Epilogue

Will

One year later

I can count on one hand how many times in my life I’ve cried, and even then, it only got as far as my throat getting thick, my eyes growing wet. That was all I ever allowed myself, even though there was this tug inside me, an ache to give in. But each time, I blinked and stopped myself, swallowed roughly, cleared my throat, pushed past it. Each time, I denied myself.

Today makes up for all of them.

I stand on my family’s land, where this wedding is taking place on a picture-perfect summer evening, and watch Juliet walk down the aisle, her gaze holding mine, her smile wide. She’s got it together—poised and gorgeous, her dark waves artfully braided with butter-yellow tea roses and sky-blue delphinium, her hips swaying as the breeze whips her blue dress, making it dance around her lush body like water.

I stare at her as I stand at the end of the aisle, and twin tears streak down my cheeks, following the path of the ones that came before them. I’m a fucking mess.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Petruchio says quietly out of the side of his mouth, his head barely turned so he can speak over his shoulder, “but if you’re this wrecked when she’s a bridesmaid , you’re going to be fu—”

“Yes, I know ,” I grumble, still staring at Juliet. “Now kindly shut up.”

He snorts softly, turning his head back toward the aisle, and then the air whooshes out of him as Kate starts walking our way next. A suspiciously wet throat clear follows.

A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Enjoying a taste of your own medicine?” I ask.

“Shut up,” he mutters, wiping at the corner of his eyes.

As Juliet reaches the end of the aisle, she throws me a wink. My knees wobble a little.

I watch her step away and then turn to the bridal side, her gaze on the end of the aisle, where Bea will show up any moment on Bill’s and Maureen’s arms.

But I don’t glance toward the end of the aisle. Not yet. Because Juliet is all I can look at, as light glances off her cheekbones, her full, soft lips. A dark tendril of hair sweeps across her face, and she tucks it behind her ear, then readjusts her grip on the delicate bouquet in her hands. My heart clutched when I overheard Bea talking to her last year about what size bouquet would be comfortable, because she didn’t want Juliet to hold something that would be hard on her wrists and fingers. I love the way Juliet’s sisters love her, in the big and small ways, that they cherish her the way I try to every day.

As Kate finishes her stroll down the aisle, she joins Juliet, shoulder to shoulder. She grins at Christopher and leans past Juliet, pointing to her cheek, mouthing, You’ve got something right there .

“Woman,” Petruchio mutters roughly. In my peripheral vision I catch him wiping away another tear from his face.

The sound of quiet acoustic guitar, its plucked-strings melody echoing in the air, grows richer, as the other guitarist joins in, loud and lively. My gaze finally follows Juliet’s, landing where her sister Bea stands in her long lace dress at the end of the aisle, arms locked with her parents’, a flower crown of yellow and blue blossoms woven around her dark hair, a matching bouquet clutched tight in her hand. Bea beams straight down the aisle at Jamie as she and her parents take their first steps.

A soft sound leaves Jamie, and I glance his way, where he stands in his deep-blue suit, eyes fixed on Bea’s, hand over his heart, fingers curled into the fabric, like it’s too much, he can’t contain it, everything he feels as he watches her walk toward him.

I know that feeling. I feel it every day I wake up to the sight of Juliet in my bed, snoring softly, mouth parted, her hair a wild, dark mess spilled across her pillow. I just lie there, watching sunrise warm her skin through the curtains, the rise and fall of her chest with each steady breath, and it feels like a miracle. That she loves me, that she’s made her life here, that it’s not a wild, far-off hope that one day she won’t just agree to make her life here for now but for always.

I’ve had a ring in my pocket for ten months. I bought it the morning of the day that Juliet moved in, because I already knew what I’ll know for the rest of my life—that I love her with all my heart, that I want every day she’ll give me, that I want to build a life with her and do my damn best to make her endlessly happy.

So many times I’ve almost done it, dropped to one knee, scrounged around within myself for words that could possibly do justice to how much I love her, how deeply I want our happily ever after. But it’s a bit intimidating, proposing to someone who’s read eight hundred (and counting) romance novels, who cries her way through every swoony, extravagant rom-com love declaration; someone who has such a beautiful way of expressing loving sentiment.

I’m not a man of extravagant words, much as I try. I’ve read my fair share of romance novels the past year, too, and every rom-com movie night, I sit on the couch with Juliet in my arms, trying to soak up every detail from those books and films, to figure out the perfect way, the perfect time, to ask her to be my wife. It’s never felt like what I planned would be enough, would sweep her off her feet the way I want to. I could kick myself for exhausting the most romantic gesture I’ve still been able to think of to date—serenading her on the guitar while she stood above me on my balcony.

I watch Juliet as she takes Bea’s bouquet and hands it to Kate, who smoothly adds it to her own. When Juliet turns back, as her eyes meet mine, it hits me square in the chest, the knowledge, the understanding:

There’s no such thing as the “perfect” moment or words. Or maybe it’s just that perfection is much simpler than I thought. Maybe perfection isn’t the how or when but the what —the truth, that I love Juliet and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Maybe that’s enough.

As if she knows what’s brightening inside me like a flame bursting to life with the rushing air of realization, Juliet smiles wide. I smile back.

Just over a year ago, Juliet and I pinkie-promised each other honesty always, never to hold back or hide our truth.

I can’t wait one more day to keep my word.