Chapter 7: The Best Man and the Maid of Honor
The string lights came on at dusk, and the cabin transformed.
Jordan stood at the edge of the porch, a bottle of beer sweating in his hand, and watched the golden glow spill through the windows and paint the clearing in warm light. The pine boards he'd sanded and sealed and sanded again gleamed like honey. The wildflowers Anna had picked that morning—black-eyed Susans and purple asters and something yellow he couldn't name—spilled from mason jars on every surface. The eight pine chairs he'd built from the trees they'd felled sat in a loose semicircle near the hearth, each one slightly different, each one imperfect, each one exactly right.
Behind him, the lake stretched flat and silver under the rising moon. The greenhouse stood at the edge of the property, its glass panels catching the last of the light, tomato starts and pepper plants visible through the fogged glass.
It was done.
All of it.
A year of work, of arguments, of sanding and re-sanding and sanding again. A year of learning each other's rhythms, of discovering that living together meant fighting about cabinet hardware and making up in the greenhouse and waking up every morning to the same face, the same breath, the same heartbeat.
A year since he'd pulled a ring from his pocket in a cramped trailer and asked her to marry him.
And now here they were.
Jordan took a long pull from his beer and felt something loosen in his chest. Not relief, exactly. Something bigger. Something that felt like gratitude, like grace, like the universe had finally stopped testing him and decided to let him rest.
"You're brooding," Anna said, appearing beside him.
"I'm not brooding. I'm appreciating."
"Same thing."
She slipped her arm around his waist. She was wearing a simple white dress—cotton, knee-length, nothing fancy—and her auburn hair was loose around her shoulders. No veil. No heels. Just Anna, barefoot on the porch of the house they'd built, wearing the ring he'd given her and a smile that made his chest ache.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"You said that already."
"I'll say it again. You look beautiful."
She kissed his cheek. "You're not so bad yourself."
He was wearing a clean shirt—blue, the one she liked—and jeans that didn't have sawdust on them. That was about as dressed up as he got. She hadn't asked for more.
"Are you ready?" she said.
"For what?"
"For the thing. The ceremony. Whatever we're calling it."
"We're calling it a wedding."
"Right. That."
He looked at her. At the cabin. At the greenhouse. At the eight pine chairs waiting inside.
"I've been ready for a year," he said.
She smiled. "Me too."
The guests arrived at seven.
Ben came first, his truck rumbling up the dirt drive, kicking up dust. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a beard that needed trimming and a grin that never quit. He'd been Jordan's roommate in college, the best man at a wedding that almost hadn't happened, the guy who'd driven twelve hours to help frame a cabin he'd never seen.
"Holy shit," Ben said, climbing out of the truck. "You actually finished it."
"Mostly."
"Mostly? This place is a palace."
"It's a cabin."
"It's a palace. I'm moving in."
Jordan laughed and pulled him into a hug. "Good to see you, man."
"You too. Where's the bride?"
"Inside. Getting ready."
"Getting ready? She's already here. What's there to get ready for?"
"You don't understand women."
"I understand enough."
They walked inside, and Ben stopped cold in the doorway. The string lights. The wildflowers. The pine chairs. The hearth, cold now but ready to be lit.
"This is—" He shook his head. "This is incredible, Jordan."
"Thanks."
"I mean it. You built this. All of it."
"Not alone."
"No. But still. This is something else."
Rachel arrived twenty minutes later, driving a beat-up Honda that had seen better decades. She was Anna's age, with dark skin and close-cropped hair and a laugh that carried across the clearing before she even got out of the car.
"Anna!" she shouted, running up the porch steps. "You didn't tell me it was this beautiful!"
"I told you it was a cabin."
"You undersold it. This is a home."
The two women hugged, long and tight, and Jordan watched Anna's face soften in a way it only did around Rachel. They'd been friends since college, roommates for three years, survivors of the same bad breakup that had sent Anna running to Canada in the first place.
"Where's the lucky man?" Rachel said.
"Right here," Jordan said.
She looked him up and down. "You're taller than I expected."
"I get that a lot."
"And cuter."
"I get that less."
Rachel laughed. "I like him, Anna. He's funny."
"He has his moments."
