairs, the sudden rush of feet.
Kiki stills, listening, then meets my eyes.
“Family dance,” she says softly, like she’s offering me a hand. “That means you.”
My hands shake, but my feet still find the floor.
Jared and John made room for me on purpose, leaving a space as if it were always mine. Now all I have to do is be brave enough to step into it.
The song starts.
True Love Will Find You in the End.
The song Gavin once sang for me in this very garden, back when I pretended I had nothing left to give.
As I push through the café doors and re-enter the garden, he appears beside me.
He offers a hand.
I stare at it for half a second too long.
Then I take it.
We move together.
His palm is warm. Familiar.
He guides me onto the dance floor with the rest of the family. Jared and John swaying together under the string lights, Patricia tucked into Liam, Cari laughing softly as Max spins her close, everyone moving like a single, steady breath.
Gavin draws me in, and there’s no more pretending; my body goes sweetly, mortifyingly honest against his.
I don’t look up.
Not yet.
“You’re crying,” he says softly.
“I—” My voice catches. “It’s the cake.”
“Ava.”
He says my name like a plea.
Like an apology.
Like a door.
I lift my gaze.
And there he is.
The man who gave me room to root.
The man I sent away.
The man I wouldn’t let reach me.
The man my body never stopped choosing.
I can feel the words pushing at my ribs, demanding to be born.
And the fear—God, the fear.
Because saying it makes it real.
And real things can leave.
“I love you,” I say anyway, voice shaking. “I didn’t say it before because I was scared that if I did—and you didn’t say it back—I’d disappear. Like I used to.”
His face changes.
Something unguarded, almost painful.
“You could never disappear,” he says. Then he swallows hard. “You stay. Even when it hurts.”
I blink. Another tear escapes.
He catches it with his thumb.
“I love you,” he says. It’s plain. Not poetic. Just true. “In the beginning, I didn’t say it because I thought I’d betray Jared. And then, because I thought you weren’t ready to hear it. I kept thinking if I said it out loud, I’d ruin everything we built here, everything and everyone I was trying to protect.”
His breath shudders.
“Turns out silence made it worse. It ruined me instead.”
My heart breaks open.
He leans his forehead to mine.
“I’ve loved you since the day I met you,” he whispers. “I just wasn’t brave enough to wait while you figured it out.”
I exhale, shaking. “I’m here.”
“So am I.”
We kiss. His hands slide warm along my cheeks, drawing me closer.
And it tastes like summer fruit and salt air—and every word I’ve been starving myself of.
Later, the sky goes indigo, and the stars bloom overhead.
Down on the shoreline, Bad Dads wail a punk version of Stand by Me—guitars shrieking, tenderness stubbornly alive underneath—as Jared and John step onto the sailboat at the dock, waves catching moonlight like sequins.
When the song ends, the crowd lights sparklers and cheers until their throats go raw as the boat drifts away, Jared and John wrapped around each other on the bow.
I stand beside Gavin, sparklers hissing down to wire in our fists, their gold light flickering across his face and mine.
I think of all the words for love and, for once, I ask the only thing that matters.
“What happens now?”
“I never let you go again,” he says. “And someday people will stand right here, watching us sail off into the night.”
I believe him. It took us a long time to get here. But we’re here.
This time, when he reaches for my hand, I tuck into his side, and I don’t let go.
More to Savor
Thanks for reading Hungry Love.