Chapter 32
The string quartet hits their first note, and my brother, who once shotgunned four beers in under a minute, tears up as he leads Sarah onto the dance floor.
Even I have to admit, the wedding was beautiful.
The vineyard ceremony, with its rows of white chairs facing the rolling hills, had been picture-perfect, and now the reception barn glows with thousands of string lights woven through exposed wooden beams overhead.
Matt spins Sarah with such easy grace it's like they've stepped straight out of one of those fancy wedding magazines Kristal's been clutching all week. Speaking of our tiny dictator, she's still crushing it, bedazzled headset catching the light as she orchestrates this circus.
She's been a caffeinated miracle worker all day.
Wrangling Mabel mid-ceremony, when she tried to make a break for it.
Keeping Magnolia's glass suspiciously full so Sarah could enjoy her own damn wedding, and somehow getting everyone down the aisle in the right order.
Now she's darting between farm tables adorned with lush greenery and clusters of blue hydrangeas, making sure every detail of this rustic-chic extravaganza meets Bell family standards.
My gaze drifts, uninvited, to where Ivy stands beneath the string lights.
The bridesmaid dress clings in all the right places—dark blue, pleated through the bodice, with delicate sleeves that brush her shoulders like an afterthought.
She tips her head back, laughing at something Dixie says, champagne glass loose in her hand.
I shouldn't be looking. Not after everything. But I am. And I can't seem to stop.
She seems fine. Better than fine. Like that night never happened, and we didn't almost cross a line that would've destroyed us. She'd laughed it off yesterday and called it a mistake. It was just proximity and alcohol and the wedding clouding our judgment.
I knock back my drink, catching the bartender's eye for another. The burn helps, but it doesn't touch whatever's twisting in my gut when Ivy's laugh carries across the room. She's good. We're good. So why does my chest cinch two sizes smaller every time she laughs and it's not because of me?
At least Carter's kept his distance since our almost-brawl, though he still watches Ivy. It takes everything in me not to plant my fist in his perfect jaw.
Movement catches my eye—my mom, laughing at something one of Preston's work friends is saying. Some silver-fox type in an expensive suit, who keeps touching her arm while they talk. I can't remember the last time I saw her smile like that, all bright eyes and genuine joy.
Then I spot Dad.
He's standing by the cake table, grip white-knuckled around his champagne flute, watching Mom like her laughter is a personal offense.
For a moment, a shadow passes over his face, sharp and unguarded.
Almost human. But he doesn't move. Doesn't go to her.
Just stays rooted in place, seething in silence while she glows beneath whatever story Silver Fox is spinning.
"Found you!" Kristal appears out of nowhere, her tiny hand latching onto my arm with terrifying efficiency. "Family dance time. You're up with Sarah."
"I'm good here."
"Wasn't a question, sugar." She's already hauling me toward the dance floor, and for someone who barely reaches my shoulder, she's got a strong grip. "It's tradition!"
Sarah waits at the center of the floor, both of us shifting awkwardly as the quartet starts up. My hands hover for a second before landing on her waist, and we fall into the world's most uncomfortable box step.
"You don't like me very much." Sarah breaks the silence, voice matter-of-fact.
"What? No, that's not—"
"Then what is it?"
I stare over her shoulder, jaw working. Fuck, I hate conversations like this. But something about her direct question makes lying feel worse than telling the truth.
"You took him away," I finally mutter.
"You think I'm the reason Matt traded his band shirts for business meetings?"
I focus on not stepping on her dress, something hot and defensive rising in my chest. "He did change after meeting you."
"How would you know?" The question lands like a punch.
"When's the last time you actually had a real conversation with him?
I'm not talking about showing up for dinner out of obligation and disappearing the second it ends.
Or making up plans every time we visit so you don't have to spend time with us. "
"I see exactly who he is now." The words taste bitter. "Corporate Matt with his fancy job titles and pressed shirts. Dad's new favorite topic; how mature his oldest son has gotten." But after this week, I'm not sure how much of it is true.
Sarah lets out a laugh. "You mean the same Matt who still keeps that disgusting Metallica shirt hidden in his drawer like contraband? The one who has your hideous birthday card from senior year tucked away as if it's some kind of priceless artifact?"
"That card wasn't that bad."
"It had googly eyes, Caleb." She arches an eyebrow. "And enough glitter to be classified as a biohazard."
