Storm, Meet Raine

Epilogue.

HER.

A little after the boys started walking, I find myself walking down an aisle littered with red roses while holding a bouquet of red velvet dahlias and pale blue, nearly white hydrangeas. My face turns toward the light breeze when I glance over to the very front where my mother and her new best friend, Karlo, sit. Each of them held one of our babies. My mom with Cayden who laid back against her chest lazily and Karlo with Colton, who was grabbing a fistful of her hair while standing up in her lap.

     The boys are already turning into their own human beings instead of being alike as a set of twins. Cayden is definitely more laidback and go-with-the-flow while Colton is a little more rowdy, fidgety. He doesn't want to walk beside me whenever we let him down. He prefers to run all over the place. They both, however, have an affinity for looking at girls. While walking them around the neighborhood in their double stroller, girls—no matter age or race or clothing choice—if they have a cute face and nice body, the boys will both lift up in their seats to catch a glimpse.

     And it doesn't help that Carson fist bumps them whenever they do.

      I'm getting off topic. I'm walking down the aisle with my dad on my arm, feeling this weird kind of irony from Carson's uncle's wedding. Nearly three years ago we were walking down that aisle together, bickering and causing a scene because that's what we do together. Now, he's standing at the end, waiting for me, looking absolutely breathtaking in a suit. I don't think I'll ever get over him wearing a suit. It's just such a rarity. His big, toned, sexy body covered in fabric that fits nicely and looks expensive; looks like he actually put in effort to look good for me.

     Don't get me wrong, I adore the Carson that wears sweatpants and truly graphic t-shirts. I adore the messy, light brown bed hair and the tired, grey eyes with a hint of mischief behind them. But, whenever he's putting on something so troubling for him for me, it makes my heart do little backflips and flutter-kicks. He loves me. He's marrying me. He's got on a damn tuxedo for me. I bite back a smile as the song Best Part plays.

"You don't know, babe

When you hold me

And kiss me slowly

It's the sweetest thing..."

     I feel the tears begin to well up in my eyes because this part reminds me of all the times he's held me. Every single time he holds me, he does it with a purpose. Like the very first time we cuddled. How we were both so annoyed with each other that night but as soon as he pulled me closer to him, everything felt so much better. And God, those slow, dizzying kisses we share. It really is the sweetest thing.

"I just wanna see how beautiful you are

You know that I see it

I know you're a star

Where you go I follow

No matter how far..."

     The way his eyes shine in the sun, and the way he never looks anything short of gorgeous. When he's tired, he's beautiful—when he's angry, jealous, happy, loving, sad—he's just so pretty it's unreal. It's crazy because I know the song is supposed to reflect me as I walk down, but the song is how I feel for him. Other people may not think he's nice. They might think he's cocky, or an asshole, or rude, but he's a star. He's my star. Just like old travelers used the North Star, following it to guide them back home, I followed Carson. To his parent's house, to our temporary place in Texas, and I'll follow him to our house that we're designing together.

     My dad nudged me when we were halfway through. This freaking aisle felt like an eternity long conveyor belt. "Sure you don't wanna take the kids and run?"