Page 133 of Merry Me
And hewaswatching.
Like a man who didn’t know how to step into a world he once chose to abandon. Like he’d missed every invitation until there weren’t any left—and now wasn’t sure if he should forge one himself.
Beside him stood Brittany. She hovered, looking uncertain, hands clasped in front of her like she wasn’t quite sure if she belonged here, either.
Paige’s voice rang out, clear and kind. “Hey! Come on in for a picture!”
I turned just in time to see her waving them both over, her veil fluttering gently behind her. She smiled. One of thosepracticed, diplomatic smiles I’d seen her use at baby showers and awkward brunches.
She was letting them in for the photos.
Because of course she was.
I watched as Paige positioned him near the edge of the group, not too close to Mom and Steve, but not too far from Levi. Brittany stepped in beside him, smoothing her dress. He smiled awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands.
I braced.
Waited for the burn.
Waited for the twist in my gut, the old, familiar ache that saidThis is what you could’ve had. The one that whisperedHe chose her,he stayed for her,he made room in his life for everything except you.
But it didn’t come.
That sharp, piercing pain I’d carried like a second spine? It was gone. Or dulled. Or maybe—just maybe—it had finally unraveled into something I could hold without bleeding.
I still remembered. I always would.
But this time, it didn’t hurt the same.
Because I’d already broken. I’d already stitched myself back together again on the suite’s floor with Easton’s arms around me like a promise, his voice in my ear like a lullaby I didn’t know I needed.
I’d already faced the wreckage. And I’d chosen to rise from it.
So I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t storm across the courtyard to demand answers I knew I’d never get.
I just stood there—bouquet still in hand, Easton beside me, our fingers loosely intertwined—and I watched him pose with his other daughter. The one hehadn’tleft behind.
And it was fine.
Not good. Not great. But fine.
Because this wasn’t his story anymore. It wasn’t about what he did or didn’t do. It was about me.
It was about the girl who used to sit by the window on her birthday waiting for a phone call that never came, who used to make up stories in her head to explain why he didn’t show. Who used to think if she were funnier or smarter or quieter or louder, he might’ve stayed.
That girl didn’t live here anymore.
I looked up at Easton.
He didn’t say anything…he didn’t have to. But the second his thumb brushed over the back of my hand, my breath evened out.
He was here.He would stay.
And I wasn’t going to run from that.
