Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
And I got the husband, one who loves me more than anything. He even puts up with my early morning photo shenanigans. With our arms around each other and our lips pressed together, our tongues tempt the other into a slow dance.
A cleared throat disturbs the path we were headed down, which would have led us to bed instead of the reception. My eyes flutter open to find my dream come true already smiling at me. “We’re married.”
The man was enough, but that phrase alone sends my heart soaring. “We are.”
Another clearing of the throat pulls us from our daydream to the judge standing before us. “You don’t have to stop, but you need to move it outside. I have another ceremony to perform.”
Taking my hand, Keats leads me through the small group of friends and family who were here to witness the legal declaration of our love. Now, the only two who can tear us apart just willingly signed their names to a legally binding certificate.
The guests follow us into the large lobby, where voices echo if they don’t keep it down. We could have gotten married anywhere, but a small ceremony at the courthouse was all we wanted. In the excitement, we’re surrounded by our loved ones, but I sneak through to hug my mom first. The embrace is comforting, and the hold tight enough for us to silently say what we haven’t been able to.
I’m sorry.
I forgive you.
I want you in my life.
I’m not sure we have to, judging by the steps we’ve made. She’s here with a clean slate as far as I’m concerned.
“Congratulations. What a beautiful thing to witness.” Her hand is over her heart while tears tease her lower lids. “I brought you these.” She reaches down to grab a large tote that sat at her feet. “One’s a wedding gift. The others are things I thought you should have, like your Paddington bear.”
“That’s so thoughtful. I’d love to have that.” I glance as she hands the bag to me and do a double take. “Is that my photography portfolio?”
“You always took beautiful photos. I thought you might like to have them back.” Her hands grip around mine holding the tote. “We can arrange for you to come get anything else you’d like. I know . . .” She looks down and takes a breath. “You left in such a hurry, so if there’s anything you want.”
“I’ll let you know.” Just before I hug her, Marcy swings by to sweep the bag from my hands. I say what I wish I would have said the other day, “I love you, Mom.”
Keats captures my hand, and I slide against him, tucked under his arm. “This is my husband.” I glance up at Keats. “This is my mom.”
“Kelly,” she says, holding out her hand. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her referred to by only her first name. Kelly and Stansbury are always used together, or Mrs. Stansbury for those less acquainted. Stansbury is a name to drop for entrance into society. It has a standing invitation to every party of note and charity event. It’s a mover and shaker in Manhattan and is used to get what they want.
Shaking her hand, Keats says, “It’s nice to meet you, Kelly.”
“Congratulations.” Her eyes pivot to mine before returning to his. “My daughter is an incredible person. The best I know.” Her words might be curated, but the true meaning is heard.
Keats holds me a little tighter. “Me too.”
I could be embarrassed, but having her here and seeing them interact brings a fullness to my chest like the void is gone altogether.
Marcy’s voice catches our attention. “We need to start toward the doors. There’s a car waiting for the newlyweds after they take photos, and one for everyone else to take us to the reception.” Pointing toward the exit, she says, “Let’s move it on out.” I can’t help but laugh. You’d think there was a massive crowd and not just six of us in total.
Lori comes around to hug us, and I take a quick moment to hug Michael and Marcy before we leave. The four of them make their way down the steps, but we stay, the photographer already taking photos as the pigeons fly up in annoyance. That will make for a great photo. I’m sure the one of me screaming when a bird gets too close will as well.
Keats and I kiss, and when he pulls me up from a dip, he caresses my cheek and says, “I know what our book should be called.”
“What’s that?”
“Spark and Poet, a love story.”
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I lift onto the toe of my shoes, which still doesn’t make me tall enough to reach him, and sigh in swoony bliss. “Sounds like a blockbuster, but stories are for the world to enjoy. Our story is only for us.”