Page 82 of Brushed and Buried
“So, here’s to Trevor and Becca,” Vince says. “For showing us all what it looks like when two people are brave enough to choose love, even when love asks everything of them. May you never stop being amazed by each other. May you never stop growing together. And may you always remember that the best things in life can be worth everything.”
He pauses, holding my gaze with an intensity that steals my breath. “Even if it takes you longer than you planned to figure that out.”
The tent erupts in applause and cheers. People leap to their feet, raising their glasses in toast. Trevor pulls Becca up for a kiss that makes the crowd cheer even louder. But I can barely register any of it over the roaring in my ears, how my heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
That wasn’t just a wedding speech. That was a lesson learned, a truth acknowledged, a promise wrapped in celebration of his best friend’s love.
And standing here, surrounded by the warm glow of people celebrating love and life, I now understand what Ayaka meant about not preparing for things to go wrong. Because the person who gave up on us ten years ago, who walked away rather than fight for what we could have been, wouldn’t have had the courage to stand up and speak those words with such conviction.
The man holding the microphone, accepting congratulations and back-slaps from Trevor’s mates, looking at me across thecrowd with patient determination and something that looks dangerously like hope, is someone entirely different.
Someone worth the risk of believing in again.
I excuse myself quietly, slipping out of the tent and onto the beach. The archway still stands at the water’s edge, Ayaka’s flowers catching the moonlight. The Pacific stretches endless and dark beyond the white sand, waves whispering against the shore with rhythmic persistence.
The wedding reception continues behind me, laughter and music spilling from the tent in warm waves of sound. But out here in the quiet, with nothing but moonlight and the eternal conversation between ocean and shore, I can finally think clearly.
For the first time in a decade, I’m not afraid of the answer.
The sand is cool beneath my feet as I walk toward the water’s edge, toward the archway where Trevor and Becca promised each other forever just hours ago. Behind me, I hear footsteps in the sand, measured and familiar, belonging to the one person I know would follow me out here.
Because the man who just publicly declared his intentions in the most vulnerable way possible isn’t going to let this night end with me walking away alone.
29
Adrian
“Great speech,” I say, my voice barely audible over the ocean’s rhythm.
I hear him chuckle behind me, a sound so close to home it makes my chest ache. I don’t turn around immediately, savoring these last seconds before this conversation becomes real, before I have to decide what his earlier words mean for both of us.
When I finally face him, he almost stops my heart.
I see him everywhere, on television during football games and commercials, on magazine covers, and just a few minutes ago, during his best man’s speech. But nothing compares to having him right in front of me, real and close enough to touch. The navy suit fits him perfectly, but it’s the loosened tie and open top button that undo me completely. His hair is slightly mussed from the ocean breeze, and there’s a relaxed quality about him that I haven’t seen since we arrived. It’s as if giving that speech released some fundamental tension he’s been carrying for years.
“Thanks.” His footsteps whisper against the sand as he approaches, measured and unhurried. “I had to ditch the original one.”
“Was the original as sentimental as tonight’s?” I can’t keep the teasing completely out of my voice, despite the way my heart races with each step he takes closer.
“God, no. I actually planned to say nice things about him, but then there were just too many inside jokes to resist. Every line turned into a roast, full of references.” His voice carries genuine amusement, the kind of easy warmth I remember from when we were eighteen. “You would’ve missed every single one.”
“I would have loved to hear that version.”
“Then stick around.” The words slip out softer than he probably intended, heavy with invitation and possibility. “I mean…stay in touch. You’ll learn all the stories about the guys. About me. I’m not nearly as boring as you think.”
“You’re not?” I arch an eyebrow, falling back into our familiar rhythm despite the emotional minefield we’re navigating. “You’re like a storm cloud, all dark and brooding intensity.”
“Dark and brooding?” He laughs, a real sound that makes warmth unfurl in my chest. “I prefer ‘mysteriously complex.’”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Among other things.” His expression grows serious, though the smile doesn’t entirely fade. “Are you…flying back to L.A. tomorrow?”
I try to choose my words carefully, afraid he’ll think my being here is just another job, something I could walk away from easily. But I am caught in him, and every step back feels impossible. Walking away is not an option now.
“You mentioned the art exhibit before, the collection you’ve been working on for years. Are you still planning to cancel it?”
The question catches me off guard. “I canceled it, but Matheo would probably throw a parade if I changed my mind.” The admission feels like giving something away, acknowledging that Vince’s presence has fundamentally shifted my creative process.
