One week.
That's all that stood between Violet and the day she would marry Adam Morgan under the orchard trees where their story had quietly taken root. One week until she stood barefoot in the grass, a borrowed lace veil in her hair, and said "I do" not just to him, but to every version of herself that had learned to stay.
But first—there was chaos.
The kind only a loving, slightly dysfunctional family could provide.
Her mother had turned their dining room into a sewing room, dress forms and fabric bolts colonizing every surface. Her father kept whittling heart-shaped trinkets and leaving them around the house like woodland breadcrumbs. Lucas had volunteered to make the cake and, after a trial run that ended in a frosting explosion, now insisted on professional oversight. Grace, naturally, had created a five-page checklist—half wedding prep, half emotional resilience plan.
And then there was Tessa.
"Are you absolutely certain," she asked one afternoon as she burst into The Hushed Hour holding a clipboard and two iced lattes, "that you don't want a last-minute flash mob?"
Violet didn't even look up from her receipt book. "Not unless it involves you and a kazoo solo."
Tessa looked delighted. "So you're saying there's a chance."
Despite the teasing, Violet was grateful. The bookstore buzzed with love and support. Elena had taken over the poetry display to create a "Love Stories" corner. Raj was crafting tiny herb sachets as wedding favors. Even Eleanor Morgan had sent a note wishing them joy and "quiet strength."
It was, unexpectedly, everything Violet had dreamed of—and a little more.
On Wednesday, Violet and Adam visited the orchard together to walk through the ceremony space. The clearing had been swept clean, chairs stacked under the old oak, and white ribbons fluttered from low branches. There were no grand arches or extravagant decor—just wildflowers and the hush of trees.
"I still can't believe we're doing this," Violet said, stepping barefoot into the grass.
Adam watched her, camera slung over his shoulder. "I can."
She turned, brow raised. "You've been that sure all along?"
"Since the first time I saw you help an elderly man choose a poetry book for his wife."
"That was your first clue?"
"That, and the way you shelved books alphabetically but denied it when I pointed it out."
She laughed. "I hated how right you were."
He took her hands. "I've always loved how right we are."
They walked the path from the back of the clearing to the circle where they'd exchange vows. Violet tried to imagine the chairs filled, the breeze stirring her veil, the hush before promises.
"Are you ready?" Adam asked.
"I am," she said. "But I'm terrified I'll cry through the entire thing."
"Good. I plan to cry enough for both of us."
By Friday, nerves began to rise.
It started with the weather report—forecasting possible rain.
Then the officiant they'd chosen, a kind local librarian, called to say she'd come down with the flu.
Then Lucas caught a cold and panicked about his ability to taste-test the cake.
"Call it off," he moaned dramatically from the bookstore couch. "I'm not fit for duty."
Violet covered him with a blanket. "You're not the bride, Lucas."
"But I am the heart of the frosting."
Grace brought in immunity teas and lavender oil. Tessa called in favors to find a backup officiant. Elena rewrote the ceremony script overnight to accommodate a shorter speech in case of rain.
And through it all, Violet held steady.
She hadn't always been this grounded, but Adam's presence—calm, present, unwavering—reminded her that the chaos was not the story. They were.
That night, she sat alone in the bookstore with the lights dimmed and only the hum of the old heater for company. On the counter sat a small box—Adam's wedding gift. She wasn't supposed to open it until morning.
She did anyway.
Inside was a photo album. Hand-bound, leather-spined, each page a different moment: their first coffee, the bookstore window, the orchard in the snow, the open mic night. Beside each photo, Adam had written a single sentence.
Page one: "I stayed."
Page two: "You stayed."
Page three: "We built this."
She ran her fingers across the final image: their hands tangled in a sunbeam.
She closed the book, heart so full she could barely breathe.
The morning of the wedding dawned clear.
No rain. No wind. Just sun breaking through orchard leaves and the promise of yes.
Violet stood in the makeshift bridal space—Tessa's grandmother's greenhouse—while Grace adjusted her veil and Elena handed her a bouquet of wildflowers.
"You ready?" Grace whispered.
Violet smiled. "I've never been more."
And with bare feet and trembling hands, she stepped out into the light, toward Adam, toward forever.
The chapters had brought her here.
The rest—they'd write together.