Page 17 of A Wedding in a Week

Marc looks back at his phone. “They want me to email them with a premise for my presentation.”

“When?”

“Shit. By nine tomorrow morning.” His exhale is shaky. “That’s a lot sooner than I expected.” He sweeps a hand through his hair. “I guess it’s a test. They’re seeing which of us works best under pressure. I’m not…. Fuck, I’m not ready.”

“What do you need to do?”

He slips from my lap to sit beside me, and I’d hate that if he didn’t also share his phone with me. We’re shoulder to shoulder again instead of heart-to-heart, but I tell myself to take it—to be glad that he’s sharing this with me. It’s so much better than years of almost zero contact.

I read out his instructions. “Propose a case study to regenerate a Cornish business. Present a plan to turn that regeneration into reality.” I look up from his phone. “You have a case study in mind already?”

“I had some ideas,” he murmurs. He takes his phone back, swiping to a notes app that he scrolls through. “Now I’m not sure they’ll be good enough. Not in time for the presentation anyway.”

“When is it?”

“In seven days including today, and that assumes my proposal makes the cut tomorrow.” He inhales slow and steady. “Okay. I can do this.” He stands, and here’s another glimpse of the Marc I remember. “I want it, so I better get started.” He extends a hand. “Come on. We’ll take the shortcut back down.”

He leads the way home like this is his land, not mine, so familiar with its contours, with each path made by sheep and fox and badgers. At every stile, he climbs first before offering a steadying hand to help me over. Care is also right there in every gate he closes behind us as if Dad still walks beside us, telling him why that mattered.

Marc only lets go of my hand at the bottom of the hill, and I almost stumble again. Not because the ground isn’t level. It’s because he belongs here.

He does. He always did. He could again.

That’s a sharp spur digging into my side, one that drives me to blurt, “About your case study.” Three little words also pop out as if I’d planned them. “Use me, Marc.”

It’s his turn to falter, but he’s always been quick on the uptake. “You mean your wedding idea?”

“Yes. Do it.”

“That means I’d need to take your plans apart. You’d be okay with me doing that after you’ve put in so much work already?”

“I’m not proud.”

“No, you’re just quiet, aren’t you?”

He says that as if it isn’t a bad thing, and like a key turning in a lock, that quiet part of me swings wide open.

“I mean I stopped being proud the first time the bank said they wouldn’t back me like they backed Dad. The first time they cancelled the overdraft, and I couldn’t pay John.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. I didn’t even get to speak to a human about it then, or when I applied for a loan to tide the farm over that first winter.”

“Lukas didn’t mention—”

“He didn’t need to know.” No way would I tell him, not when all the heart-health leaflets said that stress is a stone-cold killer. “It took time, but I got it sorted.”

Marc’s gaze drifts to empty pastures that used to hold our herd. “By pivoting.”

I nod. “And now I want to pivot again. If you’ve got ideas, I want to hear them.” I need to if I want to stop just existing. I use a word he’s mentioned. “I have to if I want Kara-Tir to thrive.”

“You’re really sure you’re okay with me poking through your finances?”

Am I sure?

I look at someone I almost lost, someone I let go, and who came back here a different person, but all I feel is him still on my lap, trusting me to take his weight, or his lips on mine as if we’re back in the yard, still kissing me like I’m everything he wanted. Both of those moments are more real than the last three years put together.

The sunset dips behind Marc with a last flare. I have to close my eyes against its brightness. I open them to him looking at me like I’m the opposite of someone who’s still struggling, and fuck it.

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