Page 42 of To Her

Geri

I stood there while my mother laced up my dress from the back, the intricate pattern of holes and ribbon making me shift impatiently.

What had seemed so perfect on the rack now felt like an exercise in endurance as she threaded the black satin ribbon through what must have been a hundred tiny eyelets.

"Will you just take a breath and relax?" My mother's voice was gentle with amusement. "You're meant to be happy, not jittery and stressed out."

She was right, of course. She had always been right, especially in these last few years as we'd rebuilt our relationship into something stronger and more honest than it had ever been. I caught her eye in the mirror and tried to slow my breathing, which only made her smile wider.

"That's better," she said, her fingers never pausing in their work. "Though I'm not sure why you chose a dress that requires an engineering degree to put on."

"Because it's perfect," I replied, and it was.

The black lace bodice gave way to layers of midnight tulle that seemed to float around my legs.

Not the traditional white—I'd never wanted white.

It wouldn't have felt authentic, and if there was one thing I'd learned in my journey, it was the importance of authenticity.

My father had dropped by earlier, his eyes suspiciously bright as he'd pressed something into my palm—an old gold pin with a small pearl at its centre.

"This is for something borrowed," he'd said gruffly. "Your grandmother wore it on her wedding day."

I'd smiled at him and kissed his cheek; another relationship healed in the years since I'd come home. I'd made it my mission to fix what I'd broken, and fix it I had—not perfectly, not without setbacks, but with a persistence I hadn't known I possessed.

"Right, all threaded," my mother announced, breaking into my thoughts. "Now let's do this up so tight you can't breathe, and we'll be ready."

I smiled at her in the mirror as she did, in fact, lace it up so tight I was gasping, but the end result was perfect. The dress hugged my curves before flowing outward, making me look like something from a fairy tale—albeit a slightly darker one than most.

My arms were now covered in tattoos, the cherry blossoms still there but joined by so many others.

Every time something significant happened in my life—even the ugly times—I had gotten a tattoo to remember it by.

They were my reminders of who I was and who I was becoming, a visual history of my journey etched permanently into my skin.

As my mother tied the ribbon in a knot, she pulled a letter from her bag and handed it to me.

"Con asked me to give this to you today," she said softly.

Tears pricked in my eyes as I stared down at my own handwriting. The envelope simply said "To Her."

My hands trembled as I opened it, finding inside the original letter I had given him years ago, the one addressed to his future wife. I unfolded it carefully, noting he had added more to the bottom of the letter. I began to read, my heart in my throat.

To the woman Con loves,

You don't know me, and by the time you read this (if you ever do), I'll be a distant memory in Con's life. But I wanted to write to you anyway, to tell you what I know about the man you love.

Con is the kindest person I've ever known. Not in a showy way, but in the quiet moments when it would be easier to walk away. He stays. He helps. He cares, deeply and without reservation.

He loves with his whole heart. I know this because he loved me once, even when I was at my worst, even when I gave him every reason not to.

He's funny in a way that sneaks up on you—dry humour delivered with such perfect timing that you find yourself laughing days later at something he said.

He's talented, though he'll downplay it if you mention it. Watch him when he doesn't know you're looking—when he's lost in his music or his cooking. That's when you'll see it, love cause Con knows exactly how to love someone.

He's stubborn about the strangest things—he'll argue for hours about the "correct" way to make tea but concede major life decisions with a shrug and a smile.

He snores, but only when he sleeps on his back. He remembers birthdays and anniversaries without being reminded, and he always, always calls when he says he will.

I'm writing this because I want you to know how lucky you are. Not in a bitter way—I had my chance with Con, and I wasn't ready for it. But you are. You must be, for him to have chosen you.

Love him well. Love him better than I could. He deserves nothing less.

Geri

Then the section he had added at the bottom:

To Her

Yes, you, Geri, because how could it ever be anyone else? I knew you were broken when I met you. It was why I waited, it was why I became your friend, it was why I allowed you to be who you were and still loved you anyway.

I knew the day you sent this to me that I would simply be handing it back to you.

I knew in that moment that you were just becoming this version of yourself, that you were putting in the hard work to sort your shit out.

I knew that the person who was described in this letter was you, ‘cause I knew I would never marry anyone but you.

So please hurry up and meet me at the end of this aisle. I've been standing here waiting for you for years, and I'm starting to get impatient.

Come and bother me some more, come and sweep me off my feet again, come and make me chase you around town, come and show me the person you are today, ‘cause I loved you when I met you, I loved you when you broke my heart, and I'm going to love this new version even more.

‘Cause you're mine, baby. All mine. And I'm ready for you.

The tears I'd been holding back spilled over, tracking down my cheeks in hot rivulets. My mother was at my side instantly, dabbing at them with a tissue.

"Don't ruin your makeup," she chided gently, but her own eyes were wet. "What did he write that's got you in such a state?"

I couldn't speak, could only hand her the letter. She read it quickly, then pulled me into a careful hug, mindful of the dress.

"He always knew, didn't he?" she said. "Even when you didn't."

I nodded, still unable to form words around the emotion swelling in my chest. It had been three years since that day in the ski shop when Con had walked back into my life.

Three years of careful rebuilding, of learning to trust not just him but myself, of discovering that love wasn't something to run from but something to run toward.