The last guests arrived just before eight—Jordan's sister, Maya, and her husband, Chris, who'd driven up from Toronto. Maya was three years older than Jordan, with the same sandy hair and the same quiet way of watching everything before she spoke.
"You did it," she said, hugging him tight. "You actually did it."
"I told you I would."
"I know. I just—" She pulled back and looked at the cabin. "I didn't think you'd do it alone."
"I didn't."
She looked at Anna, who was laughing with Rachel on the porch swing, and something passed over her face. Something soft.
"She's good for you," Maya said.
"She is."
"Mom would have loved her."
Jordan's throat tightened. Their mother had died five years ago—cancer, fast and brutal—and the wound still felt fresh on days like this. Days when family gathered. Days when the future felt so big it was hard to hold.
"Yeah," he said. "She would have."
Maya squeezed his hand. "Let's not get sad. This is a happy day."
"It is."
"Then let's be happy."
They gathered in the main room, the eight of them, standing in a loose circle near the hearth. No aisle. No altar. No officiant. Just Jordan and Anna, facing each other, their hands intertwined.
"Does anyone have vows?" Rachel asked.
Anna pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. "I wrote something. It's not very good."
"Read it anyway."
She unfolded the paper and cleared her throat. Her hands were shaking, just a little, and Jordan felt his own heartbeat quicken.
"Jordan," she said. "When I met you, I was running. From a bad relationship, from my own choices, from everything I didn't want to face. I came to Canada to prove I could be alone. To prove I didn't need anyone."
She paused. Looked up at him.
"Then you showed up with your firewood and your quiet confidence and your stupid, perfect face. And I realized that being alone wasn't the same as being strong. That strength was choosing someone. Every day. Even when it's hard. Even when you're scared."
She folded the paper. "I choose you. I've been choosing you since that first night, when you built me a fire because I couldn't. I'll keep choosing you. For the rest of my life."
Jordan heard someone sniff. Probably Maya. Probably him.
"Okay," he said. "I didn't write anything."
The room laughed.
"But I've got something to say."
He took a breath. "Anna. You're the most stubborn, infuriating, beautiful person I've ever met. You argue with me about everything. You leave wet towels on the floor. You steal my flannel shirts and never give them back."
More laughter.
"But you also make me better. You push me. You challenge me. You make me want to be the kind of man who deserves you. And I don't know if I'll ever get there, but I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying."
He squeezed her hands. "I love you, Anna. For exactly who you are. Stubborn and messy and perfect."
Rachel wiped her eyes. "Okay," she said. "I'm going to cry. Someone do something."
"Kiss her," Ben said.
"Good idea."
Jordan pulled Anna close and kissed her. Soft and slow and full of everything he couldn't say. She tasted like the coffee she'd had that morning and the mint from the tea she'd drunk before the ceremony. She tasted like home.
When they pulled apart, everyone was clapping.
"Okay," Rachel said. "Who's cutting the cake?"
The reception was small and loud and perfect.
The cake was chocolate, slightly lopsided, made by a baker in town who'd never decorated for a wedding before. The whiskey was cheap, poured into mason jars, passed around the circle. The playlist was a mix of songs Jordan and Anna had argued over for weeks—folk and rock and one embarrassing pop song that Rachel had insisted on.
Ben and Rachel ended up paired together for the ceremony—Maya had appointed herself as unofficial coordinator, and she'd decided that a wedding needed a best man and a maid of honor, even if the wedding was just eight people in a cabin.
They stood on opposite sides of the hearth, watching the vows, and by the time Jordan kissed Anna, Ben had already made Rachel laugh twice.
"Where'd you find this guy?" Rachel whispered to Anna during the cake.
"College. Jordan's roommate."
"He's funny."
"He's an idiot."
"Funny and an idiot. My favorite combination."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "Careful."
"I'm always careful."
"You're never careful."
Rachel grinned. "True."
The whiskey went down easy, and the playlist got louder, and by ten o'clock the small circle had scattered—Maya and Chris on the porch, talking quietly; Anna and Jordan in the kitchen, stealing cake and kissing between bites; Ben and Rachel by the fireplace, sharing a mason jar and trading stories about their worst dating experiences.
"So he takes me to this restaurant," Rachel said. "And the whole time, he's talking about his ex. Like, not even mentioning her—just talking about her. Her favorite food. Her favorite movie. The way she laughed."
