The strangest thing about the dream wasn’t that we got married.
It was how little my brain seemed to care about the wedding itself.
It skipped right past the ceremony and dropped me into the reception at B-Side downtown, as if, of course, that’s where we would end up.
And honestly, it made perfect sense.
It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t trying to be.
It just felt like us.
I remember walking in before everyone arrived. The lights were low, warm enough that the wood along the bar almost glowed amber. Records lined the shelves, old album art covered the walls, and somewhere in the background, Home Alone was playing on mute even though nobody was actually watching.
The room smelled like cedar and citrus from freshly cut garnishes, old vinyl jackets, and just enough smoke drifting in from the patio grill to remind you summer was in full swing.
Then I walked through the back doors.
The patio looked completely different and exactly the same. Café lights were strung everywhere, zig-zagging over the courtyard like little constellations. The trees were moving just enough to make them sway. There were wildflowers in old glass bottles on every picnic table.
Few things matched.
Which somehow made everything match.
Inside, there was shuffleboard, and every single person who walked through the door immediately insisted they were the best player there. My brother was talking trash to your brother despite having met him only a few days earlier. Your dad was somehow beating everyone while pretending he didn’t know the rules. Every time someone won, the entire place erupted like it was the championship match instead of two adults sliding pucks across waxed wood.
Outside, someone had set up cornhole. Someone else brought giant Jenga. Cards were spread across one table, and a couple of kids had invented a game that made absolutely no sense but somehow involved running laps around the patio every time someone lost at Connect Four.
Nobody had organized any of it.
It just happened.
The music was perfect.
Not wedding music.
Our music.
Bleachers. The Paper Kites. The Japanese House. A little Noah Kahan. The Lumineers.
Then somehow Creed showed up for exactly one song because apparently my subconscious still has a sense of humor.
People sang badly and loudly.
Exactly as they should.
And then you walked outside.
You weren’t wearing the wedding dress anymore. You’d changed into this ridiculously simple white dress that stopped just above your knees. No veil. Your hair was down and had gotten a little messy from hugging about a hundred people and dancing in the heat.
You had on white Keds because somewhere around hour three you’d decided there was absolutely no reason to keep pretending anything else was worth it.
They already had a giant grass stain on one toe. Which somehow made you even prettier.
You looked comfortable. Like you’d completely forgotten there had ever been cameras. You weren’t posing anymore.
You were just you.
You kept making little laps around the patio and bar, checking on everyone, stopping to laugh with your mom and dad, stealing fries off someone’s plate, getting distracted halfway through conversations because someone wanted to hug you.
Every single time I lost track of you, I found you again because I could hear your laugh before I could see you.
At one point, I found you sitting sideways on one of the Adirondack chairs with your feet tucked underneath you, your Keds hanging off your toes, listening to my daughter tell some story that had absolutely no ending.
You looked over.
Smiled.
Patted the empty chair beside you.
No words.
Just: Come here.
Later, the sun started disappearing behind the buildings, and that golden light settled over everything. The patio now smelled like fresh basil from someone’s cocktail, barbecue drifting in from the grill, and that faint dusty sweetness that only exists after a hot June day finally starts to cool.
Nobody wanted to go inside.
Nobody wanted to leave.
The air had that perfect evening temperature where everyone instinctively reached for a sweater but nobody actually put one on.
Someone started another shuffleboard tournament. The kids insisted it needed a bracket. Someone was accused of rigging it. Someone’s dad started laughing so hard he had to sit down.
At one point, you walked over, slipped your hand into mine, rested your head against my shoulder for maybe ten seconds, and quietly said, “This is exactly what I hoped it would feel like.”
You looked around at everyone laughing and arguing over shuffleboard, kids running around the patio, friends stealing each other’s drinks, music drifting through the open doors, and the lights overhead.
You smiled that tiny smile you get when you’re trying not to get emotional.
Then we slowly danced, watching everyone else.
And somehow, that was the best part.
Right before I woke up, I remember thinking something that felt so real it almost hurt. It wasn’t that the day was special in any particular way. It was that it somehow felt completely ordinary.
Like this was just another Saturday we’d get to remember.
The B Side Soundtrack
A little music for the moment.