Chapter 30
Harley—five years later
The country club had a way of making the sky look like an expensive accessory.
Everything there was curated to within an inch of its life, from the golf course grass that felt like carpet to the silver-service silence that hung over the ballroom.
That wedding—the first one, the one that burned down—was a performance in a limestone cage.
My father’s backyard is different.
The grass here is cool and damp against my bare feet, a messy, clover-dotted patch of Earth that doesn’t care about its social standing.
I stand on the edge of the clearing behind the house, the morning air sharp with the scent of pine and damp soil.
The sun is a pale, smudged thumbprint against the gray-blue of the horizon, dragging the shadows away from the trees.
Sixty folding chairs stand in neat rows in front of me.
They aren’t the gold-leafed chivari chairs Elaine had insisted on.
They’re simple, sturdy things, each one decorated with a bow of forest green or baby blue fabric.
The colors don’t scream for attention; they settle into the landscape like they belong here.
At the end of the aisle stands the arch.
My father spent the last three weeks in his workshop. He used cedar and reclaimed maple—wood with grain like a thumbprint, rough in some places and sanded smooth in others. While a simple structure, it’s the most beautiful piece of architecture I’ve ever seen.
Sorry, Sky. Though the Delgado house is a close second.
I walk toward the arch, my toes sinking into the soft mud.
As I pass, I run my hand along the side.
I can still feel the faint heat of the friction from the sanding.
Lily and Maria were up until the late hours yesterday weaving wildflowers through the corners—vibrant bursts of burgundy, gold, and white.
Hanging from the low branches of the ancient oaks surrounding the clearing are mason jars. Dozens of them are suspended by a wire from shepherd’s hooks. Inside, the fireflies are still. They look like little seeds of light, dormant and patient.
Everything here has a light, airy, and liable weight to it.
I think about Skyler. I think about him at the site on 4th and Maple, his boots caked in this same mud, his hands scarred by this same kind of wood. We aren’t building a dream anymore. We’re building a foundation.
This is just a girl in her father’s yard, waiting for the man who finally learned how to build a door that doesn’t need a key.
The dew is soaking into my hem, but I don’t move. I want to feel it. I want to remember exactly how the ground feels. It’s cold, uneven, but real. And us.
Most importantly, us.
The mirror in my childhood bedroom has a tiny crack in the bottom left corner, a spiderweb of glass that I’ve looked at for twenty years. It doesn’t bother me.
Maria stands behind me, her hands steady as she works the crown of wildflowers into my hair.
The dress is lace, not the heavy, beaded silk of my last one.
This is light, simple, with a bodice that lets me breathe and a skirt that doesn’t require a team of bridesmaids to navigate a doorway.
It has no train, no veil to hide behind.
It doesn’t look like an investment. It looks like a garment worn by a woman who is ready to walk, not just pose.
“There,” Maria whispers. She steps back, her eyes catching mine in the glass. She looks at the wildflowers, then at the way the lace sits against my collarbone. Her face is soft, but her eyes are searching.
“Harley,” she says, her voice dropping to that quiet, no-nonsense tone that has guided me through every crisis since I was ten.
“Are you sure this time? Truly sure? Because the doors are unlocked. Your dad has the truck gassed up. If there’s even a flicker of doubt, we can just go to the movies instead. ”
“I’ve never been sure of anything else.” My voice is level. No tremor. No hesitation.
I give her a smile that feels like it’s coming from my bones. It’s a wide, confident thing. Maria watches me for a long beat, then nods, a single, decisive motion of approval. She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, her grip warm and solid.
“Good,” she says. “Then let’s get you married.”
I pause at the door and peek down the hall, glimpsing what used to be the guest room, where Skyler is standing in front of a much smaller mirror.
Not in a tuxedo, but a navy-blue suit. It’s well-tailored, but off-the-rack.
His shirt is crisp white, no ruffles, no fanfare.
His hands, the knuckles still showing the faint scars from the site, are steady as he adjusts his lapel.
Steven leans against the doorframe, a silver flask in one hand and a lopsided grin on his face as he stares at his brother. There’s no sardonic wit today, no barb about the ‘Thompson Black Sheep.’
Their muffled voices come from the hall, and I allow myself a listen.
“You look like a man who actually knows where he’s going,” Steven says. He pushes off the frame and walks over, offering the flask. “A little liquid courage? Or are we staying sober for the plunge?”
