“I don’t have to shrink with him, Mom. I never question if I made too many jokes or if I tried too hard or if I’m too much or not enough. I’m … comfortable. All the time.”
“That is so much.” Her eyes well as she squeezes my upper arms. “Is it enough?”
“It’s enough for me to want to do something crazy for the first time in my life,” I say, swallowing back guilt. I don’t know why I can’t level with my family about what’s really going on, but I can’t. Iwon’t.
I don’t want to.
I’ll unpack that later.
“I’m so happy to hear that.” She turns me around and her crystal blue eyes peer into mine. “Sweetheart, if anything changes, I want to be the first to know. If you’re blissfully happy, I want to be the first to know. If marriage is harder than you expected, I?—”
“Will be the first to know,” I tell her. My stomach twists. “Mom, I know you have questions, but don’t worry: I’m done hiding my darkest emotions from you.”
The conviction in my voice surprises me, as does the sincerity. There are things I’m not telling her—I’m entering into a marriage of convenience, for heaven’s sake—but I hid too much from my family when I was growing up, tried to cover what was going on with me, and it could have ended very badly.As it was, having a family who loved me saved me before I was ever in real danger.
The part of me that still craves control—that old whisper of “do it perfectly or not at all. Look perfect.Beperfect”—tries to claw its way back in sometimes. But I know better now. I’m learning to stop at “good enough,” to find satisfaction in efforts over perfection. Balance over burnout.
I’m not perfect at it, but, then, that’s quite literally the goal.
And maybe that’s part of what makes Sean so refreshing.
“I care about Sean; he cares about me. It’s … nice to be happy with someone without feeling like I’m constantly competing for a prize I don’t even want.”
Mom pulls me into a hug, and at that same moment, Scottie comes in with a nod. An acoustic trio starts playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” a song that always tugs on my heartstrings. It was my grandparents’ song.
Sean couldn’t believe it when I told him a few nights ago that I wanted to walk down the aisle to Elvis.
“I expected a string quartet flown in from Vienna playing the Wedding March,” he teased.
“I happen to love acoustic guitars,” I said. “And Elvis.”
“You get hotter every second I’m around you,” he said.
And he said it like he meant it.
Scottie gets my attention. “Batter up.”
My mom and I leave the tent, and I take my place just behind Scottie and Jane. The aisle runs across the infield, marked by chalk and scattered petals, the stands dotted with our teams, my friends from Sugar Maple, and Sean’s closest friends (he has a lot more than I do).
I didn’t bother inviting any of my old friends. Although I had a moment’s hesitation when I realized I couldn’t invite Meryl and her kids. That Louisa wouldn’t be my flower girl, when she already has the dress.
Even if this is fake, it still feels momentous, and having a big day without my best friend?—
It hurts.
That’s neither here nor there. It’s done. A breakup is never easy.
We considered inviting the town, but in the end, I didn’t want to bethatperformative.
And even though I should be ashamed to admit this, I can’t wait to see the look on people’s faces when they learn that the rumors are true: the golden boy married the outcast.
Pettiness, thy name is Kayla.
My brothers are in matching cream shirts and suspenders, lined up as my bro-maids. Wes looks like he might cry. Hunter looks like he might tackle Sean for fun. Only Gray is smiling. Gray—born Logan Grayson Carville to two older brothers who refused to use his first name because it was the name of the villain in an animated series about talking wolf cubs—never stood a chance.
My brothers …
I wonder how they’d feel if they knew the truth.
