Chapter 9
Mason
It’s finally wedding week.
Megan and I get married in two days, and for the first time, it’s really starting to hit me.
Today was my last shift as a “single” man.
The next time I walk into that station, my badge is gonna feel a little heavier, because I’ll have someone waiting for me at home. A wife. A ring on my hand. An even bigger reason to come back safe.
I’m ready for the time off too. I need it. A few days to sleep in, to breathe, to not answer calls or alarms. Just me and her. A beach. Sunburns and sand.
Tomorrow’s the rehearsal dinner, but today’s been all about getting things ready. Megan’s parents helped her move her stuff into my cabin—our cabin now. I offered to take the day off to help, but she insisted she had enough hands. Her parents, probably half my family too, all pitching in.
When I pull up the drive, the place looks quiet.
No trucks, no extra cars, no sound of chaos or arguing over where a box should go. That either means it went smoothly or they gave up halfway through.
I climb the steps and brace myself for the disaster waiting inside. I’m expecting piles of boxes, stray shoes, a mountain of clothes, and bags scattered everywhere.
But the second I open the door, that’s not what I see.
I stop in the doorway, taking it all in.
Megan’s in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. It smells like meat and gravy—rich, comforting—but that’s not what catches my eye.
It’s the pink.
The kitchen towels. The placemats. A lamp on the counter sitting on a cutting board beside a marble bowl that looks too fancy to eat out of.
The couch has light-pink pillows. There’s a floral blanket draped over the armrest, flowers on every flat surface, and—Lord, help me—bows tied to my deer heads on the wall.
I blink hard, just trying to take it all in. I knew she was moving in today, but I didn’t realize that meant redecorating the entire cabin.
“Oh,” I manage, laying my jacket over one of the backs of the barstools.
Her smile is bright and proud, and she comes over to peck my lips. “Hi! How was work?”
“Good,” I say slowly, eyes still scanning the room. “Looks like you got a lot done.” I add.
“I did.” She laughs, buzzing. “I’ve been on a mission today. Got everything put away, deep cleaned the fridge and the freezer, scrubbed the bathroom, dusted, did the windows. Then I—”
My eye catches the open energy drink on the counter. I grab it midsentence. “You drink that, Meg?”
She looks at it, then back at me. “Yeah. That’s my second one. They’re really good! Anyway, I also cleaned the—”
“You had two?” I interrupt, holding it up. It’s barely half full. “It’s an energy drink.”
She blinks, like she genuinely doesn’t understand what the problem is. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I laugh, shaking my head. “That explains the redecorating spree. You’re basically high on caffeine right now.”
“I’m productive,” she argues, grabbing the spoon from the pan and waving it at me.
I set the can back down, laughing.
“What do you think though? Isn’t it so cute?”
I rub the back of my neck and nod. “It’s cute alright.”
Her smile fades into a frown and that breaks me. “You don’t like it?” she asks.
“No, I never said that. It’s just different is all.” I walk in further, seeing even more now. There’s a candle lit on the coffee table, more throw blankets in a basket in the corner with a dang tree behind it that used to house a bear mount.
“Where is the bear?” I glance back at her, worry sinking in. That thing’s heavy. She’d have needed help to move it, no doubt.
“Oh, your dad moved it into the office for me.” She points toward the hall.
My dad? My dad helped her move it? You know what, he would.
I pace in there and see for myself. There it is, in the corner, beside my gun safe.
I walk back out, my body tense. I knew she had stuff, but I didn’t think her stuff would swallow mine.
“This is ready,” she says before I can speak, setting a pot in the middle of the table. I decide to let it go for now and we sit down, hands naturally finding each other’s, and I pray.
“Dear Lord, thank You for this day, this food, and Megan. We pray that You bless us this weekend as we get married, and that everything runs smoothly. In Your Name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen.” She smiles and reaches for the ladle.
“How was your day?” she asks, serving me first.
“It was alright.” I shrug. “Lots of nonsense stuff.”
“Well, that’s good. Better than high-stress situations, right?”
“Yeah,” I agree and bring the spoon to my lips. It’s a stew of some kind. Brown gravy, carrots, potatoes, beef. It smells good, and when I taste it, I’m very thankful that it is also edible.
“This is good, sweetheart.”
“Good. It’s Campbell’s. Nothing crazy.” She smirks, sipping on the broth.
I smile, but inside, there’s a little tug of…man, I grew up spoiled.
Mom never bought canned soup a day in her life. Everything was homemade—soups simmering all day, breads rising on the counter, pies cooling on the windowsill. Comfort wasn’t a can you popped open, it was something she baked into the house.
I don’t mind Campbell’s—not at all—but part of me already imagines a future where Megan’s filling our kitchen with the same kind of smells I grew up on.
She breaks my thoughts with a soft, “You sure your day was okay?”
I glance up. Her eyes meet mine—blue, light, and bright, so full of life it makes my chest ache a little.