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth pulls. "That was artistic vision."
"The glitter was a crime against paper." But her voice softens. "He misses you."
I stare over her shoulder, watching Matt laugh with Jefferson by the bar. He looks happy. Settled. That's what's been pissing me off all along.
"After this week," Sarah continues, "I really hope you'll actually visit us. Stay longer than an hour. Let Matt show you that Boston doesn't erase who he is."
I hate this. The feelings, the truth, all of it. But the way Sarah calls my bullshit without making it feel like an attack . . . Matt did get something right here.
"Yeah," I manage finally. "I will."
She smiles. "Good. Because that ugly card is getting lonely in his drawer."
Before I can respond, Dad appears at Sarah's shoulder. For once, his perpetual scowl softens as he looks at his new daughter-in-law. "Mind if I steal a dance?"
Sarah beams. She's the only one who ever gets this version of him. The version who remembers how to be charming.
"Go dance with your mother." His tone stays pleasant, but his eyes cut to where Mom's still chatting with Silver Fox. "She looks like she could use a break from . . . socializing."
I thread my way through the crowd toward Mom and her new friend. She spots me coming and smiles.
"Dad sent me to dance with you," I announce, because subtle was never my strong suit.
"Caleb Miller." Mom's eyes sparkle even as she scolds. "Is that any way to ask a lady to dance?"
"Sorry." I offer my hand with exaggerated formality. "Would you do me the honor?"
She laughs. "Frank, you'll have to excuse me. My son's apparently remembered his manners, even if his delivery needs work."
Frank looks disappointed, but Mom's already slipping her hand into my grip, letting me guide her toward the dance floor.
The familiar weight of her palm against mine brings back memories of the last time we danced together—the town's Harvest Festival when I was sixteen.
I'd been itching to escape to the woods where Brodie and James had stashed some stolen beers, but Mom had insisted on one dance before I disappeared for the night.
"Look at us," she teases as we find our rhythm. Her soft lavender dress, with subtle beading around the neckline, catches the light as we move. "Almost being sentimental."
As we turn, I catch Dad dancing with Sarah across the floor. I notice how his eyes keep drifting to Mom. Not angry, just . . . watching. Like he wants to be the one dancing with her instead but doesn't know how to make it happen.
The question builds in my chest until I can't hold it back. "Why do you put up with him?"
Mom's step falters. "That's quite a loaded question for a wedding dance."
"I mean it." Years of watching them orbit each other like angry planets finally spilling over. "Why stay when he—"
"Marriage isn't about constant fireworks," her voice drops low. "It's about choosing someone again and again. Even on the days when it's messy, inconvenient, or painful. Especially then."
"All I remember is you two fighting. Him working late. You making excuses."
She laughs, but it's not bitter. Just knowing. "We were young. Stumbling through how to be parents while still untangling who we were. Some days we got it right. Others, not so much. But we chose each other. Every morning, every argument, every makeup. We still do."
"He doesn't show up anymore, Mom. Not really."
"He does in his own way." Her fingers tighten on my shoulder.
"Maybe it's not in the big grand gestures like he used to, but in the small things that still matter.
He's rougher around the edges, but he shows up how he can.
Not only for me but you as well." Her wise gaze meets mine. "He worries about you, you know."
"Yeah? Funny way of showing it."
"I'm not justifying how he acts, honey. Lord knows that man could use a master class in communication. But . . ." She meets my eyes. "Love isn't always pretty or simple."
We turn, and I catch sight of Ivy laughing with Delilah. Mom follows my gaze.
"You and Ivy . . ." she starts.
"Don't."
"You're blind, Caleb. You always have been." She shakes her head. "But someone can only love you for so long without getting anything back."
My chest constricts. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing." But her eyes are sad. "Just . . . you're doing exactly what you accuse your father of. Running from anything that might actually matter."
I stare past her shoulder, throat tight. "He's not exactly a role model for healthy relationships."
"No," Mom agrees. "But at least he tries. Even when he’s terrible at it."
Before I can argue, Kristal appears as if the wedding gods have summoned her. "Speech time!"
"Now?" I'm actually grateful for the interruption.
"Yes, now!" She vibrates with enthusiasm. "Everyone's tipsy, the lighting's perfect, and—oh god, is that red wine near the cake? TREVOR!" She sprints off, leaving me no choice but to follow.