Epilogue #2
Across the room, I saw my mother watching Mason with calculating eyes as he charmed yet another group of guests. By the time dinner was served, she had undergone a complete transformation.
“Mason, darling,” she cooed, somehow appearing at his elbow as we took our seats. “I’ve been telling everyone about my daughter’s hockey star boyfriend. You simply must visit us this summer at the lake house.”
I nearly choked on my champagne at her blatant about-face. Mason caught my eye, amusement dancing in his expression.
“That sounds lovely, Mrs. Prescott,” he said diplomatically.
As my mother swanned away to schmooze with other guests, I leaned over to whisper, “Sorry about that. She’s insufferable when she thinks someone has social currency.”
Mason shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what she thinks. Only matters what you think.”
And in that moment, surrounded by the very people whose opinions had once crushed me, I realized he was right.
My mother’s approval, once the holy grail of my existence, now felt hollow and insincere.
It hit me with startling clarity that I no longer needed her validation.
I had Mason, I had my career, and most importantly, I had myself.
I was finally free.
After hours of drinking and dancing, the DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s that time! Could all the single ladies please make their way to the dance floor for the bouquet toss?”
A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd as women began to rise from their seats, smoothing dresses and exchanging competitive glances. I remained firmly planted in my chair, swirling the remaining champagne in my flute and pretending I hadn’t heard the announcement.
Mason leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “Aren’t you going up there?”
I shot him a look of disbelief. “Are you insane? Me? In a crowd of women fighting over flowers? That’s just asking for disaster.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, that expression that always got me. “Come on, Lila. You’ve been crushing it all night. Besides,” he added with a wink, “I want to see what you’ve got.”
“What I’ve got is common sense and survival instincts,” I muttered, but something about his confidence in me sparked a flicker of courage.
The dance floor was filling with eager single women, including my sister Amelia, who waved enthusiastically for me to join them. A few of my cousins and several former classmates were positioning themselves strategically, some even removing their high heels for better mobility.
“Lila,” Mason said, his voice taking on that low, persuasive tone that usually preceded me agreeing to something I’d initially resisted. “You can’t let one bad experience dictate the rest of your life.”
“It wasn’t just ‘one bad experience,’” I reminded him. “It was a globally shared humiliation that follows me to this day.”
“Come on,” he coaxed, nudging my shoulder gently. “Besides, I’ve got some professional tips for you.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Professional bouquet-catching tips? From a hockey player?”
“Hockey players know a lot about winning, babe.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “First rule of getting what you want: position is everything.”
Against my better judgment, I found myself intrigued. “Position?”
“You don’t want to be right up front where everyone’s shoving each other,” he explained, gesturing with his hands. “That’s amateur hour. You want to be about two rows back, where you can see over everyone’s heads but aren’t in the initial scrum.”
I bit my lip to keep from smiling at his serious analysis. “And then?”
“Then,” he continued, eyes gleaming, “it’s all about the elbows.”
“Elbows?” I repeated dubiously.
“Keep ‘em slightly out to maintain your space. Not enough to get called for a penalty, but enough to let the other players—I mean, women—know you’re not getting pushed around.” He demonstrated with his own arms, looking like he was preparing for a faceoff.
A giggle escaped me. “You want me to body-check my cousin Debbie for a bunch of flowers?”
“I’m just saying, a well-placed elbow can make the difference between victory and defeat.” He winked.
The DJ called out again, more insistently this time. “Last call for all single ladies! Bride’s about to launch!”
Mason stood, offering me his hand with an exaggerated flourish. “What do you say, Prescott? Ready to show these amateurs how it’s done?”
Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe it was the way Mason looked at me, like I was capable of anything. Whatever the reason, I found myself placing my hand in his and rising from my chair.
“If I end up flat on my face, I’m blaming you,” I warned.
His smile was pure sunshine. “That’s my girl.”
As I made my way to the dance floor, I felt a flutter of nerves in my stomach.
The crowd of single women had grown substantial, with at least twenty eager participants jostling for position.
