Then he asked me to marry him again. I pulled him to his feet.
“Yes,” I said. “But you are never leaving another gym note.”
He wrapped his arms around me as everyone applauded.
A resort officiant stepped onto the platform, and beneath the lights, Cris and I renewed the promises we had made twenty years before.
Then the music changed.
I immediately recognized our original wedding song.
Cris held out his hand.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
He led me onto the small dance floor.
At first, I waited for him to stumble. Instead, he stepped back carefully, turned me, and caught my hand at exactly the right moment.
His movements were not perfect, but they were confident.
Then came the second turn—the one Stormy said he had struggled with all week.
Cris guided me through it perfectly and pulled me back into his arms.
Stormy cheered. Our daughter clapped above her head.
“Not bad for a man with a beer belly,” Cris whispered.
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
He laughed and kissed my forehead.
I had spent our final night preparing for the end of our marriage. Instead, I watched my husband complete the dance he had refused to begin twenty years earlier.
This time, he did not step on my dress.
This time, he remembered every turn.
And when the song ended, he was still holding me.
