Smathers Beach, Key West | Monday, June 23, 2014, 5:10 p.m.

There are two versions of the story, depending on which of us you talk to. My version involves asking Jackson to marry me on a dreary April school night after we had planned our late-June Florida vacation. He claims he asked me sitting on our back deck in front of an early-spring fire.

But neither matters.

Especially on our wedding day.

Jackson’s eyes, so honest and happy and full of love, matched the blue of the late-afternoon Caribbean sky as they looked into mine, moments before we promised to always find our home in each other’s arms. I was the blushing—okay, maybe sun-burned—bride, giddy to have that moment, to have him, and to finally be one hundred percent, completely and undeniably, in love.

It was just the two of us at our barefoot-in-the-sand wedding, besides the officiant, but we were all we needed. We were all we would ever need.

Jackson. Sigh. What a gift. He lit up my life with a sunshiny-ness that was just him, and he made me laugh endlessly. Everything was so easy with Jackson—maybe because we were so much alike. He pushed me to be a better person, because he already believed I was that version of myself.

Our love—a true love—filled whatever emptiness had been there before, and I knew we were meant for each other. We took care of each other, and we understood how easily the love holding us together could break if not tended to regularly. It was a perfect love, though realistic and mature.

And it was about damn time.

Jackson’s first kiss—from that night almost two years ago—marked me for life. I knew then I would be his forever. And when you know, you know.

So it only made sense that once our vows were said and wedding-on-the-beach-in-Key-West photographs taken, we’d hop on our scooter and ride off into the Florida sunset together for our own real-life happily ever after.

And that’s just what we did.