"No."
"Yes."
"And you stayed?"
"I was twenty-two and stupid."
Ben laughed. "I went on a date with a woman who brought her mom."
"No."
"Swear to God. Her mom sat at the table with us the whole time. Ordered the most expensive thing on the menu."
"What did you do?"
"I paid and left. Never called her again."
"Smart man."
"Took me a while to get there."
They sat in comfortable silence, passing the jar back and forth. The fire crackled low, and the string lights made everything look soft and golden.
"You're not what I expected," Rachel said.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone duller. More boring. Anna doesn't exactly surround herself with charismatic people."
"She surrounds herself with you."
"Point taken."
Ben looked at her. Really looked. She was pretty, in a sharp-edged way—dark eyes, a wide mouth, cheekbones that caught the light. She was wearing a simple dress, deep blue, and there was a challenge in her gaze that made him want to keep talking.
"Why'd you come?" he said.
"To the wedding? Anna's my best friend."
"No. I mean—you drove eleven hours for a wedding with eight people."
"She'd do the same for me."
"Would she?"
Rachel was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.
"Yeah. She would."
"That's rare."
"What is?"
"People who show up."
Rachel looked at him. The firelight flickered across her face, and something shifted between them—something small and electric, like the air before a storm.
"You showed up," she said.
"Jordan's my best friend."
"Still. Eleven hours. You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
"Why?"
Ben didn't answer. Not right away. He took a sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in his chest, and then he set the jar down and met her eyes.
"Because I wanted to see if he was happy," he said. "And because I wanted to see the place he'd been telling me about for a year. And because—"
He stopped.
"Because what?"
"Because I didn't want to be alone tonight."
Rachel held his gaze. The fire popped. Someone laughed on the porch—Maya, probably, at something Chris had said.
"That's honest," she said.
"I try to be."
"And now?"
"And now I'm not alone."
She smiled. Slow and deliberate. "No. You're not."
The playlist shifted—something slower, something with a beat that made the floorboards hum. Rachel stood up and extended her hand.
"Dance with me," she said.
"There's no dance floor."
"Dance with me anyway."
Ben took her hand. They moved into the space between the hearth and the chairs, away from the fire, and he put one hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder. She stepped closer, her body nearly touching his, and they swayed in a loose circle.
"This is awkward," he said.
"Shut up and dance."
"This is still awkward."
"You're thinking too much."
"Always."
She laughed, soft and low against his chest. "You're not bad at this."
"At dancing?"
"At being charming."
"I'm not trying to be charming."
"That's what makes it work."
They moved together, slow and easy, and Ben felt something loosen in his chest. He'd spent the last year watching Jordan build a life from nothing—the cabin, the land, the greenhouse, the woman he loved. Ben had been happy for him. Genuinely. But there'd been something else, too. Something that felt like envy.
Not of the cabin. Not of the land. Of the certainty. Of the knowing that this was it—the person, the place, the life.
Ben had never had that.
He'd spent his twenties moving from town to town, job to job, woman to woman. He'd told himself he was free. He'd told himself he didn't need anyone.
But standing here, in this cabin, with this woman in his arms, he wasn't so sure.
"What are you thinking?" Rachel said.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
He looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and steady, and her mouth was curved in a smile that made his pulse leap.
"I'm thinking," he said slowly, "that I want to kiss you."
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just held his gaze and said, "Then why don't you?"
He kissed her.
Soft at first—testing, tentative. But she pressed into him, her hands sliding up his chest, and the kiss deepened. She tasted like whiskey and chocolate and something sweet he couldn't name. Her mouth was warm and wet, and her tongue met his with a confidence that made his head spin.
He pulled back. Breathless.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"That was—"
"Yeah."
They stood there, breathing hard, the music still playing, the fire still crackling. Someone could walk in at any moment. Maya and Chris were on the porch. Anna and Jordan were in the kitchen.
But Ben didn't care.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"The greenhouse."
She raised an eyebrow. "The greenhouse?"
"Jordan showed it to me earlier. It's soundproof."
"Is it?"
"Probably not. But it's full of tomato plants. Very romantic."
She laughed. "You're ridiculous."
"Is that a no?"
She grabbed his hand. "It's a yes."
