28. Before the Altar #2
He absorbs this quietly. No defensiveness, no frustration—just thought. “We’ll take it one decision at a time,” he says. “We don’t need every answer tonight.”
I nod. It’s true. But the fear doesn’t disappear. It just settles lower, waiting. Later, when we’re folding Liam’s clothes and packing an overnight bag for him to stay at Mom’s before the ceremony, Reid brushes a hand down my arm.
“Tomorrow is going to be good,” he says.
“I hope so,” I answer.
“You don’t have to hope,” he says. “We’re doing this because we want to.”
“I know,” I say, but the truth sits deeper than the words. Wanting something and navigating everything tied to it are not the same thing.
The last task of the night is setting the final stack of ceremony papers on the counter for the coordinator. Reid lingers behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“We’re here,” he says quietly. “After everything."
“We are,” I admit. “And I’m grateful for that.”
But even with his arms around me, the tension doesn’t disappear. It just blends with the anticipation, forming something complicated that I don’t know how to unravel yet. Because tomorrow, we stand at the altar. And every uncertainty we’ve danced around lives in that moment too.
I don’t expect to be awake this late, but my brain refuses to settle. Everyone else in the house is asleep—Mom in her room, Destiny in the guest room, Liam sprawled across his bed like he’s fighting invisible dragons. The hallway is dark except for the small nightlight shaped like a moon.
I step over one of Liam’s discarded toy cars and sit on the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest. The living room feels different tonight.
Not unfamiliar, but paused—like it’s waiting for me to decide something before it can let me rest. My wedding dress hangs in Mom’s room. The rings are already paid for.
The venue has been confirmed twice. Everything is lined up, and yet none of it answers the questions that keep getting louder in my mind. Mom’s voice from earlier echoes back to me, not harsh, just honest.
“You deserve room to grow, Amelia. Make sure this marriage doesn’t shrink you.”
I know she wasn’t trying to plant doubt. She was trying to protect me. She remembers what it was like to be young and overwhelmed, trying to take care of a family while still figuring out who she was. The truth is, I do feel grown. I had to grow fast.
But the other truth is that I still feel like I’m becoming someone—someone who belongs in rooms like the one at Nexus Dynamics, someone who isn’t just reacting to life but building it.
I rub my thumb slowly over the inside of my palm, a nervous habit I’ve had since high school. I’m excited to marry Reid.
That’s not the part I’m questioning. The fear sits in the space between excitement and reality. Marriage means choices—about where to live, about careers, about what stability looks like. I don’t want to pretend those choices are simple when every one of them will shape Liam’s world too.
Reid walks out of the hallway quietly. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair slightly messy from sleep. He doesn’t turn on a light when he reaches the couch; he just sits beside me and touches my leg gently.
“You okay?” he asks, voice soft.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “My brain won’t stop.”
“Wedding nerves?” he guesses.
I nod, even though it’s only part of the truth. “And everything that comes after.”
He leans back and lets out a slow breath. “I’m nervous too.”
The honesty eases some of the tension in my chest.
“I keep thinking about how much our lives are going to change,” he says. “Not in a bad way. Just… big. And I don’t want to mess anything up.”
“You won’t,” I say, but it’s quiet, not a promise—more like a hope.
He shifts closer until our shoulders touch. “We’re choosing each other,” he says. “That’s the part I’m sure about.”
I rest my head against him. “Me too. But choosing each other doesn’t erase the hard stuff.”
“I know,” he says. “But we’ve gotten through everything else.”
His confidence steadies me, but it doesn’t silence the worries.
It only reminds me that the worries don’t mean we’re wrong.
They mean tomorrow is a step we’re taking with our eyes open.
We sit like that for a long time, listening to the quiet house.
The weight in my chest changes—not gone, but more manageable. I straighten slowly and look at him.
“Go back to bed,” I say. “I’ll come in a minute.”
He studies me for another second, then nods and stands. Before he heads down the hall, he bends to kiss my forehead.
“It’ll be okay,” he says.
When he disappears around the corner, I exhale and sink deeper into the couch. The ring glints faintly in the dim light, a reminder of everything tomorrow represents. I touch it lightly, letting the cool metal ground me.
I think about the path that brought us here—teenage mistakes, long nights with a newborn, building a family in the middle of uncertainty, learning how to communicate without falling apart. We’ve already lived an entire lifetime together, and somehow it still feels like the beginning.
Outside, a car drives by, headlights slipping through the blinds for a moment before fading.
The silence returns, and for the first time tonight, I feel a quiet certainty settle in my chest. Not a perfect one.
Not a magical removal of every worry. Just a simple truth: I want Reid. I want our family.
I want the life we’re building, even if I’m scared.
I stand, stretch, and turn off the small lamp by the window.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk down an aisle and make a promise that will shape the rest of my life.
I’m afraid—and choosing him anyway. That’s what commitment is.
That’s what love looks like when you stop romanticizing it and start living it.
As I head down the hallway toward bed, the fear is there, but so is something steadier. Hope. Trust. A future I’m choosing, even with all its unknowns. I’m ready. Not fearless—just ready.