Chapter Eighteen Almost Perfect
Jane
Braxton’s hand was warm in mine as we crossed the lobby together.
It was such a small thing, really. Fingers laced. A shared pace. But after days of circling each other through hallways and interruptions, it felt quietly monumental. Like we had decided, without ceremony, that this was how we moved through things now.
Together.
The dining room doors were open, and the space beyond buzzed with the particular energy that meant something important was about to happen. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Tablecloths were being tugged into alignment. Someone laughed too loudly and then apologized.
I loved this place. I really did. I just wished it loved me back with fewer emergencies.
Braxton glanced down at our hands for half a second and smiled to himself, like he was quietly pleased we were doing this. Not rushing. Not hiding. Just existing side by side.
“Ready,” he asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “But I am going anyway.”
His laugh was soft. “That is a very Jane answer.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then realized he was right and closed it again. He squeezed my hand once, gentle, and I felt my shoulders loosen as if my body recognized comfort before my brain finished analyzing it.
Kitty stood near the center of the room, clipboard clutched like a flotation device, turning in slow circles as if she were trying to keep track of everything at once through sheer determination.
“Ah,” she said when she spotted us. “Good. Reinforcements.”
Braxton squeezed my hand once before letting go, not abruptly, not reluctantly, just naturally.
“What do you need?” I asked.
Kitty gestured broadly, the clipboard wobbling. “Everything.”
Lucy emerged from the hallway carrying a stack of programs, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back in the way she did when she had decided she was the only competent adult in the building. “She means place cards, candles, and emotional support.”
Mom hovered near a centerpiece, rearranging a couple of the flowers. Lydia was already seated at a table she had no business being seated at, offering opinions to no one in particular.
“This chair feels judgmental,” Lydia announced.
Braxton glanced at me, lifting an eyebrow. “I am starting to understand the napkin crisis.”
I laughed and moved toward the stack of place cards. Braxton followed without being asked, picking up a bundle like he had always been part of this choreography.
We moved easily between tables, placing cards, straightening silverware, quietly correcting the things Lydia “fixed.” It felt oddly intimate, working this way.
“Have you done this before?” I asked him quietly as he adjusted a chair leg so it wouldn't wobble.
“Family events,” he said. “Lots of seating charts so we have fewer arguments that way.”
“That seems optimistic,” I replied.
He smiled. “I said fewer. Not none.”
As we worked, time slid forward almost unnoticed. The afternoon light faded into the early evening. Lamps were switched on. Candles were tested, extinguished, then relit at Kitty’s insistence because “ambiance matters.”
Guests began to arrive in clusters. Coats were shed.
Voices rose. The room filled with the sound of anticipation.
A few guests complimented the tree, the decorations, and the cozy feel of the inn.
I smiled and thanked them, trying not to think about how much work had gone into making it feel effortless.
Then the wedding party arrived together, slightly overdressed and visibly nervous.
The bride was bright-eyed and calm, cheeks pink from the cold, hair pinned perfectly in place. She looked excited, happy in that open way that made you believe love could be simple if you had the right person.
The groom hovered near the doorway like he was unsure he was allowed inside.
“Is he supposed to look like that?” Braxton murmured.
I glanced over. The groom stood rigidly, hands clenched, eyes wide.
“He’s terrified,” I observed in surprise.
The bride appeared at his side, radiant and calm, slipping her arm through his.
“You are doing great,” she told him.
He nodded frantically. “I am? I’m doing great.”
Braxton leaned closer. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“No,” I agreed. “But he will be.”
Dinner service began smoothly enough. Plates moved from kitchen to table.
The first clatter of silverware gave way to appreciative murmurs.
The smell of warm food settled over the room, grounding everyone.
People started talking like they had known each other for years, which was always the magic trick of weddings.
You put people in a room with food and a shared purpose and suddenly they were laughing and happy.
I circulated briefly, checking in, smiling, answering questions that didn't require answers. Each time I looked back, Braxton was there, talking quietly with Dad or laughing with Lucy, sometimes helping a guest find their seat without making it feel like a correction.
Dad looked in his element, steady and calm, greeting guests with that quiet warmth that made people feel like they were welcome even if they had never met him before.
Mom fluttered between tables, smoothing invisible wrinkles, praising the centerpiece arrangements, occasionally stopping to dab at her eyes as if the room itself was too touching.
