Epilogue
JEREMY
Look, in my defense, nobody explicitly said:
“No getting your dick sucked by the hot server in the linen closet before the ceremony.”
Especially not by a server named Jamie, who smells like gin and dry cypress, and had arms that could bench press a small horse.
Not a pony. A full-ass horse. Let’s be accurate here.
Mistakes were made.
Regrets?
Not a single goddamn one. Because, let’s be real, his cock gave those biceps a serious run for their money.
And Mr. Fiddlestorm wants what he wants, when he wants it.
Straightening my tie in the mirror, I swipe a thumb over the suspiciously smudged lipgloss in the corner of my mouth and grin.
Not lip gloss, technically.
Lip balm. Don’t be gross.
Flavored. Peach. You’re welcome for that visual and no, I will not apologize.
And listen, I’m a gentleman. I reciprocate. Because manners. They’re important. And so rare these days.
After adjusting my boutonnière, I shoot myself a wink in the mirror for surviving that whole extremely life-affirming experience, and slip out the door like the very picture of innocence.
I even give Jamie a wink on my way out. He salutes me with a tray of champagne flutes like the god he is.
Outside, the music’s picking up, the salty breeze kicking through the open doors and scattering flower petals down the aisle like confetti.
The sun’s slanting low over the ocean, setting everything on fire in that golden, holy-hour kind of way, and honestly it’s almost disgustingly beautiful.
Nolan and Rorie’s setup should be a freaking magazine spread. Driftwood altar wrapped in eucalyptus and white roses, fairy lights strung between the dunes, rows of chairs tucked neatly into the sand.
It’s not just gorgeous.
It’s them.
The wedding party is lined up and mostly behaving.
Mostly.
Maya is stiffly linked arm-in-arm with Asher, and the tension between them could power a small city. It’s like watching two beautiful magnets desperately trying not to touch. I give it twenty minutes before one of them throws the first insult disguised as a compliment.
Fifteen if the champagne hits early.
Asher keeps sneaking glances at her like he’s torn between kissing her and pushing her over the side of this cliff. Maya’s jaw is so tight you could probably cut glass on it. It’s going to be delicious later. I’m already pre-writing the group chat jokes in my head.
They’ll probably fuck tonight.
Oh, let’s hope so.
Tammy’s muttering about how eloping is “99% more time-efficient” while her wife, Imogene, taps her pen against a clipboard, trying her best to keep everyone in line.
Good luck with that.
Some chick named Emily—who, according to Maya, is some genius professor who has befriended our Rorie—is stress-devouring mints from the favor baskets.
And me?
I’m trying not to get misty-eyed before the damn thing even starts.
It’s a whole beautiful disaster out here.
Today isn’t just another coastal wedding with top notch seafood and an open bar. It’s the day two of the most gloriously broken, stubborn, perfect-for-each-other idiots I know make it official.
Imogene says it’s time and we make our way down the aisle, taking our places on our respective sides.
Laurel is seated at the front, next to Nolan’s father and his caretaker.
For a second, I catch a glimpse of Rorie’s parents’s photograph tucked into the flowers at the end of the front row, right by a picture of Nolan’s mom.
His dad sits stiffly, his hands folded tight in his lap, but he’s here. He showed up. And somehow, even with all the cracks, all the history, it feels like both of them are finally getting the kind of beginning they always deserved.
With family behind them.
With love all around them.
Right where it matters most.
The music shifts.
The crowd turns.
And there she is.
Rorie—barefoot, radiant, with that same “I dare you to survive me” energy she’s always carried—floating down the aisle as though the entire ocean decided to part just to let her pass.
Nolan looks like he just forgot how breathing works. He’s locked on her like gravity stopped existing and she’s the only thing holding him to the earth.
I feel something tighten in my chest, sharp and stupid and full of far too many feelings.
Damn them.
Damn this day.
Damn how right they look.
They meet at the altar, laughter catching in their throats, hands fumbling together like they can’t stand the space between them for even a second longer. And suddenly it’s not a wedding anymore.
It’s a homecoming.
A battle won.
A lighthouse found in the middle of a storm.
The officiant talks about love being messy. About how real love isn’t the absence of cracks. It’s the hands that hold you steady anyway.
Nolan pulls out the compass—the one he gave her when he proposed—and presses it into her palm. I almost lose my shit right there.
An anchor.
A vow.
And when they kiss, wild and soft and a little desperate, survivors finally, finally reaching the shore, the whole beach erupts.
Maya whoops. Asher mutters something under his breath like “about damn time”” and Tammy elbows him so hard he stumbles.
Emily dabs at her eyes and Rishi launches into a victory dance so aggressive he nearly takes out the front row.
But I just stand there, hands jammed in my pockets, grinning like a fool. Because somehow, after all their wreckage, all the wrong turns, all the scars—these two found their way back to each other.
Not perfect.
Not polished.
Real.
And real is better anyway.
The reception is everything you’d expect:
Laughter spilling over wine glasses. Feet bare in the sand. Fairy lights blinking, same as the lazy stars overhead. The ocean humming in the background like an old, familiar song.
It’s wedding magic at its peak with a side of clusterfuck, just the way Rorie and Nolan would want it.
Deciding to raid the food, I catch Rishi flirting with Emily near the raw oyster bar. Like, full court press. Hand on the table, leaning in, giving her the kind of smile that probably got him voted “Most Likely to Be a Problem” in high school.
Emily, for her part, looks approximately one wink away from snapping a butter knife in half. Poor girl’s been mainlining mints all day and now she’s got Rishi tossing pickup lines like he’s training for the Bachelor Barn.
Honestly, it’s excellent entertainment. I make a mental note to check in later. Purely for documentation purposes, of course.
And then—because this day cannot just behave—I realize Maya and Asher are... MIA.
Gone.
Vaporized.
Not at their assigned table, not at the bar, not even heckling each other near the dance floor.
Hmmmmm.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
I take a long, slow sip of my drink and grin. If those two don’t, at the very least, make out in the dunes tonight, I’ll eat my boutonnière.
Jamie finds me again, slipping a fresh whiskey sour into my hand with a wicked grin that promises a lot and apologizes for nothing.
I’ll be finding a way to thank him properly later. But right now, I set my attention off him and toward the head table, where Nolan’s gazing at Rorie as she talks, the look in his eyes so stupidly in love it almost hurts to watch.
She catches him staring, blushes, and kisses him so tenderly it’s practically an art form. When they separate, he kisses her knuckles like she handed him the stars.
God, these two.
I raise my glass in a silent toast—to good timing, and the absolute shitshow of love when it’s strong enough to survive it all.
And with that,
To love that cracks you open.
To second chances.
To surviving bar bathrooms, boardrooms and broken hearts.
To choosing each other—again and again and again.
Some people spend their whole lives looking for it.
Some people crash into it when they least expect it.
Some people—the best people—choose it anyway.
And hell, if Nolan and Rorie can do it, there’s hope for the rest of us.
Especially if Jamie’s working the afterparty.