Page 17

“I just worry,” Dad continues, “that somewhere along the way, in all of it—our stuff, the family stuff—you lost your voice.”

I hate how accurate that is.

I hate that he can see it and name it in thirty seconds on a bathroom floor when I’ve spent years convinced I was fine.

I hate that I walked straight from one dynamic into another and called it a fresh start.

I look down at my hands. They’re still for the first time all morning.

“When I met Ezra,” I say slowly, not sure where I’m going with this, “I wanted it to be different. The family we’d make. I love you all. You know I do. But I didn’t want to be waiting for the next hard thing. I wanted something that felt—”

Quiet. Predictable. Safe.

I don’t say any of that.

“—settled,” I finish.

Dad nods but doesn’t offer a response.

I take a long breath in through my nose and look at him.

“I should get dressed,” I say.

Something moves across his face. He covers it quickly, but I see it. Twenty-eight years of watching this face means I see all of it.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure, Dad.” I nod once. “It’s the right thing to do.”

His mouth does something that’s not quite a smile.

We both push ourselves up off the floor, and he extends a hand to help me for the last bit. For a moment we stand in the bathroom together, his hand holding mine. I think about howthis might be one of the last times I’ll be his Piper without also being Ezra’s wife. The thought comes, and I let it pass because I don’t have anywhere useful to put it.

I roll my shoulders back.

Then I push my mouth upward, into the right shape, into the shape that tells everyone what they came here to see.

I take a breath in and let it out. “Time to get married.”

Dad’s face does the thing again.

I turn toward the door before I have to look at it any longer.

Eight

Griffin

The church is beautiful.

I say this as someone who has spent the last six months analyzing structural load calculations and debating concrete strength, so my sense of beauty has become somewhat clinical. Still, I can admit this place is something—high vaulted ceilings and stained glass that transforms afternoon light into art.

It’s… a lot. If someone told me this was Madison’s wedding, I’d say, “Sure. It feels like her.” But nothing here feels like Piper.

I slide into the pew beside Noah just as the ceremony is supposed to start.

“Don’t you look handsome today,” I tease, nudging him.

He squeezes my thigh. “Aw, you can kiss me later. Weddings always bring out my romantic side.”