The invitation arrived in a plain white envelope with no return address. Inside, a single sheet of thick cotton paper, handwriting in black ink that looked like it had been pressed with a fountain pen:
You are cordially summoned
to witness the union
of Nova Reyes and Elara Quinn
on the rooftop where it began
Saturday, the twenty-second of June
at sunset
Dress code: whatever makes you feel like yourself
Bring nothing but your heart
(and maybe a jacket)
No RSVP. No registry. No plus-ones required. Just a date, a time, and the address of Hawthorne Hall.
They had mailed fifty of them. Handwritten. Sealed with red wax stamped with a tiny camera lens. Some went to family, some to professors, some to the barista who always drew hearts in their lattes. Miss Connie got the first one. Abuela got hers with a plane ticket tucked inside.
The wedding had not been planned. It had happened in pieces.
It started with the rings. The gold bands were wearing thin from constant touch. One night in March, Nova came home from a site visit with dirt under her nails and a velvet box in her pocket. Inside: two new rings, white gold with a thin line of black diamonds that looked like exposed film negatives.
"For when we make it official," she said, voice shaking.
Elara cried so hard she couldn't get the words out. She just nodded and kissed Nova until the box fell to the floor.
Then came the dress. Elara found it in a vintage shop in the arts district: black lace over nude lining, high neck, long sleeves, slit up to there. It looked like a darkroom negative of a wedding dress. She bought it without trying it on. When she did, in the apartment mirror, Nova walked in, dropped her bag, and fucked her against the wall without taking it off. The lace tore at the shoulder. They left it that way.
Nova chose a suit. Deep green velvet, tailored sharply, with a black silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the scar on her sternum. Elara saw it hanging in the closet and immediately got on her knees.
The rooftop needed permits. They bribed the new security guard with prints from Elara's senior show. He cried when he saw one of his daughters. Permit granted.
Abuela and Elara's aunt took over catering. They argued for three weeks about the menu, then combined forces: arroz con gandules with gochujang, pernil glazed in sesame, kimchi deviled eggs, and flan with matcha. They tested recipes in the tiny apartment kitchen until the whole building smelled like love and garlic.
Miss Connie officiated. She got ordained online for twelve dollars and a bottle of gin.
The week before, panic set in.
Elara couldn't sleep. "What if no one comes? What if everyone comes? What if I trip? What if the rings fall off the roof?"
Nova held her through the nights, fingers inside slow and steady, whispering "breathe with me" until Elara came shaking and quiet.
Nova had her own meltdown two days before. She sat on the fire escape smoking a joint Elara didn't know she had, staring at the city as it might swallow her.
"I'm twenty-two," she said when Elara found her. "I'm supposed to be figuring out taxes, not vows."
Elara took the joint, inhaled, and passed it back. "We figured out love at nineteen. Taxes are easier."
They made love on the fire escape, slow and filthy, city noise covering moans, rings catching streetlight.
The day arrived perfectly. Eighty-two degrees, breeze off the river, sky the colour of Nova's suit.
Guests trickled up the fire escape starting at six. The queer club kids in sequins and combat boots. Professors in linen. The barista with a tray of lattes. Jett is on her bike, helmet under her arm. Family last: abuela in a dress the colour of mango flesh, Elara's aunt in hanbok-inspired silk.
Flash, the cat, wore a tiny bow tie and refused to leave the carrier.
They had no aisle. Just a circle of chairs around a blanket spread with fairy lights and the original grape ring pop, preserved in resin like a relic.
Miss Connie stood in the centre in a silver caftan, voice booming without a mic.
"We are gathered on this roof, where these two idiots got engaged on a candy ring during a snowstorm, to make it legal. Or as legal as love ever gets."
Laughter rippled.
No one walked anyone down anything. They entered together from opposite sides, met in the middle, hands linked.
Elara in the torn black lace. Nova in green velvet. Rings are already on fingers because they never took them off.
Miss Connie grinned. "Vows. Keep it short or I'll charge overtime."
Nova first.
"I thought love would slow me down. You made me faster. You made me stop when I needed to breathe. You made me run toward something instead of away. I choose you every day I wake up. I'll choose you every day I don't. You are my finish line and my starting gun."
Elara's turn. Voice steady even though her knees shook.
"You are the safelight that lets me see in the dark. Every photo I take has your name in the negative. I used to think permanence was a lie. You proved it's a choice. I choose you. In every light. In every storm. In every life after this one."
Rings exchanged anyway. The new ones are over the old ones, because some things stack instead of replacing.
Miss Connie raised her arms. "By the power vested in me by the internet and too much gin, I pronounce you wives. Kiss before someone changes their mind."
They kissed. Slow. Deep. Hands fisted in fabric. Cheers exploded. Someone popped a champagne. Flash yowled.
Reception was chaos and joy. Folding tables on the gravel. Food passwas ed family-style. Abuela and auntAuntuare ing over who made the better rice while feeding each other bites.
Dancing started when Jett plugged her phone into a portable speaker. Old lesbian anthems. Slow songs. Fast songs. Nova and Elara in the centre, foreheads touching, rings catching fairy lights.
Later, when the sky went indigo, they slipped away to the corner where the grape proposal happened. Snow long gone, but the memory warm.
Nova pressed Elara to the ledge, hands under lace, fingers slipping inside. "Wife."
Elara gasped, rocked against her hand. "Wife."
They came together, quiet under the noise, city lights witnessing again.
Back to the party. Cake: mango and matcha layers, slightly lopsided, made by the barista. They smeared it on each other's faces, licked it off slowly while everyone cheered.
Last dance. Miss Connie dedicated it to "the girls who started with stolen fruit and ended with forever."
They swayed, barefoot on gravel, dress and suit rumpled, rings heavy and perfect.
Guests left in waves. Family to hotels. Friends to after-after-parties.
They stayed on the roof until dawn, blanket wrapped around shoulders, Flash purring between them.
Nova whispered, "We did it."
Elara kissed her slowly. "We're just getting started."
They made love one more time on the rooftop, blanket beneath them, sky turning pink above. Slow. Face to face. Rings clinking with every movement. Came whispering Mrs Reyes-Quinn into each other's mouths.
Carried Flash down the fire escape as the sun rose.
Back in the apartment that was finally, officially, theirs forever.
The wedding wasn't planned.
It was developed in the dark, one exposure at a time.
And it came out perfect.