Epilogue
. . .
one year later
“Stop crying, mom, because I really don’t want to cry either.”
Mom sobs uncontrollably at the sight of me in my wedding dress.
“I’m sorry,” she moans. “I thought I got it all out at the bridal shop, but now seeing you with your hair and makeup done,” she sobs again, this time pausing to blow her nose. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
I spin in front of the tri-fold floor-length mirror again. “Me either.”
But then again, I can believe it. Because I’m so head over heels his photo is my lock screen in love with Miller that the idea of not being with him feels unnatural now.
“How’s Art doing?” I ask, turning sideways to study my profile.
Mom blows her nose again. “Worse than me, can you believe it?” She waves her hand down, hanky flying, “men, they’re worse than us, only they just hold it all in until their daughter gets married, and boom, they cry for days.”
I turn to face her, collecting my dress in my arms as I step down from the tiered footrest I’d been standing on. “He’s been that much of a wreck?”
I guess that makes sense.
Art has been my stepdad for over ten years. He’s Mara’s real father. Yet, because of the struggles mom and I faced in the years before, it’s very hard for me to feel comfortable calling anyone dad.
But in the last year, Art and Miller have grown close. They’ve become friends, in fact. Not just friends either, but their relationship truly borders on son and father, and seeing Art take Miller in that way, it all just kind of clicked.
As a kid, I wouldn’t let myself call Art “dad” because I was afraid he’d leave. I was afraid to attach such a big title to something that I wasn’t sure was even permanent. Art is, of course, permanent.
After Miller asked Art for my hand in marriage, it felt strange calling him Art. So I slipped into calling him dad one day, and I’m pretty sure he’s been emotional since.
And that was three months ago.
In the last month? Miller’s been calling him dad, too.
“He’ll be fine,” Mara says, finally peering up from her phone. She turned thirteen after Christmas last year, and being fourteen this year? Someone tell her she’s just fourteen because she acts twenty, I swear.
“Texting Zeth?” I ask, batting my eyes playfully.
Her cheeks pinken, and I know I've hit the jackpot. “He’s one of Miller’s groomsmen, you know?”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?” She looks down at the silk gown form-fitted to her muscular, curvy body and smooths her palms over the fabric nervously.
“Mar, you’re gorg. So don’t doubt that. And anyway, it’s Zeth. He thinks you’re the sun, even when you’re being a little B.”
Mom harrumphs. “Mara, you don’t need a boy thinking you’re gorg anyway. You’re too young.” Mom gets up and grabs a few more tissues. “I need to go fix my makeup.”
When she’s gone, I turn to Mara. “Hey, can you do me a favor? Can you find Miller and give him this?” I hand her a package. A very tiny jewelry box.
She takes it, and before she’s to the door, she asks, “is this his ring?”
I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Yes,” I lie. “That is his ring. Tell him it’s from me but let him open it alone.”
She smiles and closes the door behind her.
I drum my fingers anxiously along the dressing room table top in front of the vanity where I’ve taken a seat. A moment later, my phone dings.
I open the text message from my fiance and grin at the photo.
The box wasn’t his ring. Thank God Mara is fourteen and doesn't listen to a word I say. If she did, she’d know that Beau has both rings. Inside the box is the key to his cage.
In the last year, we’ve been together, we’ve fallen heavily into our love of chastity. It pairs so well with female dominance and male submission, too, which we learned through internet research is our preferred dynamic.
The photo is of his cock, pink and angry within the metal cage. Next to his palm is the key.
Miller
Now that I have the key, am I allowed to use it?
Not until tonight. I just wanted you to see how close freedom really is.
I don’t know what you have planned for tonight, but I’m fucking excited. And I miss you. And I love you. And I cannot wait to marry you.
I love you, and can’t wait to marry you, either.
PS. Don’t forget your letter.
Locking my screen, I look down at the vanity where the letter I’ve written Miller rests.
Not too long after Christmas last year, Miller shared with me that he was ready to get rid of the letters he’d written his father.
He said keeping them felt like holding himself hostage and didn’t bring him anything positive.
“Just looking at it reminds me of a time when I solely existed, and that makes me so sad,” he’d said of the box.
We agreed to start a new tradition, one that was meant to make him feel really good.
Instead of just getting rid of the box, I told him we could keep the tradition alive but more positive.
We agreed that each time we felt overwhelmed by a positive feeling for each other, we’d write a letter and add it to a box.
Our wedding day marks the day we’ve chosen to read the letters annually.
After the ceremony and reception, we’ll go to our hotel room, share wine, and he’ll read what I’ve written to him for the last six months and vice versa.
And next year, on our one-year anniversary, we’ll have a full year of letters to one another .
It’s a beautiful tradition and one that pays homage to the struggle he faced when he first moved here, and one that he can turn to when darkness from his past edges in, and he can physically see all the reasons why he’s amazing, and I love him.
With a smile, I fold my first letter and slide it into the box.
The first letter is only one line. And I’ve never meant anything more.
You’re the only one.