Chapter 25

I, Finnegan Marsh, will never, ever, grow sick of you, Marcella Marsh .

– Finnegan

“Dude,” Cody says as he adjusts my tie and jacket. They’re both crooked. Which is fairly unlike me. But I’m getting married in twenty minutes , so perhaps an exception to the rule is allowed. Unless, of course, I’m not getting married in twenty minutes. Marcella could still change her mind at the altar. Cody pushes his glasses up his nose. “Calm down.”

“What if she reaches me, and her father steps away, and she takes a good, long look, then says, actually, nah ?”

Cody echos, “Actually, nah ? Are you serious?”

I have never been more serious in my life. “I think I’m panicking. She would absolutely prank me on my wedding day. Probably to get back at me for taking all the olives out of her grandmother’s homemade sauce yesterday at family dinner. It’s just… who puts olives in their pasta sauce?”

“Sometimes that woman also adds peas.”

My mouth drops open as I look at my best man. “I’m sorry. Why? ”

He shrugs. “Who knows? The real question is why did a container end up at my house… Anyway, I think you’re going into withdrawals.” He tightens my tie and brushes off my dress shirt before straightening the orange flower in my pocket. “Brigid tells me you and Marci haven’t left each other’s side since Thanksgiving.”

“That’s not true.” When Marcella asked if I needed to shower with her, my brain shut off. By the time I escaped the coma, she had a towel turban and was kissing my nose. “We’ve respected each other’s privacy.”

“Privacy.” Cody frees a heavy sigh. “I remember privacy. Privacy disappears once you’re married. Brigid has entire conversations with me while I’m on the toilet. I don’t understand why she thinks that’s the appropriate time to chat, but with my odd hours, I guess I’m just glad she wants to spend whatever time she can with me.”

I don’t foresee Marcella and I ever sharing a bathroom, but I also didn’t foresee her being such a cuddler. This morning, she was so latched on, her feet didn’t touch the ground until I was finished brushing my teeth. Shortly after, she remembered we were getting married today, so she kissed my cheek, unwound, and was gone.

I haven’t seen her since she swiped a serving-size spoonful of ice cream for breakfast.

Hm. Okay, fine. Maybe this is withdrawals.

Or maybe it’s easier to blame my nerves on something I don’t actually feel the need to worry about. I’ve never been anxious where it concerns Marcella. I’ve never been afraid. From the start, she’s been a well of overflowing safety. Focusing on my raging codependency means I don’t have to think about how vacant my side of the aisle will be, how my father and mother…won’t be here.

My attention lifts to the mirror, finding myself, Cody, Mark, and Jeff. My always stoic bodyguards nudge one another and chat at the back of the room. Even with their low voices, it’s quiet in here. And I’m not smiling.

The ache inside my chest isn’t what I expected to feel right now. I hoped I’d be overcome with joy. I’m marrying Marcella . The woman I love. I get to spend my life with her, but there’s still so much pain I can’t shake. I don’t know how many days my mother has left. I don’t know if she’ll be gone by the time we return from our honeymoon. I don’t know if I’m a terrible son for not knowing how to face these final moments.

She’s not recognized me since October.

She’s stuck with a picture of me that I haven’t been for years.

Knowing that Marcella won’t let me be alone doesn’t mean I won’t miss my mother so much more than words can explain. It helps, knowing I have her, but it still hurts.

A knock sounds on the door, and Brigid calls in, “It’s time for you, Marshi. Get outside, stat.”

My chest hurts.

Cody says, “Are you ready?”

To marry my best friend? “Yeah, I think so.”

Together, we leave the groom preparation room and find our way to the decorated venue. Marcella didn’t opt for what I’d consider a luxury wedding in the sense that the charges I saw come through added up to less than a hundred grand, but…

Wow.

She picked a grove at the height of autumn. Brilliant leaves scatter the grass, landing on her friends and family, landing on my empty chairs. The sparse, bright trees aren’t thick enough to block out the sun, which winks off the silk butterflies adorning everything. I stop myself beneath the arbour, in front of the officiator, and do my best to keep my heart inside my chest as I look down the lane of bright cloth marking the space between the two clusters of chairs.

Frozen in place, I wait.

Once the processional music begins, I find it in myself to smile.

The first glimpse of Marcella in her wedding gown steals all the air from my lungs.

On my side of the aisle, Leslie elbows her husband in the gut and beams, letting me know that, perhaps, I have her to blame for designing the dress Marcella is wearing. The extravagance certainly lends itself to the Amare brand.

I have never seen anything so beautiful before in my life.

As everyone stands and the music shifts into what I swear is one of Marcella’s therapy songs adapted into a wedding march, I find myself fixated.

Barefoot, Marcella floats up the aisle, over the soft orange petals I barely registered one of her younger cousins throwing moments ago. Her gown—white, spun with autumn vines, and dusted around the hem with the vague idea of spices—billows in a breeze that teases the cape around her shoulders.

My hands are shaking when her father passes her to me.

To me .

Forever .

Once she’s given her waterfall bouquet of flaming orange to her mother, who is acting as both maid of honor and mother of the bride, she smiles .

It’s a wicked sort of smile. The kind that indicates she knows my organs are struggling to keep me alive right now. But it’s still so beautiful I can hardly comprehend it.

