Page 66 of The Pucking Clause

“Excellent,” Mother says, satisfied. She lifts her glass. “To the engagement weekend that will be appropriately grand and to the wedding that will be inappropriately small.”

Everyone laughs. We raise our glasses.

“To family,” Mother adds, her gaze finding mine. “And to Wesley and Joy.”

No hesitation. No correction. Something in me that’s been clenched since childhood loosens—a knot untying itself from the inside.

Glass taps glass. Wesley laces our fingers together under the table and squeezes:See? We made it.

Later, in the foyer, coats and goodbyes in hand, Mother does that familiar fuss where she straightens Wesley’s collar even though it’s already perfect.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she says, then catches herself with a small, wry smile. “You aren’t one anymore.”

“Careful,” I murmur. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll bring glitter to your engagement party.”

“Absolutely not,” she says, scandalized, and then surprises both of us by pulling me into a real hug. Warm. Unstaged. “Joy,” she says into my hair, and the word sinks in, settles, roots.

We step out into tulip-scented air. Both sets of parents linger on the steps, already planning—Mother pulling out her phone to show Anne photos of venues, Tom and Robert discussing the Scotch brand, Lila making plans to take Anne to Giselle.

“How’d that feel?” Wesley asks, pulling me close at the bottom of the steps.

“Like spring actually arrived,” I say. “For both of us.”

He looks back at the townhouse—both families on the steps, laughing, planning, blending. “She called you Joy.”

“She did.” I lean into him. “And your dad said he’s proud.”

“Yeah.” His voice catches. “He did.”

His phone buzzes. He glances down; it’s Dmitri.

Big Russian:Playoff game tomorrow. You ready, Bear?

Wesley grins, types back:

Wesley:Ready. Got my good luck charm with me.

“Good luck charm?” I read over his shoulder.

“You.” He kisses my temple. “Always you.”

We start toward the corner where the light is green and the city just…goes. He’ll watch film later. I’ll finalize the recital lineup. Life resumes.

But for this block, it’s sun and tulips and the echo of Mother saying my name the way I’ve always wanted to hear it. Wesley’s hand warm in mine. His father’s pride still settling like snow. A wedding to plan—two of them apparently, because Mother always gets the last word.

And the uncomplicated, extraordinary quiet of being exactly where I belong.

THE END