Page 83 of I Love a Good Challenge

“Hi, Graham.” I use his name with deliberate intention. Graham deserves to never be called George again (although, I’m sure I’ll find other terms of endearment for him soon).

Slowly, he tucks his arms behind his back. I’ve never seen him in the posture before, and it’s the stuff dreams are made of. It’s maddening and even more so when he shifts his weight to one side so that his other leg is relaxed. Graham’s casual pose is the stuff women faint over, to be honest. The draw is the pull of confidence when a man stands as if he is utterly relaxed and without a care in the world while he’s at your side. And, of course, at the sight of it, my hormones throw a rager.

I know what it means to see someone you want and not be able to find the words you need to express what you feel. There have been moments when I couldn’t find the courage to show him what he meant to me, even when he was right in front of me. There is a dread that hits in the deep of night after you’ve mulled over your relationship a while and are caught between regret and wondering if you’re the only one walking in a haze of your own making while everyone else gets to see their path with clarity. I know what it means to sit across from someone at a dinner table and wish it was someone else. And now, here he is in real life.

I reach for him, my hand alighting on his shoulder. But I pull my hand back, still getting used to the fact that I can touch him anytime I want.

“You all right?” Graham asks, such concern etched into his brow that it almost makes me want to laugh or cry. I can’t decide.

“Hand fell asleep,” I reply quickly.

“We touched for two-point-five seconds.” His eyebrow arches.

I want to roll my eyes at his smugness—and for his accuracy with time. “I’m warming up.”

“Warming up for what exactly?” The hint of playfulness in his tone sends me back to LA. In the memory, we’re eating tacos from a food truck and riding the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier. We’re visiting studio sets and attending tapings for some of our favorite shows.

And I realize it’s just him and me once again. It’s the way I’ve always wanted it to be. I step forward and wrap my arms up and around his neck, the tips of my fingers grazing the ends of his hair. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead down to mine, expecting me to meet him halfway. Instead, I press gentle kisses at the edges of his mouth, the scent of his beard oil and the promise of tomorrow pulling me closer.

Sharply, he inhales. Without opening his eyes, his hand cups the edge of my jaw. His breath is sweet peppermint, warm and welcoming as his lips hover over mine. Graham brushes them softly, passing agonizingly and deliciously over my own. The electric current between us sends chills down my spine. His arms wrap tightly around my ribs, pulling me closer before he gives me one final kiss, his fingers gently tugging the hair at the base of my neck.

“I’ll see you at the altar,” he says slowly near the shell of my ear. His voice ruins me for any other words because nothing could mean as much to me. We’re not getting married today, but that was everything I needed. A promise of a beautiful future to come.

By the time I gather myself enough to move again, Graham is halfway down the hall, walking back to the room he is hanging out in today with Rafe.

Inhaling, I open the door to the bridal suite to find all three of my friends looking at me with knowing grins. Holding out the card from Rafe to Sparrow is all I can manage, my body still reveling in the cocoon of Graham’s affection.

“Okay, Rory.” I smile, tears suddenly brimming in my eyes. “Let’s get you married.”

For today, the fear I’ve held close for far too long is a memory instead of a companion. I told Graham he makes me want to soften. What he doesn’t realize is that his love is also what makes me strong.

Chapter Thirty

Lily

Raphaël, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold—”

“Yes, always to hold,” Rafe replies.

I wipe a tear from my eyes as Sparrow laughs. I’m annoyed at the bride and groom for being so sweet, but I’m also so happy for them that I can’t even be mad about it. They continue their vows. While I try to stay in the moment and commit all this magic to memory so I can chat with Sparrow about it one day, my eyes keep wandering to Graham. Because he is my moment. He’s the one that I know I want to share vows with one day too. The thought of standing at the altar with him one day (hopefully sooner rather than later) makes my eyes burn. When the mist clears and I peek over at him, I see that Graham’s eyes are filled with tears as well.

Sparrow and Rafe have a way of getting to you. Their love is so pure and so healing for each other that I wouldn’t want anything more for my best friend. As I hold Sparrow’s bridal bouquet and my own, the heady, floral scent now infusing my thoughts with sweetness, I think about the roses in my hand. Despite their presence, the thorns along their stems never stood a chance of destroying their beauty. I think that’s how it is with Graham and me. I’ve had many thorns that have gotten in our way. In the past, I’ve wounded him to protect myself, but he saw what was possible all along. Together, maybe we’ll be able to remove all the thorns so I can heal more too. Because isn’t that love? The ability to go through the mess and hurt each other just for being human, only to remain steadfast in love and choose each other again and again?

When we were together in the bridal suite earlier this morning, Sparrow told me it’s up to me to decide what the future holds. She gave me a koala hug as we’ve termed it. (I’m scared of bears, so koala hugs are what we call the alternative). And she’s right. Witnessing the fulfillment of her love as she marries Rafe, like the brave and fearless woman she is, makes me want to write my own love story.

Sparrow’s vintage wedding gown is so stunning I could squeal just thinking about it. With a deep V-neck and capped sleeves overlaid with lace, it molds to her frame, tapering at the waist and flowing out into a dreamy mix of floor-length tulle and lace. Rafe is in a suit hand-tailored by his father’s fashion house. Even though they still haven’t reconciled fully, the suit was a nice gesture from his parents. It’s a slim-fit suit with a button-up, no tie. Of course, he is wearing a pair of fresh high-top sneakers. He planned to wear loafers, but Sparrow wouldn’t have it.

Pastor Wilfred continues, “Sparrow, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold—”

“I do.” Her serene voice speaks with bold surety, her hands clasped in Rafe’s.

A soft laugh echoes throughout the church. They’re so sure that Pastor Wilfred need not even finish the words. He does it anyway and makes them repeat it, but the scene is so sweet I don’t know how to process it. I think if I didn’t work with sugar all the time, acclimating me to such a syrupy lovefest, the sight of it would make me ill.

“Sparrow,” Rafe begins, “you’re my favorite song. If I only get to hold onto one thing in this life, it has to be you. It must be you. If I only get to sing about one thing, it must be our love. Thank you for seeing me. I promise to always save you a dance.”

I pull a tissue from the middle of my bouquet, glad that I had the foresight to stuff them in there for these moments. I’m not typically a crier, but the emotion of my life these past few weeks has wrecked me in so many ways.

“Rafe,” Sparrow says with a content smile, “I think from the first time I saw your hair sticking out of the back of your baseball cap on that train from Boston, my soul knew. You’re my person. God is so kind to have given me you. I know . . . I know my parents would’ve loved you. You’ve proven to me that we can have both what we want and what we need in a person. Thank you for loving me so well. You’ve given me the full kind of love—and I promise I’m fully yours forever.”

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