They slipped out the back door, past the porch where Maya and Chris were still talking, past the clearing where the moonlight pooled silver on the grass. The greenhouse stood at the edge of the property, glass panels fogged, a faint glow coming from inside—Jordan must have left a lamp on.
Ben pulled the door open and gestured for Rachel to go first.
"After you."
She stepped inside.
The greenhouse was warm and humid, the air thick with the smell of soil and growing things. Tomato plants climbed from pots on every surface, their leaves brushing against the glass. A potting bench ran along the far wall, covered in trowels and gloves and half-empty seed packets.
Rachel looked around. "This is—"
"Small?"
"Cozy."
"Same thing."
She turned to face him. The lamp cast soft shadows across her face, and her eyes were dark and unreadable.
"So," she said. "Here we are."
"Here we are."
"In a greenhouse."
"In a greenhouse."
"With tomato plants."
"With tomato plants."
She laughed. "You're terrible at this."
"At what?"
"At small talk."
"I know."
She stepped closer. Her dress rustled against her legs, and the smell of her perfume—something floral, something light—mixed with the earth and the green.
"Then stop talking," she said.
He kissed her again.
Harder this time. Hungrier. His hands found her waist and pulled her against him, and she gasped into his mouth. Her body was warm and soft, and she fit against him like she'd always been there, like they'd been doing this for years.
He walked her backward, step by step, until her back hit the potting bench. She knocked over a trowel and it clattered to the floor, and neither of them cared.
"Ben," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He grabbed the hem of her dress and pushed it up, over her hips, over her stomach. She lifted her arms and he pulled it off entirely, tossing it onto a nearby shelf. She was wearing black panties and a black bra, simple and sleek, and he stopped for a moment just to look at her.
"God," he said.
"What?"
"You're beautiful."
"Tell me something I don't know."
He laughed. Then he hooked his fingers into her panties and pulled them down. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside, and now she was standing in front of him in nothing but her bra, her skin glowing in the lamplight.
He reached around and unhooked the bra. It fell away, and her breasts spilled free—full and round, her nipples already hard.
"Fuck," he said.
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
He bent down and took one nipple in his mouth. She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair, and he sucked hard, flicking his tongue against the tip.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes."
He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention—sucking, licking, biting just enough to make her moan. Her back arched against the potting bench, and her hips ground against his, and he could feel the heat coming off her, the wetness.
"You're so fucking wet," he said against her skin.
"How do you know?"
He slid his hand between her legs and felt it. Slick. Hot. Ready.
"Because this," he said, pushing two fingers inside her.
She cried out—a short, sharp sound—and clamped a hand over her own mouth.
"Quiet," he said. "They'll hear you."
"I know."
He pumped his fingers in and out, slow and deep, watching her face contort with pleasure. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and she was rocking against his hand, chasing something.
"You like that?" he said.
"Yes."
"You want more?"
"Yes."
He pulled his fingers out and dropped to his knees.
"What are you—"
He didn't answer. He just hooked her leg over his shoulder and buried his face between her thighs.
She tasted like everything—sweet and salty and raw. He licked up the length of her slit, and she shuddered, her hand flying to his head. He found her clit with his tongue and circled it, slow and torturous, then sucked it between his lips.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He worked her with his mouth, his tongue, his fingers. He pushed two fingers inside her while he sucked her clit, and she bucked against his face, her heels digging into his back.
She clamped a hand over her mouth and bit down on her own palm, and he heard the muffled sound of her scream.
"That's it," he said against her cunt. "Come for me."
She did.
Her whole body tensed, then released, and she came with a shuddering gasp, her thighs clamping around his ears. He kept licking her through it, softer now, gentler, until she pushed him away.
"Too much," she said. "Too much."
He stood up. His face was wet, and he wiped it with the back of his hand.
"Good?" he said.
"You know it was good."
"I like hearing it."
"It was good."
He grinned. Then he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down.
She looked at him—at his cock, hard and thick and already leaking—and her eyes widened.
"Jesus," she said.
"What?"
"You're—"
"I'm what?"
"Bigger than I expected."
"I get that a lot."
"Shut up."
He stepped closer, pressing her back against the potting bench. The wood was rough against her bare skin, but she didn't seem to care. She was looking at him with that challenge in her eyes, that hunger.
