Page 180 of The Wild Card

“Whatever they want, Linda.”

“Well, obviously whatever they want. But dusty blue.”

Emmie groans. “Mom, we’ve been engaged less than twenty-four hours.”

She waves one hand. “The good venues book up a year in advance, Emmie. A year. If you want a spring wedding—”

“We haven’t decided on a season.”

“Spring. Trust me. Texas summer weddings are too hot.” Linda turns to me. “Crew, do you have a preference? Season? Colors? Theme?”

“I—” I glance at Emmie, who mouths save yourself. “Whatever Emmie wants.”

“Smart man.” Linda nods approvingly. “Very smart. Robert wasn’t that smart. He wanted a fall wedding and I wanted spring and we didn’t speak for two weeks.”

“We spoke,” Robert says mildly.

“You spoke at me. There’s a difference.”

Emmie leans into my shoulder. I feel her body relax, the tension from the mad scramble finally draining. She turns her hand over and laces her fingers through mine—the same way she did twenty minutes ago in bed, when she was close, when she was reaching for me like I was the only solid thing in the world.

The ring presses warm against my palm.

I look at her. She’s watching her mom argue with her dad about seasonal flower availability, a half-smile on her face, and the morning light is catching the freckles across her nose and she’s so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest hurt.

She catches me staring. Tips her head. Mouths: Later.

I mouth back: Try and stop me.

Her smile widens. She turns back to her parents, and I take a drink of coffee and look out at the trees.

A year ago, I didn’t have this. Any of it. Not the cabin, not the porch, not the woman, not the ring on her finger or her parents at my table or the easy, aching knowledge that I’m loved—loudly and imperfectly and without conditions. I’m loved. Full stop.

I’d tell that kid—the one in the foster homes, the one who thought he was unlovable and flinched from touch—I’d tell him this was coming. That someday he’d sit on a porch he built with his own hands and drink coffee with the family he chose and it would be chaotic and interrupted and completely, ridiculously worth it.

He wouldn’t believe me. But that’s okay.

I barely believe it myself.

Chapter Forty-Three

The Cabin

Emmie

My mother hugs me for approximately forty-five years on the porch.

“Call me tomorrow,” she says into my hair. “And send me pictures of the ring in natural light. The porch photos were good, but I want golden hour. Golden hour, Emmie.”

“Golden hour. Got it.”

“And think about sage green!” she calls as Dad steers her toward the Buick. “Or dusty blue! Both are lovely!”

Dad gives me a hug—shorter, tighter, says more. He shakes Crew’s hand, claps him on the shoulder. They exchange that silent man-nod they do, the one that contains approximately seven hundred words neither of them will ever say out loud.

We stand on the porch and wave as the Buick reverses down the gravel drive. Mom’s waving out the window like she’s departing on the Titanic. Dad honks once. The trees swallow them up.

Silence.