I carefully arranged myself according to Mason’s strategic advice: not too far forward, not too far back, widening my stance with my elbows out just a bit.
The DJ started a drumroll, and Sarah wiggled her hips playfully, teasing the crowd with little feints of throwing the bouquet. The women around me tensed in anticipation, some rising onto their tiptoes, hands already outstretched.
“One… two… THREE!”
The bouquet sailed into the air, an arc of white roses and ribbon.
Time slowed. The bouquet reached its apex, momentarily suspended dead center over the crowd.
Without thinking, I launched myself into the air, my competitive instincts suddenly roaring to life.
Victory surged through me as my fingers closed around the prize.
Then physics reasserted itself.
As I began my descent, someone body-checked me, throwing me off balance. I lurched forward, arms pinwheeling frantically, bouquet clutched in a death grip.
I tumbled forward in the kind of slow motion you only get when you’re about to eat it in public and collided with two other women who went down like bowling pins.
My legs tangled with theirs, and we crashed to the floor in a heap of silk, tulle, and limbs.
Somehow, miraculously, the bouquet landed directly on my chest as I lay sprawled on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
The room went silent.
The old Lila would have died of mortification. Would have scrambled up, mumbled apologies, and fled the room in tears.
But something strange happened as I lay there. A bubble of laughter rose in my chest. Genuine, unforced laughter at the pure absurdity of the situation. I’d spent years dreading another public tumble, and here it was, my second epic fail, and somehow, it didn’t matter anymore.
I thrust the bouquet triumphantly into the air. “And THAT’S how it’s done, ladies!”
Amelia snorted, a most unladylike sound that would have horrified my mother. Someone else chuckled. And suddenly, the entire reception erupted in applause and laughter. Not the cruel mockery I’d feared, but genuine, warm amusement shared with me rather than directed at me.
Mason appeared above me, his face split in a wide grin, hand extended to help me up. “That was…” he began, shaking his head in wonder.
“Olympic-level bouquet catching?” I suggested, taking his hand and letting him pull me to my feet.
“I was going to say the sexiest wipeout I’ve ever seen.” He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch impossibly tender. “You okay?”
I nodded, surprised to find it was true. More than okay, actually. I felt light, almost giddy with the realization that I’d faced my biggest fear, public humiliation, and survived. Not just survived, but laughed in its face. “I have a certain talent for dramatic falls. It’s a gift, really.”
Mason’s arm slid around my waist, anchoring me against him. “I told you you’d get that bouquet,” he murmured against my hair.
“You know,” I said, twirling the bouquet between my fingers, “they say whoever catches this is next to get married.”
Mason’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Is that so?”
“Just a silly superstition,” I said lightly, but my heart had begun to race for entirely different reasons.
“Well,” Mason replied, pulling me closer for a slow dance, “you know how superstitious hockey players can be.”
As the reception continued to wind down, twinkling lights cast a soft glow across the dance floor, softening everything into a golden haze. We danced together, wrapped in each other as if no one else existed.
“Want some air?” Mason asked suddenly, a hitch in his tone that made me look up.
Even though I was in heaven in his arms, I nodded, curious. “Sure.”
The night air carried the scent of magnolias as Mason led me away from the reception, his hand firm around mine.
The music and laughter faded behind us as we wandered through the gardens.
Mason’s thumb traced absent patterns against my palm as we walked, a subtle tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there earlier.
“Are you okay?” I asked, bumping his shoulder gently with mine. “You’ve gone all broody and silent on me.”
He glanced down with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” I teased, trying to lighten whatever mood had settled over him.
We rounded a curve in the path and discovered a secluded gazebo strung with tiny white lights. Mason guided me up the three short steps and into the center of the space, where the warm glow cast gentle shadows across his features.
“This is beautiful,” I murmured, turning slowly to take in our surroundings. “It’s so quiet. You can actually hear the cicadas—”
The words died in my throat as I completed my turn to find Mason no longer standing beside me. Instead, he was down on one knee, looking up at me with such raw and unguarded emotion that my heart stumbled in my chest.
“Mason?” My voice emerged as barely a whisper.