Chapter 12
BEN
The music starts before the sun fully drops, a slow rumble of bass and brass spilling across the beach.
The light changes minute by minute—first gold, then amber, then that impossible rose that makes everyone stop talking for half a breath.
The bride appears at the end of the aisle, barefoot, veil tugged by the breeze.
I’m standing in the back corner with Sol, her shoulder just brushing mine.
Every time the wind shifts, her dress flutters against my hand, and I feel it like static.
She doesn’t look at me. She’s watching the couple, smiling faintly, and the setting sun hits her in a way that makes everything else fade out—chairs, palm fronds, even the noise of the ocean behind us.
When the officiant starts to speak, her eyes soften. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about her own wedding or trying not to. I glance at her profile and tell myself to stop wondering.
The kiss comes, and everyone claps, cheering loud enough to drown the surf. The band jumps in with something upbeat, bright and unrestrained. The guests scatter—toward the bar, toward the food, toward each other.
I should join the others, but I can’t move. Sol tilts her head back, watching fairy lights flicker on one by one across the beach. The bulbs hum faintly, the filament catching little halos of gold.
“This is ridiculous,” she says, half laughing. “I’m sure any minute now security is going to come and drag me away.”
“If they do,” I say, leaning closer until my mouth is right by her ear, “I’ll tell them you’re my emotional support date.”
She laughs, low and quiet, and her shoulder brushes mine. I know it’s all a little jest, but something about that sound—unrestrained, easy—pulls at me.
We’ve been together all day. After breakfast, we took a nap, then headed out in search for more food. The hours stretched into afternoon, and we ended up on the beach, lounging on an extra wide chair.
I brought my book, though I barely read it.
She napped for a bit, her hat pulled low over her face, the hem of her coverup flapping slightly in the breeze.
At some point, she shifted in her sleep until her arm was draped across my chest. I remember thinking how strange it felt, being touched like that without needing to earn it.
Now, watching her under these lights, I can still feel the shape of her there—light, familiar, dangerous.
“Okay,” she says after a while, pulling me back. “I have to admit something.”
I turn to her. “You’re secretly on the guest list?”
She smirks. “I’m glad you convinced me to crash this party. Christmas Eve is usually a big deal for me.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, eyes flicking to the ocean. “My family’s in Argentina. It’s the one time of year we all used to make an effort. No matter where we were, we’d find a way to be together. When I moved to New York, I’d still fly back—red-eyes, connections, whatever it took.”
Her voice softens. “This is the first year I didn’t.”
Something in the air shifts, the laughter from the party dipping under the sound of waves. I feel like she’s finally trusting me with this information and I want to be present, listening, to every word she’s saying to me.
“Because of the divorce?” I ask quietly.
She hesitates, then nods. “Partly. Mostly because it felt too hard. Going home and pretending everything’s fine. Pretending I’m the same person they said goodbye to last year. In my mind I would have a baby or two by now, but instead I have an ex-husband.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. The silence between us fills up with everything that doesn’t need to be explained. The weight of starting over, the exhaustion from being strong for too long.
She exhales slowly, crossing her arms. “I used to love Christmas Eve. Actually, my family only celebrated Christmas Day the years I was with my in-laws for Christmas Eve. Otherwise, they go all out on the twenty-fourth. I feel like… it’s different now. Things changed a lot.”
I want to reach for her but I settle for brushing my hand against hers. “Different isn’t always bad.”
Her smile is small, wistful. “No. But it’s not the same.”
The band shifts to something faster, percussion-heavy, wild and loud enough to shake some glasses on the cocktail tables.
Someone shouts something in Spanish and half the wedding surges toward the sand.
The bride ties a knot on the bottom of her dress, the groom follows, and suddenly the dance floor is a blur of arms and laughter and rum.
Sol looks toward the crowd, then back at me, eyebrow arched.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Let’s make different look fun.”
“Ben…” she starts, mock-warning, but she’s already laughing as I tug her hand.
We squeeze into the mass of dancers, swallowed by the sound and movement. The air is thick and warm, the kind that clings to our skin. A saxophone wails over the drums, and she spins under my arm, her hair catching the light of the hundreds of fairy lights strewn above us.
Sol moves easily—hips, shoulders, hands—all in rhythm with the music, and I’m completely undone. I can’t dance to save my life, but she’s too good at it to care, and the way she’s smiling makes me forget to be embarrassed.
“Relax,” she says over the noise, tugging me closer to her body. Her curves are soft, and I place one hand on her lower back to keep her there. “It’s not rocket science.”
“I overthink for a living!” I shout back.
Her laugh breaks open against my neck, loud and bright.
I grip her waist, guiding her in time with the beat, but she’s the one in control—always just a little ahead of me, teasing me with every turn.
The music pulses through the dance floor, through us, until I can’t tell whose heartbeat I’m feeling.
When she turns back toward me, our faces are inches apart. Sweat shines on her collarbone, and her lips part on a breath that I feel before I hear.
“You’re so bad at this,” she says, breathless.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in. “But I’m trying.”
And then I kiss her. It’s rougher than I mean it to be—hot, messy, full of all the things we haven’t said. She gasps against my mouth, but she doesn’t pull away. Her hands slide up my chest, curling behind my neck, holding me there like she’s decided not to think either.
The music changes again, slower this time, smoother. She presses her forehead to mine, eyes still closed.
“Different,” she murmurs.
“Better,” I whisper back.
We stay there through the next song, and the next; dancing, kissing, stopping just long enough to drink from the same glass before diving back into the crowd.