Chapter 142 Planning Different

Chapter 142 Planning Different
DANIEL POV
Wedding planning is nothing like the first time, and that's exactly the point, the entire reason we're doing this again, doing it right, doing it ours.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table with a legal pad covered in Amelia's handwriting, notes and crossed-out ideas and little doodles in the margins, and every detail feels intentional instead of obligatory. Twenty guests maximum because we want people who actually matter, not a ballroom full of business contacts and social climbers who couldn't care less about us.
"Beach ceremony at sunset," Amelia says, adding it to the list. "Barefoot in the sand."
I watch her write, the ring I gave her catches the afternoon light, and something in my chest loosens at how simple this all is. "Will Harper photograph?"
"Obviously. She's already making lists." Amelia grins and shows me her phone where Harper has sent approximately seventeen text messages about lighting and angles and how we need to do an engagement shoot before the wedding.
"Tell her we're not doing an engagement shoot," I say, but I'm laughing because Harper's enthusiasm is contagious.
Amelia types a response, then sets her phone down and reaches across the table for my hand. "Oliver gets ordained online. I already checked, it's legal in Florida."
"He's going to take it way too seriously," I predict, but the thought of my brother marrying us feels right in a way the impersonal judge at our first wedding never did.
"That's what makes it perfect," Amelia says. "He cares about us. About this."
We spend the afternoon making calls and checking off items, and every conversation reinforces that we're building something real instead of performing for an audience. Nathan agrees to be the best man with the caveat that he might be too sleep-deprived to remember his own name, and Harper insists on being maid of honor while simultaneously managing all the photography.
When Amelia calls her mother, she cries happy tears that soak through the phone, and her voice shakes when she tells us how proud she is, how much she loves us both, how she wants to help with every single detail.
"We're keeping it simple, Mom," Amelia told her gently. "Small and intimate. Nothing elaborate."
"That's perfect," Evelyn says, sniffling. "That's exactly what it should be. What can I do? Please let me help somehow."
Amelia starts discussing flowers and cake options, their voices animated and warm, and I lean back in my chair just watching, marveling at how different this feels from three years ago when every decision was a battlefield.
Even Beatrice—my mum, when I force myself to call her out of obligation, offers a good congratulation. "I'll attend, of course," she says in that clipped tone that means she's processing emotions she doesn't know how to express. "Let me know the details."
"It's going to be small," I warned her. "Very casual. Beach ceremony, no formal reception."
"I understand," she says, and then, after a pause, "I'm glad you're doing this differently, Daniel. It's good."
I hang up feeling like maybe, possibly, my own mum is capable of growth after all, and Amelia sees my expression and raises an eyebrow.
"That went better than expected?"
"Shockingly better," I admit. "She's actually coming and didn't lecture me about proper wedding venues."
The next day we go shopping, and Amelia finds a simple white dress at a local boutique, flowing and comfortable and nothing like the elaborate designer gown Beatrice chose for her first wedding. She tries it on and comes out of the dressing room looking nervous, and I forget how to breathe for a second.
"It's too simple," she says, turning to see the back in the mirror. "Maybe I should look at something more formal."
"It's perfect," I tell her, standing up and crossing to her. "You're perfect."
She meets my eyes in the mirror, searching for truth, and whatever she sees there makes her smile. "Okay. This one then."
I find linen pants and a white shirt at the men's store next door, casual enough for a beach wedding but still nice enough to feel like the occasion matters, and when we get home and hang everything in the closet, seeing them side by side makes it all feel real.
We spend evenings on the porch crafting our vows, sitting in the swing with notebooks and pens, trying to find words big enough to hold everything we've survived and everything we're promising. Amelia keeps crossing things out and starting over, her face scrunched in concentration.
"What are you going to say?" she asks one night, looking up from her notebook.
I set mine down and looked at her in the fading light, this woman who saved me from myself without even trying. "The truth. That I'll spend the rest of my life being worthy of you."
Her eyes fill with tears, but she's smiling. "You already are, you know. Worthy."
"Then I'll spend the rest of my life proving I know it," I amend, and she laughs and kisses me, tasting like the mint tea she's been drinking.
One week before the wedding, Oliver calls at midnight, waking us both from sleep, and I answer with my heart pounding because middle-of-the-night calls still trigger panic responses we haven't fully unlearned.
"Are you nervous?" he asks without preamble.
I sat up in bed, Amelia stirring beside me. "It's midnight, Oliver."
"I know, but I was thinking about the ceremony and I realized I don't know if you're nervous and I should probably know that before I marry you two."
Despite the hour and the adrenaline still coursing through me, I smiled. "Terrified."
"Of marrying her?" Oliver's voice goes sharp with concern.
"No," I say quickly. "Not of marrying her. Of somehow screwing this up. Of not being worthy."
Amelia props herself up on one elbow, listening, and I reach for her hand automatically.
Oliver's quiet for a moment, then his voice comes back steady and sure. "You already did the hard part, brother. You became worthy. Now just show up and choose her."
The words settle over me like a benediction, simple and true, and I look at Amelia in the darkness, her eyes reflecting the moonlight streaming through our window.
"Every day," I tell Oliver, but I'm looking at her. "For the rest of my life."
"That's what I thought," Oliver says, satisfaction in his voice. "Go back to sleep. I'll see you at the rehearsal."
He hangs up, and I set the phone down, pulling Amelia closer until she's tucked against my chest, her head resting over my heart.
"Every day?" she whispers.
"Every single day," I promise. "No matter what."
The week passes in a blur of final preparations and excited phone calls and moments of quiet disbelief that this is actually happening. Harper arrives three days before the wedding with enough camera equipment to photograph a royal coronation, and she takes over our guest room like a benevolent whirlwind.
Beatrice shows up two days before with homemade food and nervous energy, fussing over details that are already handled but needing to feel useful. We let her because her joy is genuine, and her love is unconditional, and having her here feels right.
The night before the wedding, I can't sleep, so I slip out of bed and go to the kitchen where I find Amelia already there, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and her notebook open.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I ask, and she shakes her head.
"Too excited. Too nervous. Too everything."
I make my own tea and sit across from her, and we talk in whispers even though there's no one to wake, sharing fears and hopes and last-minute doubts that aren't really doubts at all, just the weight of choosing something this big.
"I keep thinking about the first wedding," Amelia admits. "How empty it felt. How wrong."
"This isn't that," I tell her firmly. "This is us choosing each other because we want to, because we can't imagine doing life without the other person."
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. "I know. That's what makes it so overwhelming. It matters this time."
"It always matters," I say. "We just didn't know."