Page 34 of Unmanageable

When the song ends, I guide Ivy back toward the chaos and slip over to the bar to rejoin Scottie. We grab two fresh drinks and retreat to a table tucked away in the shadows, trying to catch our breath.

But peace is impossible with these people.

From our spot by the bar, Scottie and I are absolutely losing our minds, trying—and failing—to keep our voices down.

Across the room, illuminated by a single flickering candle, Kovács has a guest pinned directly against a velvet-draped pillar.

He’s so gone.

His hands are buried in her hair, his head tilted at a terrifying angle as he aggressively sucks on her neck, his jaw moving like a starved vampire trying to find a vein.

“Oh my god,” Scottie wheezes. “Finn, look at him! He’s trying to swallow her whole!”

“It’s a medical marvel she hasn’t passed out from blood loss yet,” I mutter, shaking my head in pure awe. “The man has no off-switch.”

Scottie buries her face against my arm to muffle her laughter, her shoulders shaking.

The casual, unthinking weight of her leaning against me sends a sudden, sharp ache through my chest, a reminder of how desperately I want this closeness to be a permanent thing, not just a product of wedding high spirits.

By the time the clock nears midnight, the crowd has started to thin out. I leave Scottie at the table to go hunt down the groom for a final headcount on the after-party transportation.

I stumble toward the back corner of the tent near the main stage and have to stop to avoid stepping on a massive pile of white tulle.

Ivy and Callahan are sitting flat on the hardwood floor, tucked away into the dark, backed up against the front of the stage. Between them is the cardboard box containing the top tier of their wedding cake—the one you’re supposed to freeze for your anniversary.

They clearly didn’t care about tradition or plates; Cal is holding a single silver fork, digging a massive, lopsided chunk of raspberry-cream frosting out of the box and feeding it directly to Ivy, who is chewing with her eyes closed in pure bliss.

“It’s so good,” Ivy mutters. “Cal, tell them to bring the rest of it to the hotel.”

“I’ve got three more boxes in the back truck, honey,” Cal whispers, his voice thick, his eyes bloodshot but looking down at her like she hung the moon.

He uses his thumb to gently wipe the frosting from her face, then just licks it off his own hand, oblivious to the fact that I’m standing right there.

I stand there for a second, watching my best friend wrapped up in the woman he loves, totally content in their own private world amidst the wreckage of the party.

I pull back into the shadows, leaving them to their cake, and turn back toward the flickering lights of the main tent.

Scottie is still leaning against the high-top table, idly tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip, looking tired and soft in the fading warmth of the room.

As I walk back toward her, a strange ache settles deep in my chest.

I spent the last three years watching Callahan chase that exact kind of peace, and seeing him finally hold it makes something shift inside me.

It hits me all at once—the absolute certainty of what I want, and the terrifying reality of who I want it with.

I step up beside her, and she looks up.

“They’re eating the anniversary cake on the floor.”

A soft, genuine smile breaks across her face. “Of course they are. Idiots.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The best kind.”

9

Finnian O’Connell

My head is pounding so hard that I’m half-convinced there’s someone hitting drums right behind my eyeballs. When I finally peel my lids open to check, I’m humbled to find it’s just the aggressive rhythm of my own hangover.