Chapter Forty-One Happiness Overload
Chapter Forty-One
Happiness Overload
Poppy
He’s crying.
Dean Whitaker, terror of the New York legal system, is standing at our altar with tears running down his stupid perfect face.
“You okay?” Dad whispers.
“No,” I whisper back. “He’s crying. I’m going to die.”
“From happiness?”
“From complete emotional overload.”
We start walking. Every step feels huge. Monumental. Like I’m walking toward the rest of my life.
Which, technically, I am.
Dean’s not even trying to hide it. Just standing there in his perfect tux, watching me like I’m everything, tears tracking down his cheeks while his best friend Nate hands him tissues.
I lose it.
“Don’t you dare,” CeCe mouths from her bridesmaid spot.
Too late. I’m crying. Dad’s crying. Pretty sure George is crying, though that might just be him eating something new.
We reach the altar. Dad kisses my cheek, hands me over to Dean with a “Take care of her” that’s both threat and blessing.
“Hi,” Dean says, taking my hands. His voice trembles a little and so do my knees.
“Hi.”
“You made it.”
“Did you doubt?”
“Never.” He squeezes my fingers. “You look—”
“I know. You already said.”
“Worth saying again.” He leans closer, whispers, “Also, your veil’s missing.”
“George ate it.”
“Of course he did.” He’s smiling through the tears. “Perfect. It’s perfect.”
Father Murphy clears his throat. “Shall we begin?”
“Wait,” I say. Everyone freezes. “Dean’s crying. I need to document this.”
“Poppy—”
“CeCe, phone. Now.”
“I’m the maid of honor, not the—”
“Phone!”
She passes it over. I snap approximately thirty photos of Dean’s tear-stained face while he tries to look stern and fails completely.
“For the wedding album,” I explain.
“I’m going to get you for this,” he mutters.
“Promise?”
“Oh, I promise.”
Father Murphy tries again. “Now may we begin?”
“Yes,” we say together.
The ceremony’s a blur. Traditional vows because Dean insisted, though I may have added “even when you argue with goats” to the “for better or worse” part. Dean definitely added “in chaos and in calm” to his.
“The rings?” Father Murphy asks.
George, miraculously, still has them. Nate retrieves them with minimal drama, which is possibly the most shocking part of the day.
“Poppy,” Dean says, sliding the ring on my finger. “I promise to love you, protect you, and build a life with you that’s messier and louder and infinitely better than anything I imagined. You’re my chaos, my calm, my everything. Even when you reorganize my office. Especially then.”
I’m sobbing. Elegant? No. But who cares?
“Dean,” I manage. “I promise to love you, challenge you, and remind you every day that there’s more to life than billable hours. You’re my anchor, my adventure, my home. Even when you measure pasta water. Especially then.”
He laughs. Squeezes my hands.
“By the power vested in me,” Father Murphy says quickly, probably sensing we’re about to go off script again, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss—”
Dean doesn’t let him finish.
Pulls me against him like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. Kisses me like we’re alone, like the hundred and fifty guests don’t exist, like it’s just us and this promise and the rest of our lives.
Someone whoops. Probably Mason.
Someone bleats. Definitely George.
Someone sobs. Could be anyone, honestly. We’re all disasters here.
When we finally break apart, Dean’s grinning. “Hi, wife.”
“Hi, husband.”
“Ready for forever?”
I think about our life. The house that’s never quiet. The dog who needs CBD to make it through the day. The goat who’s basically a felon. The thriving business. The partnership he took and transformed, bringing humanity to divorce law. The babies we’re already talking about.
The beautiful, chaotic, perfect disaster we built together.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
We run back down the aisle, dodging rose petals and George’s attempt to follow us. Behind us, our people cheer. Our weird, wonderful, chosen family who somehow all fit together.
“No regrets?” Dean asks as we burst into the sunlight.
“One.”
His face falls. “What?”
“We should’ve eloped.”
He laughs. Picks me up. Spins me around while photographers capture every ridiculous second.
“Next time,” he promises.
“There’s not going to be a next time.”
“No,” he agrees, setting me down, pulling me close. “There’s not.”
And then he kisses me again, and I know—deep in my bones—that this is it.
My person. My home. My happily ever after.
Even if it comes with goats.
Especially if it comes with goats.