“Yeah. Promise.” I go back to my bowl, my gaze catching on the floral placemat beneath it. Pink roses again. Of course.
“Are you excited to marry me?” she asks, tilting her head, eyelashes batting playfully.
“All I’ve been thinking about, babe,” I say, grinning. “You?”
“Same.” She blushes, that small, shy smile tugging at her lips.
We talk through the last-minute things we need to finish tomorrow—packing, rehearsal stuff, the rings—silverware gently clinking between sentences. We circle back to the dinner, something about meal planning when we get back from the honeymoon.
“You know, my mom makes a good beef stew. I bet she’d give you the recipe. It’s one of my favorites.”
Megan nods as she reaches for her drink. We finish eating the last few bites and she stands to clean the table before I do, grabbing the pot. I gather our bowls and trail her into the kitchen.
When I glance at her again, her shoulders are tight, jaw set.
“You okay?” I ask.
She hesitates, her eyes darting away.
“Megan?”
She sighs. “You said something I didn’t appreciate.”
My chest grows heavy, heart sinking fast, my mind spinning over what I could have possibly said to hurt her feelings. “What did I say?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just keeps her hands busy at the sink, water running hot, steam curling between us. And all I can do is stand here, bracing myself, because I hate knowing I upset her and not knowing how.
She finally shuts the faucet off, the silence louder than the running water ever was. Her fingers fidget with the dish towel.
“When you brought up your mom’s stew,” she says quietly. “It just makes me feel like I’ll never measure up.”
My chest clenches and I step closer. “Babe…”
She shakes her head fast, not looking at me. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid if it hurt you.”
“I’m fine.” She hangs the towel over the sink, wipes her palms down the sides of her jeans. “Really. Forget I said anything.”
I step closer, trying to catch her eyes. “Sweetheart—”
But she’s already turning, grabbing the leftover rolls off the counter and wrapping them up like it’s the most urgent task in the world. Her shoulders are stiff, her movements clipped.
I want to push, to make her stop and look at me, but something in the set of her jaw warns me off.
So I swallow down the guilt and set the last bowl in the dishwasher before shutting it softly.
The space around us is heavy. I hate it.
Tomorrow’s our rehearsal; the next day, she’ll be my wife. And here I am, already screwing up.
By the time the kitchen’s clean, Megan’s already grabbing her purse. Normally she stays, cuddling up on the couch with me until way too late.
“I’m gonna go,” she says, brushing her hair behind her ear.
I nod with a lump in my throat that won’t go away. “You wanna talk it out first?”
“No.” She shakes her head, and then she’s gone before I can say more. The cabin feels too quiet with just me in it, like it’s mocking me for opening my big mouth.
I head back out to my truck and grab the garment bag of groomsmen shirts that I picked up on the way home. I toss the bag on the couch then shoot off a group text.
Me: Got the shirts. Pick up tonight or I can bring them to rehearsal tomorrow.
Responses roll in quickly.
Jesse: Busy tonight, tomorrow’s better.
Wes: Same.
Cody: Be there in 10.
Figures.
A knock comes right on cue. I open the door to Cody balancing Emma on his hip.
“Karissa needed us out anyway,” he says, stepping inside. “Emma has her wanting to rip her hair out.” He laughs.
I chuckle, but it dies quickly. He notices, of course. Cody notices everything.
“What’s with the funeral face?” he asks, and steps further into the house. “Whoa, and what is this? Barbie’s Dreamhouse?”
“Don’t get me started.” I grunt.
He laughs hard and sets Emma down. “Dude, you’re in for it.”
“Whatever, man.” I pick up the shirt and shove it at him.
“For a guy getting married in two days, you seem pretty pissed off.”
I scrub a hand down my jaw. “Yeah, well, I…said something dumb.”
“Shocker,” Cody deadpans.
I glare at him.
“Alright. So what was it?”
“Just mentioned mom’s stew, and next thing I know, she’s upset and leaving early.”
He whistles low. “Oof. Rookie move.”
I glare.
“You can’t compare your fiancée’s soup to Mom’s. Otherwise she’ll make it for you out of spite and make you eat it with a fork.”
“It wasn’t her soup, it was Campbell’s.”
“That doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, laughing like my defense is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.
“Well, I didn’t think it through, I guess.”
“Right. You’re gonna wanna do that from now on.”
“No crap,” I mutter. “We haven’t really had a fight like this before.”
“Mm-hmm. Get used to it. Welcome to married life—it’s a freakin’ ride.” He pats my shoulder, and I don’t know what else to say. Silence settles for a few seconds before he sighs and looks back at me, his voice softer now.
“Call her. Text her. Apologize. Tell her it won’t happen again.”
“I will.” I nod.
He gives me one last pat on the back, then reaches for Emma’s hand to head home with his shirt slung over his shoulder. Taking advice from Cody is never something I thought I’d do, but now he’s married, seemingly happy, and has two kids. I think I’ll listen to him.