With the whole loud, messy ranch behind us, pretending they’re not emotional while they absolutely are.
And if that isn’t tradition, I don’t know what is.
Epilogue
FAITH
September 30th
If there’s a checklist for a perfect wedding day, mine is… slightly different from how it used to be.
Yes, there are flowers. Yes, there’s a dress. Yes, there are people everywhere asking if I’ve eaten and whether my lipstick is too much—it’s not,Charlotte, and I will die on this hill.
But the biggest box on my list?
Breathing.
I’m breathing like I’m allowed to.
Which is a weird thing to notice on your wedding day, but then again, I’ve had a wedding day before. The first one came with chandeliers bright enough to interrogate you and a schedule tight enough to cut off your circulation. This one comes with sunlight and wood and laughter and a faint smell of hay that somehow makes everything feel more real.
I’m standing in the little bridal room at Buckhorn’s community hall, because apparently, this is what happens when you marry a cowboy. You don’t rent a ballroom, you borrow the town, and it shows up with folding chairs and casseroles and opinions.
The room is warm. The window is open a crack. I can hear people outside. Boots on gravel, voices calling, the low hum of music someone’s testing. There’s a breeze that stirs the edge of my veil and makes my stomach flip.
In the mirror, I look like myself.
Not a magazine cover. Not a brand. Not a pretty proposal someone else wrote.
Me.
My dress is simple in the way things are simple when they’re honest. Lace at the sleeves, soft skirt, nothing too stiff. No corset trying to convince my lungs they’re optional. My grandmother’s locket rests against my collarbone, warm from my skin. My hands are steady when I touch it, and that alone feels like a miracle.
Behind me, Charlotte makes a sound like she’s either about to cry or about to start a riot.
“Okay,” she says, pointing a mascara wand at my reflection like a weapon. “If anyone tries to tell you to stop smiling today, I will physically remove them from the premises.”
Jet, perched on the edge of the old couch with her hair pinned in soft curls, snorts. “Premises. Listen to you. Very official.”
Charlotte narrows her eyes. “I’m practicing. I’m the Maid of Honor. I have duties.”
“You have threats,” Rose murmurs from the corner, adjusting the small bouquet of wildflowers she’s holding like she’s handling something sacred. Her eyes are already shiny. “Mostly threats.”
“I’m versatile,” Charlotte says, then softens when she meets my gaze in the mirror. Her voice goes a little quieter. “You look… happy. Like, actually happy.”
My chest loosens at that. Because a year ago, Charlotte would’ve said it like a dare. Like she was waiting for the othershoe. For the world to yank happiness away the moment I reached for it.
Now she says it like she believes I’m allowed.
“I am,” I whisper.
Rose presses a hand to her own chest and inhales like the words hit her physically. “Thank God.”
Jet’s mouth curves, all softness under the sarcasm. “Okay, stop. If all of you cry, I’m going to cry, and then my eyeliner will look like I lost a bar fight.”
Charlotte tosses a bobby pin at her. “It’s fine. You’d still win.”
Jet catches it mid-air without looking. “Facts.”