Lydia held court near the end of one table, already halfway into a story about how she once caught mistletoe in her hair and didn't notice until someone asked her for a kiss.
“And that is why I don't trust greenery,” she concluded.
Across the room, James stood near the head table, voice just a shade louder than necessary, gesturing as he spoke. The camera crew hovered close, filming his reactions, his commentary, and his carefully curated presence.
“This is where technique really matters. The balance of flavors. The structure. The way the sauce should cling but not overwhelm,” James talked to the cameras.
I watched him for a moment and felt my shoulders tighten automatically. Even now, even with everything that had shifted, my body remembered how much space he took up.
Braxton noticed my glance and shifted slightly closer to me, not touching, just near enough that I felt it.
“You don’t have to deal with him tonight,” he murmured.
I exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
Meri appeared beside James like a guardian spirit with excellent timing.
“James,” she said brightly, clipboard already raised. “We need you.”
James blinked. “For what.”
“For not being here,” Meri replied pleasantly. “The extra hired staff in the kitchen need your expert opinion.”
He frowned. “I do not—”
Meri was already steering him away with polite force. “It will only take a moment.”
James disappeared down the hall still talking, still gesturing, camera crew stumbling behind him like they were being led into a trap. I mouthed thank you to Meri as she vanished too, mission accomplished.
Braxton’s eyebrows lifted, his mouth tilting in an almost smile as we shared amusement at Meri’s machinations.
Braxton found his way back to my side as dessert plates were cleared. “You were right,” he murmured.
“About what?” I wondered.
“Food solves most problems,” he said.
I smiled. “Most.”
The officiant stood and cleared his throat, signaling the beginning of the rehearsal portion.
“All right,” he said. “Let us walk through this. Bride and groom, please stand.”
The groom stood so quickly his chair nearly toppled.
The bride rose more gracefully, as if she had been preparing for this her whole life.
The officiant began explaining positions. The groom immediately stepped the wrong way.
“No,” Lydia called cheerfully. “The other left.”
The groom froze. “My left or your left?”
The room laughed, tension easing.
Dad rose calmly and moved closer, his presence calm and soothing.
“Breathe,” he told the groom quietly, with a hand on the groom’s shoulder. “Just breathe.”
The groom nodded, eyes wide. “I am breathing.”
“Slower,” William advised.
The officiant continued, walking them through timing, cues, where to stand, when to turn. The bride kept smiling, patient and amused. The groom looked like he was doing advanced math in his head.
Then came the rings.
“All right,” the officiant said. “Rings.”
Silence.
The groom patted his pockets, panic spreading across his face. “I had them.”
The best man went pale. “I thought you had them.”
One of the groomsmen began checking under chairs as if the rings might have rolled away in protest.
The room collectively held its breath.
Mom pressed her hands to her chest. Kitty’s face went the color of paper.
I felt my own stomach tighten, already imagining how we would solve this in the next thirty seconds without anyone crying.
Dad didn't react at all. He simply reached into his jacket pocket and produced the rings without comment, holding them up like he was presenting a perfectly normal object that had always been there.
Relief broke out in laughter and applause.
The groom stared at the rings like they were a miracle. “I forgot I gave them to you,” he said weakly.
Dad smiled gently. “You did.”
The bride laughed, shaking her head. “This is why I love you,” she told the groom. “You are consistent.”
“I am consistently terrified,” the groom whispered.
“That too,” she agreed.
The rehearsal ended with the officiant satisfied and the wedding party looking equal parts relieved and exhausted. People drifted back to their seats, voices rising again, tension replaced by that softer post-rehearsal glow where everyone felt like they had survived something together.
My gaze moved over the room. Dad was talking with a groomsman while Mom was laughing with the bride. Lydia was gesturing animatedly as she told a story to people who were clearly enjoying her. Lucy leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed, as she and Dex chatted together.
Braxton found his way back to me near the window.
“This,” he said quietly, “is the most relaxed I have felt at a formal dinner in my life.”
I smiled. “You fit in here.”
He met my gaze. “So do you.”
Outside, snow fell softly, the inn glowing behind us. Inside, laughter rose and fell, the sound of people fed and content.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like I was holding everything together by myself.
Braxton stood beside me, steady and present, and the thought settled in my mind like something I had been waiting for without knowing it.