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Locking into that trip down memory lane means I’m almost late to the wedding. I’m one of the last to arrive at the chapel, which is crowded. I edge into a spot under a stained glasswindow and stand. At least that means I can see all the action, and the conclusion to a love story that has played out with me watching.
I get to sing along with Luke Lawson’s rich baritone. Get to watch a flower girl scatter petals from a little basket. I also get to see her trip over. The fairy wings she wears don’t save her.
Petals fly, a disaster playing out in what feels like slow motion, until a blond-haired boy dashes to help her gather them up. He also helps her to stand, and they start over.
It’s nuts how easy it is to only hold on to life’s worst moments—how a single word in Polish can bring back my own sensation of falling. Of failing. But getting to see her helped to her feet, all smiles again, followed by a bride whose veil is still tied to the circlet I made?
That all goes straight to the top of a happier league table.
That’s where today is going to sit, along with the memory of Rae’s grin last night when I told him yes to being his plus-one.
I find him then.
Our eyes lock across a crowded chapel, only my gaze skims his for a second before sliding back just as quickly. He’s clean-shaven, and yes, his beard was already a whole lot tidier than mine, but now?
He looks….
He’s…
He’s a whole other person. Rested. Warmly smiling, and that warmth reaches all the way across the chapel to curl around me when he points to an empty spot in the pew beside him.
He’s saved it for me, and that’s where I watch the rest of this wedding. It’s a tight fit, so tight that we’re wedged together, and I don’t hate that even when I realise who takes up the rest of the pew.
Mitch from that care home is as friendly as ever, if a touch wary. “I was hoping to catch up with you,” he whispers. “Justin’s brought his football scrapbook to show you. He knows?—”
I stiffen at what Justin knows. There’s no way I want to revisit or explain what I’ve left ten years behind me.
Mitch has to notice my reaction. He quickly whispers, “He knows he said something wrong. He doesn’t know what or why, but that’s brain injuries for you. He must have got confused, that’s all. No malice intended, mate. You believing that matters to him. It would set his mind at rest if you’d take a look at his scrapbook sometime, that’s all.”
Thankfully, the service interrupts him. The chapel rings with applause and congratulations when it completes, this couple safely married, and I escape a football conversation. Not that I’m rude about it. I do it by making a promise. “Soon, yeah? I’m a bit busy today.”
Then I escape with Rae, who asks, “Ready to show me a good time?” He phrases that with a lightness I could read as joking, and I’m stuck doubting myself under a doorway decoration summing up Cornish brightness.
Take the shot, right?
“Yes.” I nod as firmly as I can summon, considering I’m no one’s long-term proposition. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About you.”
I score a real smile then and score a second after arriving at the headland with him.
He’s almost breathless. “Look at what you made happen.”
I didn’t have anything to do with this end-of-summer sunshine or with the sea looking extra sparkly. That isn’t what he points at. Rae has spotted a brand-new husband and wife posing for photos, framed by an arch smothered with bright bursts of yellow—flowers with prickles I wished I’d worn my work gloves to avoid, which Rae must have noticed.
He grabs my hand as we walk towards the marquee, turning it over like he did last night behind a minibus where no one could see him looking. Now anyone could see him study my hand and touch dots left by thorns, as if they’ll join to make a picture. Each pinprick was worth getting just to have him say, “You know they’ll never forget this, right?”
“I didn’t do it all on my own,” I insist, and I shove my hands deep into my pockets. Not due to any shaking or because I don’t want anyone to see that we’re together.
My truth today is that I won’t forget getting to be part of this either.
It’s another teamwork reminder that I tuck away for later. There will be plenty of time to replay this sunny highlight come winter when there is no work, and maybe if I go home for Christmas, I’ll even tell my sisters.
I shove my hands deeper in my pockets, no need to shiver. For now, it’s still summer, and I still get to listen as Rae shares stories about his drawings, about his plans to stop being a walking disaster and to hit that revise-and-resubmit deadline. About how he hasn’t started yet, but he’s got a plan brewing, so there’s no need to worry. He’ll get it done like he did at college, even if that means burning his candle at both ends.
“Sleep is for the weak,” he tells me while stuffing his face with Cornish baking. With food and drink from the school kitchen. With a cake that defies description, and all while sketching guests with that stylus. Fuck knows how he captures people with a few lines on a phone screen.
It’s bewitching to witness.
I can’t look away for hours, or blame my lack of chill on champagne at this no-budget wedding celebration. I’m as sober as a judge, and that’s fine. I don’t want to miss a moment of how he shares his drawings without fanfare before emailing them as a keepsake to guest after guest. They’re reminders of a big daythat didn’t go to plan, and I know exactly how that feels. It means I won’t forget his help in a hurry.