"Ready?" he said.
"Yes."
He grabbed her hips and lifted her onto the bench. The tomato plants rustled around them, and a pot tipped over somewhere, spilling dirt onto the floor.
He positioned himself at her entrance. Just the tip. Just enough to make her gasp.
"Please," she said.
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
He pushed inside her.
She was tight and wet and hot, and she took him in slowly, inch by inch, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
"Fuck," she said.
"Good?"
"Don't stop."
He didn't.
He pulled back and thrust in again, harder this time. The potting bench creaked beneath them, and somewhere in the greenhouse a sprinkler hissed, and he didn't care about any of it.
All he cared about was her. Her body. Her heat.
"You feel so good," he said.
"Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping."
He fucked her hard and fast, his hips slamming against hers, the sound of skin on skin filling the greenhouse. She grabbed the edge of the bench and held on, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream.
"You like that?" he said.
"Yes."
"You like my cock inside you?"
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I love it."
He reached up and grabbed her hair, pulling her head back. Not hard. Just enough to make her look at him.
"You're going to come for me again," he said.
"I don't know if I can."
"You can."
He adjusted his angle, driving up, hitting that spot that made her gasp. She clenched around him, and he knew she was close.
"Come on," he said. "Come for me."
"Ben—"
"Come."
She did.
Her body tightened around him, and she came with a cry she couldn't quite muffle, her nails digging into his shoulders. He felt it—the grip, the release—and he let go, spilling into her with a groan.
They stayed frozen for a long moment. Then he pulled out and she slumped back against the potting bench, her chest heaving.
"Holy shit," she said.
"Yeah."
He pulled up his jeans. She found her dress and pulled it on, her hands shaking.
"We should get back," she said.
"Yeah."
"They'll wonder where we went."
"Yeah."
She looked at him. Her hair was a mess, and her lips were swollen, and there was a mark on her neck that would be difficult to explain.
"Ben," she said.
"Yeah?"
"That was—"
"I know."
She smiled. Slow and crooked.
"I want to do it again."
He laughed. "Now?"
"Later. After cake."
"There's no more cake."
"Then after whatever comes next."
He stepped closer and kissed her. Soft this time. Gentle.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
They slipped out of the greenhouse and back into the night. The cabin glowed warm in the distance, and the music had shifted to something slow, something sad, something that made Ben's chest ache in a way he didn't want to examine.
Rachel took his hand.
"What are you thinking?" she said.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
He looked at her. At her dark eyes, her wide mouth, her hand in his.
"I'm thinking," he said slowly, "that I don't want tonight to end."
She squeezed his hand.
"It doesn't have to."
They walked back toward the cabin, toward the light and the music and the small circle of people who'd gathered to celebrate something real. Ben didn't know what would happen next—tomorrow, next week, next year. He didn't know if Rachel would be part of his life or just a memory.
But tonight, he had this.
And that was enough.
They stepped onto the porch and into the warm glow of the string lights. Anna looked up from where she was sitting with Jordan, her eyes sharp and knowing.
"Where'd you two go?" she said.
"Just for a walk," Rachel said.
"A walk."
"Fresh air."
"Uh-huh."
Jordan laughed. "Leave them alone."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "I'm just asking."
"You're interrogating."
"I'm being friendly."
"You're being nosy."
She swatted his arm. "Shut up."
Ben and Rachel sat down on the porch swing, not quite touching, and Maya handed them each a jar of whiskey. The fire crackled inside, and the playlist shifted again, and the night stretched out in front of them like a promise.
"You know," Rachel said quietly, "I wasn't expecting to meet anyone tonight."
"Neither was I."
"But here we are."
"Here we are."
She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, and he put his arm around her.
"Stay for breakfast," he said.
"Breakfast?"
"Jordan makes pancakes on Sundays. It's a thing."
"I don't know if I can stay."
"Then stay anyway."
She looked up at him. The string lights flickered in her eyes, and her mouth curved into a smile that made his heart stutter.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
He kissed her forehead and held her close, and the night went on around them—the fire, the music, the laughter of their friends.
Tomorrow, there would be pancakes and questions and perhaps a difficult goodbye.
But tonight, there was this.
And this was enough.