Page 211 of The Exit Strategy

Katie: See? Fine.

Junie: Whittaker, you’d better be sleeping.

Cole: Sound asleep.

Junie: Liar. I can see the porch light over the marsh from Katie’s guest room.

I look up at the light burning brightly over my head and smile like an idiot.

Cole: You’re not home. Of course it’s on.

Junie: Five hours and fifty-six minutes.

Cole: I’ll be waiting.

By nine, the Boston boys remind me why I love them and also why prisons were built.

Fen has appointed himself Director of Ambiance and keeps radioing Stanley via military-grade walkie-talkiesabout the golf cart procession route. Hudson is steaming his suit and mine because he doesn’t trust anyone else to “get the details straight,” and there’s a legal pad on my kitchen counter with the headingObjections, Anticipatedthat I’m not asking about.

Nolan finds me in my office, fighting a losing battle with Papa’s cufflinks.

Six months ago, I probably would’ve fought those little bastards until my fingers bled before admitting defeat. Today, I simply hold out my hands like a toddler.

“Help?”

My friend smirks. “Look at you. Using your words like a big boy.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s been weird since kindergarten when Fen decided that we would all be marrying each other so we’d be stuck together forever.” He finishes the second cuff but doesn’t let go. His hand comes down on my shoulder instead, the weight of twenty-five years of friendship in it. “She’d have killed us both, you know. If we’d let you marry anyone else.”

“There was never going to be anyone else.”

His gaze softens as he nods. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? You would’ve rather died alone than try to replace her.”

“There is not, and never will be, a replacement for Junie, Nolan. My heart has always known that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “So does hers.”

“For what it’s worth,” Fen murmurs next to me. We’re standing on our porch with the lanterns at our backs, waiting for Junie to walk down the aisle. “I’m really fucking glad you learned how to stay.”

“Well, maybe you’ll find that running was never the solution to your problems. Maybe this time, you’ll learn how to stay.”

Fenway Jones has always liked bookends, and he just dropped one on my wedding day.

“Me too.”

Of all the ways things could have—and did—go sideways when he and Hudson dropped Junie off at my front door, learning to stay made it all worth it.

Hudson hands me some tissues. I nod in thanks as I tuck them into my pocket after wiping my left eye.

The list of things we don’t talk about now could fit on a Post-it note, and it’s another thing I’m thankful for.

Sweet peas in mason jars line the railings, steps, and the new dock because Nana Mae spent two weeks muttering that she wasn’t taking any chances with this wedding.

The Haven arrived in a procession of golf carts strung with lights, and now they all sit in white folding chairs, staring at me with emotion swimming in their eyes.

Nana Mae is in the front row, wearing her good cardigan and a new pearl pin that Junie bought for her.