20. Chapter 20
Kwemby: Epilogue
Minutes After Their Wedding
We’ve officially said “I do.” Harriet’s my wife.
We are at our wedding reception, where hanging string bulbs glow overhead like small, perfect stars. I stand at the edge of the dance floor, my tie loosened, my jacket hanging from a nearby chair. Across the room, Harriet moves between tables, stopping to thank guests.
She sees me watching and smiles, then crosses the floor to me, eyes never leaving mine. The music shifts into a low acoustic number.
I step forward to meet her, one hand coming to rest at her waist.
“Hi,” she warmly says.
“Hi yourself,” I reply, leading her into a simple box step.
We move together across the floor, her steps matching mine.
I’ve waited for this moment for thirty long years. I stayed through her marriage to Buck, through the birth of the twins, through Christmases and birthdays and the particular milestones of a life built in parallel to mine. I stayed in her orbit because I couldn’t bear not to be, even when it hurt.
At a nearby table, Harriet’s daughters watch us with soft smiles. Truly being twins, they raise their glasses in unison as we glide by.
We move through a slow turn. She stumbles a step, but I steady her with a shift of my grip. From it, her balance returns immediately. She laughs in a way that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. My fingers tingle with the urge to keep her close.
“Sorry,” she says. “These are new shoes.”
“No apology needed.”
The song ends on a long, sustained note that seems to hang in the air between us. A loose strand of hair falls across her face, catching on her eyelashes. I brush it back with two fingers, my touch careful against her skin. She leans in slightly at the contact, her cheek coming to rest near my jaw.
Harriet looks up at me, her eyes careful on mine. “What are you thinking?” she asks, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
I could tell her the truth—that I’m thinking about the last half of our life, about growing older together.
That I’m wondering if the girls will visit for Christmas, if we’ll take that trip to Maine we’ve been talking about, if the diners will survive without me checking in three times a day.
That I’m intensely hoping that she’ll never regret choosing me.
Instead, I kiss her, because a kiss encompasses everything.
“I’m thinking,” I say, each word certain, “that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
“Me too,” she says, and squeezes my hand.
THE END