Saturday, July 11
The only thing better than Ben beneath a canopy is the part where he walks straight to me when the ceremony’s over. And the part where he kisses me with such casual certainty, I almost melt into the neatly mowed grass.
It’s still so thrilling and strange—these quick, offhand kisses in front of grandparents and caterers and Dylan’s hot uncle Julian. I’ve been out for so long, I don’t even think about how much I hold back in some spaces. But the truth is, fifteen-year-old me barely dared to dream about kissing a boyfriend in public. I’m pretty sure thirteen-year-old me thought two guys kissing at a wedding was a thing that only happened in strangers’ photos.
Ben takes both my hands, threading our fingers together. “So. Like. How good was the best man?”
“The best. Best best man. Couldn’t take my eyes off him. Was there even a groom?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Ben says. “I was too busy checking out some guy wearing a hot dog tie.”
I smile up at him. “Special occasion, right?”
I swear, my molecules rearrange when he’s near me. The air between us feels so thick, I could poke a hole straight through it. He leans in to kiss me again—I don’t even know how I’m still standing upright.
“Ow ow owwwwwwww!” Dylan howls into megaphone hands.
Ben and I break apart, flustered and smiling.
“Now, I don’t want to interrupt—”
“Dylan!” I catch him in a full-on bear hug. “Mazel tov! How do you feel?”
“I feel like taking some naughty pics, is how I feel,” Dylan says.
Ben mouths the word “wow.” “That sounds like more of an after-wedding activity.”
“Au contraire, my Best Ben. You’re indispensable,” he says, adjusting Ben’s tie and giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Photographer’s orders. And,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows at me, “boyfriends definitely allowed.”
Boyfriend—my stomach does cartwheels when he says it. That’s how Dylan introduced me to his parents this morning, too. Ben’s boyfriend. I’m trying so hard to keep my cool about it, since Ben and I haven’t technically discussed it yet. But I can’t help but notice that Ben didn’t object either time.
He takes my hand. “Come with me?”
Like it’s even a question. We trail behind Dylan, past three floral-decked tables and a makeshift dance floor strung with twinkle lights. There’s a tree-lined alcove at the edge of the O’Malley property, where a woman in all black is snapping pictures of Samantha with various combinations of relatives. When she sees us, her practiced photo smile breaks into a full-beaming grin.
Samantha as a bride is still the weirdest concept, but there’s no denying she wears it well. She’s so beautiful, even I’m a little bit spellbound. Her dress looks like something straight out of a Jane Austen adaptation—high-waisted and flowy, with ivory lace and cap sleeves. Maternity chic, she’d called it this morning, tugging the fabric tight around her belly to show us just how fucking oblivious we’ve been for weeks.
The photographer pulls Dylan into the tableau, in between Samantha and her grandma. I lean in closer to Ben to watch her bustle around, snapping a million pictures from every angle, periodically pausing to add or remove another O’Malley relative.
“I keep thinking about how these are Dylan’s wedding pictures,” Ben says, smiling faintly. “Like, we’re witnessing the creation of an image that’s going to be passed along to their grandchildren.”
I watch Dylan stretch his arms up languidly—and then stop short to sniff his armpit.
“For the grandchildren,” I say.
Ben kisses my cheek before squeezing in next to Dylan for the wedding party photos—followed by a full best-friends photo session at the groom’s request.
Samantha cuts across the grass, straight to me, arms outstretched for a hug. “Arthur! I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you so much. Just. For everything.”
“Are you kidding? Thank you for inviting me. This wedding. And you!” I press both hands to my heart. “You’ve ruined me for all other brides.”
“Sucks. Guess you shouldn’t marry one.”
I laugh. “I guess not.”
“I’m so happy for you guys.” She glances down at Ben and Dylan, who are currently reenacting a Twilight pose on the grass. “I’ve never seen Ben glow like that.”
My heart does this quick, tiny flip. “Really?”
“Arthur, he’s head over heels. You see it, right?”
“Hey, current wife,” Dylan calls out, hoisting himself back up to standing. “Come back here.”
“Wow. Not into that—”
“Excuse me.” Dylan clears his throat over the noise of Ben’s laughter. “My forever wife.”
Samantha breaks into a grin.
“You too, MacArthur Seuss Award. Get in here.”
Samantha grabs my hand. “Our paparazzi awaits.”