The classic vows the officiator feeds me exit my dry mouth, stale, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to keep from going off script and waxing poetic on all the ways I believe this woman—who is standing in front of me right now with her arms folded—has saved my life.

My brain short circuits when I hear: “Marcella Keyes, you’ve prepared your own vows?”

Her lashes flutter as my attention whips to our officiator, to her, to the audience, then back to her. I mouth what , but she is a cold, heartless little imp with the smuggest smile in the world, and I am wholeheartedly, disastrously in love with her.

“Finnegan Marsh,” she begins, uncrossing her arms to cross them the other way, “it’s been six months since I met you, in an office that had fish swimming in the floor. Interviewing with you while you clicked your pens and twisted in that—” She swears. “—chair of yours was actually quite almost my thirteenth reason. Working for you those first two months resulted in many pints of ice cream consumed. Most of them donated by my friends, because I lived in generational poverty, begging a merciful God to maintain my AC better than I maintained my health. I sincerely do not know why you thought I was qualified for the position of being your assistant. I can only imagine my presentation on how I color-code schedules surpassed your expectations. Let me confess now: that habit of planning ahead is caused by unmedicated anxiety.” She loosens a hand from her crossed arms just enough to touch her chest with all the grace of a princess. “Today, you are marrying a disorder, but I hope you already know that, otherwise I’m going to be very embarrassed.”

When she pauses, I stammer, “I don’t think—”

“Yes, you do. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Laughter bubbles up in my chest, so I bite my lip and fight the smile overwhelming me. It is nearly as forceful as the threat of tears.

“Finn,” she continues, “thank you for loving me. Even though I’m guarded. Even though I find it hard to accept perfectly adequate people for the dumbest things. Thank you for telling me it is okay to protect myself until I feel safe enough to let my walls down and admit that it’s really not all that annoying when you twist in your chair or when you separate all your food by primary colors or when you…” She blinks, and her attention drifts skyward. “No actually, I’m adamant about the pen clicking. That one you will need to stop or do out of hearing range, lest I murder you in your sleep. I’ve gone off topic. What I’m saying is, I’ve grown accustomed to the hate them before they hate me mentality. But when you saw me, for me, you didn’t hate it.” She lowers her face, blows out a breath, and contains herself. “I don’t know how I’ll ever understand that, but I can promise to love you forever for it.” Squaring her shoulders, she clears her throat. “Today, we’re both missing people who should have been here—your parents…my brother—and I know I can’t fix that.”

My heart clenches, and she unravels her arms to clasp my hand.

“I know I can’t fix a lot of things.” She squeezes my fingers. “I’m not rich. I don’t have a glowing personality. I’m anal about too much stupid stuff. I really don’t have anything to offer you in a relationship. But…there is something I have that I’m willing to share, if you’re okay with it. It’s pretty second-hand, and it comes with olives in the tomato sauce, but it’s…” She frees a wet laugh. “…well, it’s actually quite unequivocally the best.” Turning to her side of the aisle, she says, “My cousins.”

In an uncoordinated stream, a dozen people stand, wrangle children, and cross the aisle to my side.

“My aunts. My uncles. My grandmother.”

The procession repeats, more people moving across the petal-strewn lane to my side. A teardrop hits the flower in my pocket.

“My parents’ friends, who said they wanted to come to a fancy wedding when my mother blabbed about it.”

A handful of people laugh as they stand and join my seats.

Marcella looks behind her, at Penny and Brigid. “My best friends.”

They cross to stand behind me, tapping my shoulder as though I’m not already struggling with everything in me not to sob.

“My mom.”

A swear hisses past my lips as I look at the sky. It’s perfect. Blue. Beautiful and full of soft white clouds.

The woman shows no mercy as she sweeps in to hug me tight before standing firmly behind me, a hand on my back.

“And, my dad.”

He stands on my other side, clasping his hand over his wife’s. I feel them both through my suit jacket—an overwhelming presence.

“Finnegan Marsh,” Marcella says, tears in her eyes, “I hope you know that once you marry me, you won’t ever have the luxury of being alone again. You’re entirely too lovable. And I give it half a reception before all the poor saps you didn’t meet at dinner last night are under your spell.” She sniffs, huffing. “I say half because you and I will be leaving early. I am already tired.”

Laughter encases me as I fall utterly apart.

Forgetting myself and the order of things, I kiss Marcella a bit too early. Before my hand can find her hair, I swear into her mouth and pull back. “Sorry,” I exhale. “Sorry.”

Chuckling, our officiator says, “Mr. Marsh, you have something you wanted to present?”

This time, Marcella gets to look surprised.

“Yes, I do.” I battle for stability amid the rushing tides of everything Marcella is and everything she has brought into my life. Reaching in my pocket, I withdraw a box decorated in ocean blues. “With any luck at all,” I begin, “we’ve reached our ten heart event, so according to the laws of Stardew Valley , you have to accept this.”

As Marcella’s mouth falls open, I reveal the corkscrew shell necklace dubbed the Mermaid’s Pendant in the game and defined as the item used to propose marriage to a marriage candidate .

“What do you say?” I ask.

“ Stop ,” she whispers, clasping her hands to her mouth. “This is like the dream.”

“Is that a yes ?”

She leaps into my arms. “It’s an I do .”

And, then, our officiator says, “You may kiss the bride.”

But, this time, she kisses me.