Skyler shakes his head, pushing the flask away gently. “I want to remember every second of this.”
Steven nods, slipping the flask into his pocket. He reaches out and straightens Skyler’s tie—a simple, forest green silk that matches the bows on the chairs outside.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Steven says, his voice losing its edge. “The job, the truck, the ramen… I kept waiting for the ‘I’m a Thompson’ reflex to kick in. I kept waiting for you to call Dad.”
“That man stayed at the country club,” Skyler says, looking his brother in the eye. “I like the guy in the truck better.”
Steven gives him a heavy, supportive pat on the shoulder. “Me too, Sky. You earned this. This isn’t a gift from the family foundation; you built this second chance with your own two hands. Don’t forget that when you’re standing out there.”
“I won’t,” Skyler says.
Smiling to myself, I reach up and touch one of the flowers in my crown. A small, white daisy.
I take a breath, the air filling my lungs easily. My chest doesn’t feel tight. My head doesn’t ache. I look at the cracked mirror one last time and realize that the reflection is finally, perfectly whole.
Twenty minutes later, the twilight is a deep, bruised violet, the kind of light that makes the world feel small and intimate. The heat of the day has retreated, leaving behind a cool breeze that stirs the leaves of the oaks and carries the faint, sweet scent of the wildflowers.
The sixty people sitting in the folding chairs aren’t names from a social registry.
They’re the people who showed up when the glitter washed away.
My sister Lily is in the front row, looking like she’s ready to fight anyone who suggests a navy napkin.
Next to her is Steven and his partner, looking genuinely happy for the first time in his life.
And there, in the center of the front row, is Mrs. Delgado. She’s wearing a bright floral shawl. She catches my eye as I reach the beginning of the aisle, and she gives me a slow, knowing wink.
Skyler and I have no bridesmaids or groomsmen. It’s just us.
My father’s arm is a solid, unshakeable weight under mine. He smells like cedar and peppermint. We stand at the edge of the clearing, the grass soft under my feet.
“You okay, Harl?” he whispers.
“I’m perfect, Dad.”
“I’m proud of both of you,” he says, and I can hear the thickness in his voice. “He’s a good man.”
Skyler is waiting under the arch as my dad walks me down the aisle.
Skyler looks like he’s holding his ground against the world. His shoulders are back, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes everything else—the trees, the chairs, the guests—fade into a soft blur.
When we reach the end, Dad places my hand in Skyler’s, who then intertwines his fingers with mine. He’s warm, his grip steady. We don’t have a priest this time, but a friend from the Habitat crew.
The vows are short.
“Harley,” Skyler says, his voice carrying through the quiet clearing.
He doesn’t look at the guests. “I choose you. Not because I need you to anchor me, or because I’m looking for someone to complete a version of myself.
I choose you because loving you makes me want to be a better man every single day. ”
I feel a tear slip down my cheek, but I don’t brush it away.
“I choose you, Skyler,” I say. “Because you found the courage to become the man I always saw beneath the expectations. You didn’t just walk away from your family; you walked toward yourself.
I choose you because we built this life out of the rubble of the old one, and it’s a lot more stable this time. ”
The officiant smiles, a small, genuine expression. “Then, by the power vested in me by this community and the life you’ve built together, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Skyler grins, but I can’t wait. I press my lips against his, our tongues finding each other.
As we pull back, the guests move as one. Sixty pairs of hands reach for the mason jars hanging from the hooks. They unscrew the lids in a collective, metallic snick that echoes through the trees.
The fireflies rise.
Hundreds of tiny, pulsing golden lights float into the twilight, spiraling toward the stars like the physical manifestation of every prayer we ever whispered into the silence of our old lives. They flicker and dance, turning the backyard into a space that exists outside of time.
We walk back down the aisle, hand in hand. Mrs. Delgado reaches out and pats my arm as we pass. Steven is grinning. Lily cheers. Maria is crying tears of joy. And Dad’s eyes smile.
I look around at this perfect, messy, beautiful celebration.
It’s just us.
I think back to that moment at the country club, to the cold, devastating “no” I had to say to save my soul. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. It was a demolition.
But standing here, under a sky full of rising light, I realize you can’t build a masterpiece until you clear the site.
The “no” was the demolition. This “yes” is the home.
And as Skyler pulls me close, his laugh a warm vibration against my ear, I know the foundation will hold for a hundred years.