Chapter 48
SADIE
Hoboken is different from NYC. There are still people and noise, the electricity of something to chase, something to discover—but it’s softer around the edges, as if the architect collaborated with an artist and let her brush through it with a subtle sheen.
I cling to Milo’s arm. We’ve walked through green parks, sipped on foaming lattes, and had the best steak I’ve ever had in my life—something I won’t tell anyone back in Texas.
“I can’t believe you lived here,” I marvel.
He nods. “Yeah. Strange, isn’t it?”
“No, not strange. It’s—” I let go of his arm and turn to face him, forcing our walk to a stop as my hair whips around my face.
He reaches up and tucks it behind my ears, and I lean into his touch for a moment before I continue, “It’s like this—I know every street, every pothole, in Dusty Hollow.
And I know there’s comfort in that, where you can swerve knowing exactly what to miss, but I kind of want to hit a pothole. ”
Milo’s lips pull into that warm grin that makes me feel like I’m not crazy. “I get it, Bookworm. You want to live outside your stories.”
“Yes!” I shout, unexpectedly jumping, making us both laugh.
“That’s exactly right. Did you know I read the same books over and over again?
As if the ending is going to change or the characters are going to make better choices the next time around .
. .” I grab Milo’s hands. “But we don’t get do-overs. ”
Milo presses his lips together, like he’s holding my words in, and I know he’s thinking about the note he wrote me—how he said he’d give it all up if he could go back.
“And I think that’s okay,” I continue. “Because your history only tells you where you’ve been, not where you’re allowed to go.”
I repeat his TikTok tagline . . . the one he signs off with every Friday. I finally downloaded the app to see that Milo Carter has 326,000 followers and always wears those fake glasses.
He squeezes my hands. “So, where do you want to go, Sadie?”
I let my eyes trail around our surroundings—the old buildings with beautiful sculpting, the modern shine of glass and metal, the green of summer in the city—until I spot something that makes me smile.
“There,” I say, pointing toward the sign.
“Please don’t tell me it’s karaoke,” he jests.
“No.” I laugh.
He turns and reads the sign. “Um, Sadie? That’s a wedding. A wedding we aren’t invited to.”
I quirk a brow. “And probably the perfect place to go kiss a stranger.”
“We could probably skip that list item.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, pulling him toward the wedding venue.
He groans playfully but matches my pace.
When we get to the entrance, which is covered in beautiful white roses and greenery, I turn to him again, quickly brushing at his baby-blue button-up before tugging at the hem of my black dress and swiping another coat of red lipstick on my lips, smacking loudly in his face.
“Sadie Summers. Are we about to crash a wedding?” he asks, his tone playful.
I catch my reflection in his eyes, grinning. “Yes, we are.”
He puts his arm out and I loop mine through. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
I don’t say it out loud, but I can’t believe it either. Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes would never, and it’s that thought that makes my feet move forward.
There’s light music playing on a piano and a harp that grows louder the farther we walk through the marbled entrance. When we reach two huge wooden doors, a woman in a light pink jumpsuit asks, “Bride or groom?”
“Groom,” I say confidently, then for no other reason than my nerves going off like Pop Rocks beneath my skin, I add, “Jo and Noah Darcy.”
“To the right,” she instructs.
Milo leans over and whispers, “Jo and Noah Darcy?”
I shrug. “Took some names from friends I know well.”
He grins and leads us to the right when we enter the room with at least two hundred chairs set up, all draped in mauve tulle. White roses adorn the end of each row. On one side of the room, an orange glow from the setting sun seeps in through a wall of arched paned windows.
We sit toward the back.
“When’s the last time you went to a wedding?” I ask.
“Emmitt and Paisley’s last summer,” he replies.
“Were you in it?”
I can see the answer on his face before he gives it, a fondness tugging at his mouth and eyes. He turns to me. “I was.”
I look up at him. “Best Man?”
He nods. “Yes. What about you? What’s the last wedding you’ve been to?”
“Kelsey Tucker’s,” I answer.
His brows raise. “Our classmate?”
I nod. “That’s the one.”
“Were you in it?”
My lips pull up in a half smile. “In it? No. Did I plan it? Yes.”
“You’re not a wedding planner,” he states simply.
“I’ve planned nine weddings in the last six years . . . for free.”
His brows arch. “Do you like it?”
I chuckle. “No. I hate it. It’s so stressful making sure everything goes according to plan.”
The piano and harp suddenly halt their melody, causing an expectant hush over the room.
I straighten, watching as the groom and five guys following in behind him enter from the side.
He’s dressed in a black suit, a white rose pinned to his lapel, and even though it’s simple, he looks so alive.
His eyes are already misty, his cheeks tinted pink.
“Please stand,” the minister says into his mic.
We all do, causing an echoing of skirts swishing and shoes turning on the floor to face the back, where a woman stands in a glory of white silk and lace, tulle shielding her face but not her joy.
I can feel it through my bones. She takes a step forward when the music gently cues up, but I turn my gaze back to the groom.
His misty eyes are now heavy with tears that he tries to wipe discreetly.
His best man hands him a white handkerchief, which he takes with a slight laugh, as if the crying startled him in the best of ways.
When the bride makes it to the front and we are given permission to be seated, I glance over at Milo. His own eyes are glazed over and a single tear rolls down his cheek. I catch it with a finger, smiling at him.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way he looked at her?” I whisper.
“It’s beautiful to choose a life together,” he replies softly, his words seeping into my veins.
We watch as two strangers take their vows.
They cry and laugh as they declare their love and claim their hope for a future not dependent on circumstances, but dependent on each other.
I stand enthusiastically with the rest of the crowd, clapping and cheering, when the minister stands and says, “Family and friends . . . Mr. and Mrs. Jordan Walker!”
Milo wraps his arm around me and presses a strong kiss on the top of my head, and I feel the strength of it all the way to my toes.