26. Forever Three
FOREVER THREE
Stella
Dusk comes on like a held breath, the kind that starts in the soles of your feet and rises, hot and helium-light, until you’re afraid the next exhale will tear you open.
The garden behind Hunter’s mansion is strung with a million fairy lights, each one a tiny witness, glinting through the late-blooming wisteria and the night-burst of jasmine.
The scent is thick and narcotic, almost soapy, but there’s a citrus tang from somewhere—the peel of a cocktail, maybe, or just the sharpness of new-cut grass beneath the rented chairs.
I stand at the edge of it and watch the guests gathering in their rows, a war council dressed for a party.
I see them all. I see everything.
Kayleigh sits in the front row, blonde hair swept up with a crystal comb, a dress the color of green grapes clinging to her curves.
She has the look of someone holding a secret—chin lifted, mouth held tight so it won’t break into a grin or a tremble.
Next to her, Mary Kate is practically vibrating out of her seat.
Her hair is a golden curtain, her lips glossed and perfect, but she keeps tugging at the hem of her skirt like it might transform her into someone less obviously herself.
Chloe is next to MK, a silvery slip of a girl with big eyes and a black velvet choker, and she keeps glancing up at the altar like she expects the whole thing to vanish if she blinks.
And then there’s Andie. She glows—actually glows, as if the baby inside her is a lantern lit just for this afternoon.
Her dress is lavender, and there’s an actual silk ribbon under her breasts, tied in a bow, the kind you see on cupcakes or the ankles of newborns.
She keeps one hand on her round belly, fingers splayed and absent-minded, and the other hand is buried in the curve of my dad’s arm.
Thomas wears a suit in conservative navy, but his tie is a shocking, bloody red; he sits with the posture of a man who cannot, will not, be moved.
His hand is on Andie’s thigh, not possessive, but anchoring, like if he let go she might drift up into the trees.
I watch him murmur something to her, the words lost in the night air, but I can see the muscle in his jaw flicker, the way his eyes are already glassy and unreadable.
My mom is in the second row, a white handkerchief clutched in her palm.
I don’t know how long she’s been crying, but her mascara’s gone a little punk, and every few seconds she smiles at me with so much rawness that I have to look away.
Her dress is gold and semi-flashy, but she’s thrown a denim jacket over her shoulders, and she keeps twisting the sleeve, knotting and unknotting it, like a nervous habit from childhood.
The rest of the seats are filled by a scattering of faces from my life: a few other friends from Century College, a pair of Hunter’s corporate lieutenants, a smattering of the unflappable aunties and cousins who always materialize at these things, even when there’s a threat of scandal.
A couple of them are whispering, their mouths hidden behind their hands.
The sight makes me smile. It means they’re talking about me, and I love it.
Above everything, there’s the single note of a cello, slow and syrupy, weaving between the conversations. Somewhere out of sight, a musician draws a bow across the strings with the patience of a surgeon, and the music shudders across the lawn, every note a benediction.
I’m not wearing white, because it’s too traditional.
Instead, my gown is silver-blue, almost liquid in the way it slides down my body, the metallic threads catching the fairy lights and sending them spinning across the grass.
The back is cut low but not immodest, and the front is draped just enough to highlight my bust without looking trampy.
My hair is down—Hunter insisted on it—and falls in a thick, gold sheet to the small of my back.
Every step I take across the stone path is a lesson in muscle memory and prayer.
At the end of the aisle is the makeshift altar, a little rise built of railroad ties and a platform of whitewashed planks.
It looks temporary, defiant, like something that could be torn down at a moment’s notice if the neighbors called the city.
There are no flowers on the altar, just the riot of wisteria behind it, and the candles that edge each corner, flickering with the smallest tremor of wind.
Hunter stands at the altar in a suit that looks poured onto his body, charcoal with black satin lapels, his hair tamed and a little too short, his face half in shadow.
Next to him, Lachlan is a vision in heather gray, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the forearm, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he’s not wearing his clerical collar.
The absence of it is as loud as a fire alarm, and when I see the naked column of his throat, I feel a pang of something raw and animal.
He’s changed so much to be with me. To be with us, in our taboo relationship, and yet I know he doesn’t regret it one bit.
