Page 134 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Hazel, do you take Jack to be your husband, to love and honor and cherish, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Hazel says, tears streaming down her face. “With everything I have.”

They kiss, everyone cheers, and I’m crying the happy tears that come from witnessing love win. But I’m also hyperaware of Brett standing beside me, so close I could reach out and touch him but feeling as though there’s an ocean between us.

The reception flows seamlessly into evening inside the Hensley House, with dancing and laughter and the kind of joy that comes from witnessing two people who absolutely belong together celebrate their future. I dance with Crew, who insists on demonstrating his “advanced” fishing knot techniques while we waltz, and with Mason who mostly bounces to the beat while I try to keep up.

During a quiet moment between songs, Lucas’swife, Anabelle, finds me near the cake table, glowing with the kind of happiness that comes from good news.

“Amber!” she says, pulling me into a hug. “Can you believe we’re back here again? It feels like yesterday that Lucas and I were getting married on this same beach.”

“Has it really been almost two years?”

“Twenty-two months,” she says with a laugh. “Nolan keeps track of everything. He says it’s been the best twenty-one months of his life since Lucas became his stepdad officially.”

I smile, remembering how Lucas had been Nolan’s soccer mentor before falling for his mom. “How is Nolan? Still dominating on the soccer field?”

“Absolutely. And he’s about to become a big brother.” Anabelle’s face lights up as she places a hand on her still-small bump. “We just found out we’re having a girl.”

“Anabelle! That’s wonderful news!”

“Lucas is already planning to build her a rocking chair. Nolan wants to teach her soccer. I’m just hoping she sleeps better than her brother did at that age.”

But I don’t dance with Brett.

He’s been perfectly polite all evening. Helped serve cake, made appropriate small talk with relatives, even laughed at Uncle Harold’s camping stories. But he hasn’t asked me to dance, stolen a quiet moment, ordone any of the actions the Brett I know would do at a romantic wedding.

By the time the evening starts winding down, I’m frustrated enough to do something about it.

I find him at the edge of the Hensley House’s wraparound porch, gazing out at the water with a beer in his hand and that careful expression that’s been driving me crazy for three days.

“Okay,” I say, moving to stand beside him. “Time to talk.”

“About what?”

“About why you’re treating me like I’m radioactive.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, then says, “I saw your face.”

“What?”

“At the restaurant. When Chad was saying those awful words about you failing, about not being able to handle a real business. I saw your face, and for a second, you believed him.”

My stomach drops. “Brett?—”

“And I realized that I’ve been pushing. Moving fast, making assumptions about what you want, what you’re ready for.” He takes a sip of his beer, still not facing me. “Maybe you need space to figure out what you actually want instead of going along with what feels good in the moment.”

“What feels good in the moment?”

“This. Us. Whatever this is.”

The words hit like physical blows. “You think this is just a moment for me?”

“I think you’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want to be another complication in your life.”

“A complication?”

“Someone else making demands, having expectations, adding pressure when you’re already dealing with enough.”