Page 128 of Merry Me
His dark hair was a little damp still, like he’d barely made it inside before the music started. His hands were clasped in front of him, fingers tight, like he needed something to hold on to. And that face—fuck. He looked calm, unreadable, like he was keeping every emotion locked behind those stupidly green eyes.
But I knew him.
I knew that jaw. That tension. That look that meant he was feeling everything all at once and had no idea where to put it.
Then his eyes found me.
And the world stopped spinning.
He didn’t smile. Not right away. He didn’t do anything showy or dramatic. He just…looked. Like I was the only person in the room. Like I was something precious and impossible, standing there in borrowed heels with trembling fingers and a bouquet that suddenly felt too small to carry the weight of my chest.
The look in his eyes wasn’t playful, or teasing, or flirty like it usually was. It was reverent. Like he was seeing me for the very first time and still somehow recognizing everything he already knew. Like I was a prayer he hadn’t realized he’d been whispering all his life.
Like I was a hymn he didn’t know he still believed in.
My breath caught in my throat, and for a second I swore I forgot how to move. My knees wobbled. My stomach flipped. That fragile place in my chest, the one that had been locked up since I’d left him, cracked open just a little more.
The guests rose behind me—a soft rustle of fabric and shifting feet, a symphony of murmurs and program pages fluttering like wings. They were standing for the bride.
But Easton didn’t glance down the aisle. He didn’t blink.
He watchedme.
As if I were the one walking toward him.
As if I were the moment. The vow. The finish line and thebeginning, all wrapped into one girl in a satin dress and shaking heels.
And it wrecked me.
Because in that gaze…steady and unwavering and impossibly full, there was no room for fear. No space left for old wounds. Not even the hollow ache that had lived in my chest since yesterday when my father stepped through that door like a ghost given form.
There was no room for him.
Not when Easton was in my life.
The music swelled again, fuller now, warm and orchestral and brimming with joy.
The back doors opened—and there she was.
Paige.
Radiant. Graceful. The picture of a bride in winter—long-sleeved lace, a delicate veil trailing like breath behind her. She smiled, and my throat tightened.
And on her arm?
Steve.
Shoulders squared, chin lifted, pride written in every step. The man who’d shown up. Who’d stayed. Who’d driven us to school in snowstorms and taught us how to change a tire and made pancakes shaped like our initials on birthdays.
The dad who deserved to be there.
The crowd turned as one to face her.
Phones rose. Gasps rippled. Someone near the front dabbed at tears with a crumpled tissue. I heard my mom whisper something to MeMaw as she clutched her pearls like they were holding her together.
And Easton?
He didn’t shift or blink or do a single thing that would’ve meant he wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be.
