Emmett and I agreed early on to a compromise. Tonight was his idea.

One night, months ago, he returned from work to find me in the kitchen. I was standing frozen in front of our dining table, the antique wood covered in a mess of papers, swatches, sample booklets, and inspiration boards, all of it spread out in a heap in front of me. My to-do list was a mile long. It seemed like every few minutes my phone would ring with yet another question. What kind of accent flowers do we want to have on the reception tables? Are we doing cream tablecloths or ivory? Vintage white chairs or classic white chairs during the cocktail hour? Would we prefer passed hors d'oeuvres or a grazing table? A string quartet? A DJ?

Emmett walked up behind me, wrapped his arms around my body, and forced me to loosen my grip on a linen sample.

“This is maddening,” I told him. “I don’t want any of this.”

“I don’t either.”

“So then why are we doing it?”

He turned me slowly, bending to meet my eyes. He gave me no answer because he didn’t need to. He knew my feelings about the wedding, and he agreed. While it wasn’t our cup of tea, it was something my grandmother and his papa desperately wanted. And to be fair, I wasn’t against it completely; I was just too overwhelmed in that moment to remember my motives.

Emmett tugged me forward, though at first, I didn’t budge. His smile turned teasing, and eventually I relented, letting him pull me flat against him. I inhaled the scent of his cologne on his sweater and he bent to kiss my hair.

“Why don’t we return to where it all began and elope before the wedding? Just you and me.”

And so here we are cast in moonlight as Emmett slips my ring out of his pocket. While he holds it out just in front of my left ring finger, he looks into my eyes and tells me his promises of enduring love, of caring for me in sickness and in health, of forsaking all others and standing resolutely by my side until death do us part.

Then he moves the heavy oval diamond up and over my knuckle; it’s a perfect fit.

By contrast, my vows are near whispers. I don’t trust my voice to keep from shaking with emotion, but Emmett keeps ahold of my hands, squeezing them with reassurance.

When I’m done, I slip his gold band onto his finger, and then he cups my face and tilts it up as he kisses me with every ounce of love he has.

In Paris, we’ll kiss again up on the altar while our guests cheer us on excitedly, but out here, the moon and the lake and the pine trees are our only witnesses.

We’re married.

“It’s time for a dance,” he tells me.

On the end of the dock, Emmett leads me in our first dance as he softly hums the romantic tune of La Vie En Rose. We slowly sway together, my roses resting at our feet. He translated the lyrics of the song to me once while we lay in bed together. He told me I am his rose, he said being with me gives his life a pink hue, just like in the song.