The day he'd appeared in Mountain Gear Rentals had been the beginning of a new chapter—tentative coffee dates that turned into long walks, conversations that stretched into the night, a slow and deliberate courtship that honoured both our history and our growth.

We'd taken our time, both of us wary of repeating old patterns, both of us determined to get it right.

And now here we were.

"Ready?" my mother asked, adjusting my veil one last time.

I took a deep breath, feeling the constriction of the corset, the weight of the moment, the fullness of my heart.

"Ready," I said, and I meant it in a way I never had before.

My father was waiting outside the door, his eyes widening when he saw me.

"You look beautiful, Geraldine," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

I took his arm, steadying myself on the unfamiliar heels. The music had started, floating up from the garden below where we'd chosen to hold the ceremony—nothing grand, just our closest friends and family gathered under a canopy of fairy lights and flowers.

As we descended the stairs and stepped out into the garden, I felt a moment of pure clarity wash over me. This was right. This was where I was meant to be. All the running, all the pain, all the mistakes—they had led me here, to this moment, to this man.

I saw him then, standing at the end of the aisle, tall and handsome in his black suit, his eyes finding mine immediately.

The look on his face—a mixture of awe and joy and love so pure it took my breath away—was worth every tear I'd ever cried, every dark night I'd endured, every step of the long journey back to myself.

My father squeezed my arm gently, and we began to walk. The guests turned to watch, but I barely noticed them. My focus was entirely on Con, on the way his eyes never left mine, on the slight tremble in his hands as he clasped them in front of him.

With each step, memories washed over me—that first night at the bar when he'd looked at me like I was the most fascinating person he'd ever met; the mornings waking up beside him, terrified by the intensity of what I felt; the pain in his eyes when I'd pushed him away; the shock and joy of seeing him again in the ski shop; the slow, careful rebuilding of trust between us.

And now this—the culmination of a journey I'd never imagined possible when I was at my lowest, when I'd believed myself unworthy of love, when I'd run from anything that threatened to pierce the armour I'd built around my heart.

As we reached the end of the aisle, my father placed my hand in Con's, the symbolism of the gesture not lost on me. Con's fingers were warm and steady around mine, anchoring me in the moment.

"Hi," he whispered, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Hi," I whispered back, my voice catching. "I got your letter."

A smile broke across his face, transforming it with joy. "And?"

"And I'm here," I said simply. "I'm all yours."

The ceremony passed in a blur of emotion—vows we'd written ourselves, promises made with full awareness of their weight, rings exchanged with hands that trembled with the significance of the moment.

When the celebrant pronounced us husband and wife, Con pulled me into a kiss that felt like coming home after a long, difficult journey.

The reception was a celebration of not just our love but of the community that had supported us both—James and Liam, now married themselves; my mother and father, tentatively rekindling their own relationship; my brother and his wife, expecting their first child; Diane and Mei from the ski shop; Eleanor from the oil and vinegar shop who had flown in from England; even Alex, who had finally found happiness with someone who loved him for exactly who he was.

As the night wore on, Con pulled me away from the dancing and laughter, leading me to a quiet corner of the garden where fairy lights twinkled overhead like stars.

"Happy?" he asked, his arms encircling my waist.

"More than I knew was possible," I admitted, resting my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "I never thought I'd have this. Never thought I deserved it."

"You always deserved it," he said firmly. "You just needed to believe it yourself."

I looked up at him, this man who had seen the best and worst of me, who had loved me through it all, who had waited with a patience I still found astonishing.

"I love you," I said, the words simple but carrying the weight of everything we'd been through to reach this point. "I've always loved you, even when I was running away from it."

"I know," he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Why do you think I kept chasing you?"

I laughed, the sound bubbling up from a place of pure joy. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

"Never," he said, his expression turning serious. "Not then, not now, not ever."

He pulled me closer, his lips finding mine in a kiss that promised a lifetime of moments like this—quiet, honest, filled with a love that had been tested by fire and emerged stronger for it.

As we rejoined the celebration, I caught sight of my book on the gift table—my first book, "To Her," finally published after years of hesitation. It had felt right to release it now, as we began this new chapter together. The dedication page simply read: "To Con, who always knew."

The night stretched on, a tapestry of laughter and tears, dancing and quiet conversations, the beginning of a life I'd once thought impossible. And through it all, Con's hand remained firmly in mine, a tangible reminder that I was no longer running—I was home.

Later, as we prepared to leave, Con pulled me aside one more time.

"I have something for you," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, wrapped package.

I opened it carefully to find a delicate charm bracelet with a single charm—a tiny silver pen.

"For your stories," he explained. "The ones you've written and the ones you've yet to tell. Our story."

Tears filled my eyes again—happy tears, healing tears, tears of a woman who had finally learned that vulnerability wasn't weakness but strength.

"Our story," I echoed, letting him fasten the bracelet around my wrist. "I like the sound of that."

As we walked out together, hand in hand, into the night and the future that awaited us, I felt a sense of completion that went beyond the ceremony, beyond the celebration.

This wasn't an ending but a beginning—the start of a new chapter in a story that had taken unexpected turns but had ultimately led exactly where it was meant to go.

To him. To us. To a love that had survived the worst of me and promised to celebrate the best.

To her—the woman I had become, the woman who had finally learned to stay .

The End