Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Sage pauses, her smile softening as she looks directly at Angie.
“And for years I wondered if a man existed who deserved her and her good heart.”
She turns to Jason next, her voice quieter.
“And then came you. You and your anatomy lab. Who knew formaldehyde could be so romantic?”
More laughter. Jason chuckles, eyes on Angie, who’s shaking her head like she can’t believe any of this is happening.
“But seriously,” Sage continues, “you didn’t just fall in love with my sister. You earned her. With intention. With presence. And that’s the kind of love that lasts.”
She lifts her glass higher now, eyes glinting. “To Angie and Jason—may your life be full of laughter, of purpose, of partnership, and yes, maybe even a little storm. But always together.”
Everyone clinks glasses. I just watch her, my loud, fearless sister, wrapping the whole room around her finger while my quieter one beams beside her new husband. For once, everything feels exactly as it should.
I stand up too fast.
My palms are damp and my chest is tight—tight in that way that has nothing to do with the collar of my shirt and everything to do with the weight I’ve been carrying.
I yearn to look toward Tabitha. To see her beautiful brown eyes, to stare into them.
But I don’t dare. I’m already freaked, and seeing her would make it worse.
I used to be great at toasts. Maybe not the life of the party—that was Dave—but I was right up there.
Now? The idea of standing in front of family, friends, and our community has me wanting to upchuck.
I clear my throat. My glass is in my hand, though I don’t remember picking it up.
“I, uh…” I glance at Sage, who gives me a thumbs-up like this is no big deal. Like I haven’t been unraveling by the hour.
“I’m Henry,” I say. “Brother of the bride. Best man by default. Or by invitation. Still not sure which.”
That gets a laugh. Angie’s eyes shimmer, but she’s smiling. Jason gives me a nod.
I look at the two of them sitting side by side, and something in me breaks open.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately,” I say, voice rough now. “What it is. What it does to us. What it asks of us.”
I tighten my fingers around the stem of my glass. I don’t look at anyone else.
“I thought love was supposed to be easy. You know? That it should just show up and make everything better. But it doesn’t. Real love—the kind that matters—isn’t about being swept off your feet. It’s about staying on your feet. When things go sideways. When life gets dark. When you’re standing between someone you love and the worst moment of their life, and you don’t even think. You just act.”
My throat is dry. I swallow hard.
“I’d do it again,” I say, staring straight at Jason. “Every time. No hesitation.”
He nods. Doesn’t look away.
“But what I’ve learned in the middle of all this—what Angie and Jason reminded me—is that love isn’t just about what you’d die for. It’s about what you’ll live with. What you’ll carry. It’s about showing up, even when you’re broken. Especially when you’re broken. And building something anyway.”
I pause. Let it sit.
“Watching you two—seeing the way you love each other—it’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it’s unshakable. And I think that’s what we’re all really looking for. The kind of love that doesn’t have to scream to be heard. The kind that stands on its own merit.”
I lift my glass, finally.
“To Angie and Jason. May you always keep showing up for each other. No matter what.”
It’s quiet for a beat too long, and then the room bursts into applause.
But I just sit back down, heart pounding, knowing I said more than I meant to. And somehow less than I needed to.
Jason grabs my arm. “That was great. Thank you.”
I give him a small smile. “Welcome to the family.”
“I was an only child,” Jason says, his voice quiet.
I nod. I already know. Parents gone early. No siblings. Then the wreck. His daughter. His wife. The aftermath. The kind of pain most people don’t walk away from.
But I don’t interrupt. I just watch him, the way he stares past me to the east, like the mountains might give him an answer he hasn’t found yet.
He rolls the glass of whiskey between his palms, not drinking, just thinking.
“I had to learn how to live again after I lost them,” he says. “You already know the whole story. The crash. The hand. The silence in the house. The kind of grief that curls under your skin and makes a home there.”
I nod again. I do know. Sort of.
“But it’s not just about surviving anymore,” he continues. “It’s about choosing who I want to be—what kind of man I want to be—for Angie. For this life I thought I’d never have again.”