"Love is a mystery!" O’Malley declares. "It is confusing! It is messy! It is like a good whiskey—it burns a little, but it warms the soul! These two men have found it! Despite the odds! Despite the mothers!"
He points a shaky finger at Catherine in the second row.
"Nice dress, Catherine!" O’Malley calls out. "Are you renewing your vows? Or are you the backup bride in case Maxwell makes a run for it?"
The entire church laughs. Catherine turns a shade of red that matches the carpet. Meredith cackles audibly.
"Ignore me!" O’Malley waves. "Back to the boys. The Vows!"
Max turns to me. He takes both my hands. The data, the noise, the static—it all fades away. It’s just us.
"Jax," Max says. His voice is clear. "For as long as I can remember, I have lived in a world of variables Icould not control. I tried to calculate my way to safety. I tried to be the Standard."
He squeezes my hands.
"But you are my Outlier. You are the data point that breaks the graph. You are the noise that makes the silence bearable. I promise to be your structure when you are chaotic. And I promise that no matter how loud the world gets... you will never be a blurry shape to me. You are my focal point."
I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Max," I say. "I spent my life running into fires. I thought peace was boring. But you... you’re not boring. You’re the most complex, beautiful puzzle I’ve ever seen. I promise to keep you safe. I promise to mess up your schedule. And I promise to love you, unmasked, uncalibrated, exactly as you are. In sickness and in health."
"And in wealth!" O’Malley shouts helpfully. "Don't forget the wealth!"
"And in wealth," I laugh.
"Rings!" O’Malley commands.
Luke hands me the ring. Preston hands Max the ring. We slide them on.
"By the power vested in me," O’Malley announces, swaying dangerously close to a candle. "And by the power of the State of New York... and the Italian Pontiff... I pronounce you Husband and Husband!"
He grins.
"You may kiss the Groom! Or the Bride! Whichever one isn't wearing the white dress!"
I pull Max in.
"I love you," I whisper.
Max laughs—a real, loud, joyful sound—and kisses me.
The cathedral erupts. The organ blasts the "Wedding March."
We turn to face the crowd.
I see Rosa cheering. I see Luke high-fivingPreston. I see Sloane Kensington nodding approvingly at the structural integrity of the kiss.
And I see Alistair. He is standing up, clapping his hands over his head, tears streaming down his face. He looks back at Catherine in the second row, who is clapping politely, her face a mask of composed defeat.
Alistair stops clapping for a second. He looks at his wife. He touches the magenta handkerchief in his pocket. He takes a deep breath, turns away from her, and looks at us.
He chooses the parrots.
"Go!" Alistair mouths to us. "Go be happy!"
Max grabs my hand.
"Ready?" Max asks.
