Chapter 23: Beside Her, Not Behind Her

The second wedding invitation arrived in October.

This one belonged to Cleo.

I stared at the envelope for nearly a full minute before opening it.

Daniel had proposed in Washington.

Not dramatically.

No stadium.

No hidden photographer.

He had apparently asked while they were making dinner.

Cleo had said yes.

The invitation included a handwritten note.

I want you there as my sister. Nothing else. You do not have to help plan. You do not have to fix anything. You do not even have to like the flowers.

I laughed.

Then I cried.

The wedding would be small.

Eighty guests.

Brooklyn.

Spring.

Cleo called that evening.

“Did you get it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I’ll come.”

She exhaled loudly.

“Thank God.”

“Were you worried?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because weddings are kind of our family’s cursed object.”

I laughed.

“Fair.”

Then her voice became careful.

“I want to ask you something, and you can say no.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be my maid of honor?”

I went quiet.

Cleo rushed on.

“You don’t have to plan anything. My agency friend Nina is coordinating. You don’t have to organize the shower. You don’t have to handle vendors. I literally just want you standing beside me.”

My throat tightened.

As children, Cleo had always been the bride.

I had held the basket.

At my own wedding, she had somehow occupied the center again.

Now she was asking me to stand beside her.

Not behind.

Not beneath.

Beside.

“Yes.”

Cleo started crying.

“Stop. Your mascara isn’t even on yet.”

“I’m not wearing mascara.”

“Prepare early.”

She laughed.

Wedding planning began.

I deliberately stayed out of it.

Cleo chose her dress.

Daniel chose his suit.

They chose music together.

They chose food.

Whenever Cleo asked my opinion, she actually waited for the answer.

One evening, she video-called from a florist.

“Pink roses or white?”

“Neither.”

She stared.

“Excuse me?”

“I think the orange ones behind you look better.”

Old Cleo might have argued until I surrendered.

New Cleo turned.

“Oh.”

She studied them.

“I hate them.”

I laughed.

“Then don’t use them.”

“Wow. Healthy disagreement.”

“Historic.”

She chose white roses.

I survived.

In December, she invited me to a dress fitting.

The phrase alone tightened my chest.

Bridal boutique.

Mirrors.

White fabric.

Rhys’s camera.

Lachlan’s hands adjusting Cleo’s bow.

Me leaving unnoticed.

I almost declined.

Then Cleo said, “Only you, Zia, Nina, and me. No photographer.”

She knew.

I went.

The boutique was not the same one.

That helped.

Cleo stepped onto the platform wearing a simple satin gown.

She looked beautiful.

Zia cried immediately.

Nina cried because Zia cried.

I stood very still.

Cleo looked at me through the mirror.

“What do you think?”

The room waited.

For my answer.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

She smiled.

Then she looked at herself.

“I think so too.”

No one put me in another dress.

No one asked me to step aside.

No groom arrived.

The fitting remained hers.

That should not have felt healing.

It did.

Afterward, Cleo and I went for coffee.

She stirred hers.

“I want Mom and Dad’s picture at the ceremony.”

My hand stopped.

“Okay.”

“And…”

She looked nervous.

“I want to use their wedding song.”

My chest tightened.

The same song I had chosen.

The one she replaced.

She immediately added, “Only if you’re okay with it.”

I looked out the window.

For a second, I was back in Queens reading her message.

I changed your entrance music for you.

The hurt was still accessible.

But it no longer controlled the room.

“That song isn’t mine,” I said.

“It’s theirs.”

Cleo nodded.

“I know.”

“Use it.”

Her eyes filled.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She reached across the table, then stopped before touching my hand.

I closed the distance myself.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t change it afterward.”

She laughed through tears.

“I won’t.”

January brought another change.

Julian’s two-year New York contract was approaching its final year.

Marlowe offered him a larger national operations role.

He could base it in New York.

Boston.

Or Chicago.

He came to my apartment with the offer.

We sat at the kitchen table.

“What do you want?” I asked.

He smiled.

“I want Boston.”

My heart jumped.

“Because of me?”

“Partly.”

I stiffened.

He held up a hand.

“Partly is allowed.”

I waited.

“Marlowe’s Northeast design operations are expanding here. I like the team. I like the city. And yes, I like the woman who lives here.”

I smiled despite myself.

“If we broke up tomorrow, would you regret choosing Boston?”

He considered it seriously.

“No.”

That was the answer I needed.

“Then come home.”

The words slipped out.

Julian’s expression changed.

Home.

Not my apartment.

Not yet.

Boston.

A city we could both choose independently and share intentionally.

He moved back in March.

He rented an apartment twelve minutes from mine.

Everyone thought that was hilarious.

“You moved cities for the woman and still won’t share rent?” Elena asked.

“We like our apartments.”

“You people are aggressively healthy.”

I laughed.

A month later, Julian and I began discussing living together.

Discussing.

Not assuming.

We made lists.

Finances.

Workspaces.

Cleaning.

Guests.

Keys.

Alone time.

Furniture.

I refused his couch.

He defended it as a historic artifact.

It was hideous.

We argued.

Then laughed.

Eventually, we found a two-bedroom apartment near the harbor.

One bedroom for us.

One shared office with a pullout bed for guests.

No room automatically belonged to anyone else.

The first evening after signing the lease, we stood in the empty living room.

Julian held up two paint samples.

“Green or blue?”

I stared at them.

“What do you want?”

“Green.”

“Me too.”

“Disturbingly easy.”

I smiled.

Then he took something from his pocket.

I froze.

He laughed immediately.

“Relax. Tape measure.”

I threw a paint sample at him.

“Someday you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Someday?”

He stopped.

The word hung between us.

Neither of us looked away.

Then Julian said, “Someday.”

I smiled.

“Someday.”

We moved in slowly.

My green lamp came first.

Then the childhood basket.

Julian placed it on a shelf.

“What goes in it now?”

I thought about that.

The basket had once held petals I was responsible for collecting after everyone else finished playing.

I took our spare keys from the counter and dropped them inside.

“Things we choose to share.”

Julian smiled.

Over the following weeks, the basket collected small things.

A concert ticket.

A postcard from Maine.

A receipt from our first restaurant.

Nothing expensive.

Nothing symbolic enough to become a burden.

Just pieces of a life.

One evening, I found the old engagement ring box in the bottom of a moving carton.

Lachlan’s ring.

I had never sold it.

Never thrown it away.

I had simply forgotten it.

Julian saw the box in my hand.

He did not ask.

I opened it.

The diamond caught the light.

Once, it had represented proof that I had finally been chosen.

Now it looked like jewelry.

Beautiful.

Expensive.

Neutral.

I contacted a jeweler the next day.

I sold it.

With part of the money, I made a donation in my parents’ names to the youth arts nonprofit Cleo supported.

With another part, I bought myself a desk for the new office.

The rest went into savings.

When Cleo learned about the donation, she called crying.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I wanted to.”

She laughed through tears.

“Your favorite answer.”

“Yes.”

That night, I sat at my new desk.

The harbor lights glowed outside.

Julian was in the kitchen ruining rice.

My sister was planning a wedding that belonged to her.

Lachlan was building a life with Mara.

And I was no longer waiting for any of those lives to explain mine.

The wedding invitation sat pinned above my desk.

Cleo & Daniel.

Below it, I wrote one small note.

Stand beside her.

That was all she had asked.

This time, that was all I would give.

And it would be enough.