Both men's eyes are on me, and the heat of it is so real that my legs go weak at the knees.
I take my time walking the aisle. No one gives me away, because again, I’m an iconoclast that way. With every step, the hum of the cello grows, the whisper of the guests drops away, and all I can hear is the click of my heels and the racing of my own pulse.
At the halfway point, Hunter’s gaze meets mine, and he tilts his chin just so.
It’s a command: come here, now, I’m waiting for you.
Lachlan’s eyes are a blaze of blue, but there’s something softer at the edges, a gravity that pulls at me in a way I have never felt before.
I want to run to them, but instead I pace myself, each stride more deliberate than the last.
When I reach the altar, the cello draws to a halt, and there’s a breathless, suspended silence. I turn to face the rows of guests, and the garden is suddenly so silent I can hear the shiver of the wisteria as it drops a petal at my feet.
Hunter is first to speak. His voice is the kind of quiet that makes everyone lean in.
“Stella,” he says, “from the moment you stormed into my life, I knew there was no going back. You’re the only thing in this world that makes me want to be a better man, and the only person who could ever get away with talking to me the way you do.
You are my obsession, my joy, my daily addiction.
There is not a part of you I don’t crave, body and soul.
And I swear to spend the rest of my life giving you everything you want, and then some.
Even if it kills me. Especially if it kills me. ”
He takes my hand, and the pressure of his fingers is a promise.
Lachlan goes next, his voice rough and a little unsteady, as if it has to travel a great distance to reach the present.
“I’ve never belonged anywhere,” he says, looking past me, then right into my eyes.
“Never knew what it meant to be home. Until you. You make me want things I thought I’d buried, and you show me a mercy I don’t deserve.
I want to be the man you think I am, every day, for as long as you’ll have me.
You’re sacred to me, Stella, and I vow to worship you, protect you, and sin with you, over and over, until there’s nothing left but the memory of us. ”
He takes my other hand, and for a moment I am held upright by the strength of them, by the truth of what they’ve just said.
Now, it’s my turn. I should be nervous, but I’m not. The words come out in a rush, like I’ve been holding them my entire life.
“I used to think I was broken,” I say. “Too much for anyone, or not enough. But with you two, I’m not broken.
I’m just the right kind of wild, and you’ve never tried to tame me.
I want you both—always, at the same time, every hour, every minute.
I love you so much I’d burn down the world for you, or let you burn it down around me.
I’m not afraid of the darkness, as long as you’re in it with me.
I’m yours, Hunter. I’m yours, Lachlan. I always have been. I always will be.”
I hear a sound—maybe a sob, maybe a laugh—from the front row, and I glance over to see Andie with her fist pressed to her mouth, her eyes glistening.
Next to her, Thomas hasn’t moved, but his face is proud.
I hope he’s proud, at least. Kayleigh is openly crying, and Mary Kate’s hand is clamped so tight on Chloe’s arm I think the girl might faint.
There’s no officiant. No one to say “by the power vested in me.” No priest, no bishop, not even a notary. It’s just the three of us, and the garden, and the wisteria, and the candlelight, and the air so thick with jasmine you could get drunk on it.
Hunter slides the first ring onto my left ring finger.
The band is warm, the metal heavier than it should be, and as it clicks home I feel my hand tremble.
The engraving presses against my skin: SEMPER FIDELIS.
Lachlan does the same, his ring fitting on my right ring finger, the two patterns aligning, catching the light. Perfect, as aways.
The guests don’t clap. They don’t have to.
The moment is sealed by the hush, by the way the world shrinks to the space between our hands, by the slow, deliberate way Hunter brings my palm to his mouth and kisses it, and the way Lachlan pulls me in with an arm around my waist and holds me there, tight, like he’s afraid I might slip away if he ever lets go.
I glance back at the crowd, and my mother is sobbing, happy, her tears shining in the gold of dusk.
It is done. We are married, or whatever the world will let us call it. There’s no blessing, just the three of us, standing before a simple altar in a garden that smells like gardenia and sugar and something ancient.
In the darkening blue, the fairy lights come on all at once, and for a second, I think I can see the whole future lit up ahead of me.