It’s the kind of joy that’s almost too bright to look at straight-on. How could I ever ask for anything but Ben’s hand on my waist and the click of this camera? Documented proof that this moment existed, that Ben and I belonged to each other.
Evening fades into night, one happy blur of food and flowers and dancing. I spend all of it in Ben’s arms, already missing every single moment that passes.
“Want to walk somewhere?” he asks, sometime after the cake’s been cut—which is how we end up back in the tree-lined alcove at the edge of the yard, where the posed photos were taken. The music sounds almost otherworldly from here. We’re completely alone, face-to-shadowy-face. Nothing between us but our own intertwined hands.
I wish I could stay here. I want to lock myself inside this moment. I keep imagining future me, alone in my dorm room, trying to dream myself back into it. I wonder if Ben will miss me this fall. Will we still be together by then? We could make it work this time, right? Long-distance isn’t the end of the world, and Connecticut is so much closer than Georgia. We’ll just do the train thing… for three years.
“Hey.” Ben tugs me closer. “What are you worrying about?”
“Oh, I’m—just. I don’t know. I’m glad to be here.” I smile up at him. “I still can’t believe it.”
“That Dylan and Samantha are married?”
“That too.” My heart skitters. “But no, I mean us. That we’re, you know, back together… I guess?”
“You guess?” Ben tilts his head, and I laugh.
“I don’t know! Are we? How does this go?”
The music shifts—and even from across the yard, I recognize the song from the very first measure. Pretty sure I’d know this one in my sleep.
“Marry You.” Bruno Mars.
Ben bursts out laughing. “Wow, is there, like, a flash mob coming, or…”
I cover my face. “I didn’t plan this. Oh my God. Universe, what the hell? Take a day off every once—”
Ben kisses me.
I look up at him, startled. “Okay, then.”
He kisses me again, his hands running down the sleeves of my jacket, leaving fields of goose bumps in their wake, even through layers of fabric. My arms hook beneath his, hugging him closer, holding his lips against mine, because air is good, but Ben’s breath is better. His hands change course, trailing back up to my shoulders, to the back of my neck, and I can’t stop thinking about how many stories these hands have told on tiny square keys. His fingertips find the skin just above my collar and just beneath it, tracing around the tag of my shirt—didn’t even know that was a move, but it definitely is.
The way his touch lights me up, leans me forward. I think he’s italicizing me.
“Look,” he says, his voice breathless from kissing. “Here’s the thing about do-overs. You have to try something different, or—you know. There’s no point.”
My heart sinks. “So you don’t think there’s any point—”
“No—God. Sorry. What I’m saying is—Arthur, fuck.” He draws in a deep breath. “I’m saying yes—holy shit—I want us to be back together. We never should have broken up. Arthur, we chose wrong last time. Let’s try again. I don’t care about the distance. We’ll make it work, okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s—yeah.” Suddenly, I’m crying and laughing all at once. “Here’s to do-overs, right?”
“Here’s to us,” he adds, hugging me. I bury my face in his jacket.
“I’m so happy.” My voice, muffled by fabric, is a jumble of tears and choked laughter. “This is my favorite day.”
“Favorite until tomorrow,” says Ben.
I wipe a tear from his cheek with the heel of my hand. “Please tell me you can spend the night tonight,” I say. “Does Dylan need you for… I don’t know—”
“His wedding night?”
“Look, it’s Dylan.”
He laughs. “I’ll tell him I’m needed elsewhere.”
“Good, because Uncle Milton’s horse paintings have been asking about you.”
“I’m into it,” he says. “And you know what else I’m into? Not being surrounded by my entire wardrobe.”
My heart squeezes happily, like it does every time I remember he’s staying. He’s staying he’s staying he’s staying. “I’ll help you unpack first thing tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“Hi, you gave up California. For me,” I remind him. “And the fact that I get to keep you on my coast? I’ll clean your whole room every day until school starts. I don’t even care.”
He laughs. “How long’s the ride to Wesleyan again?”
“Two hours or so by train. It’s like twenty-five bucks, but there’s a discount if you buy a bunch of tickets in advance. Like, if you know you’re going to visit a lot.” I smile. “We should visit a lot.”
“Okay, but—” Ben turns to me, suddenly, with an expression I can’t quite decipher. But when his eyes meet mine, they’re practically shooting off sparks. “What if we don’t?”