Travis Parker and Something Real

Obligatory Disclaimer (Because Apparently We Can't Have Nice Things)

Everyone in "Something Real" is 18 years or older. Fully grown. Emotionally questionable at times, but legally adults. If you're looking for drama involving minors, congratulations--you're in the wrong story and you should probably rethink some life choices.

Also, don't steal this story. Seriously. If you do, I hope you step on every LEGO ever manufactured, barefoot, at three in the morning, while carrying a plate of nachos you just made. And no, I will not feel bad. I spent too many nights arguing with imaginary people in my head to have someone else slap their name on it like they invented storytelling.

Enjoy the story. Respect the hustle. Don't be a goblin.

PSA: If you're hunting for graphic sex scenes, you took a wrong turn somewhere. Something Real is about love after disaster, not lust after dinner. (Plenty of sarcasm, though. Free of charge.)

For those who missed the precursor story, Travis Parker vs. Not-Date Date, it's available here: .

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Name's Travis Parker. I used to think I had my life figured out--wife, kids, a steady job, a mortgage large enough to require its own zip code. Then Monica blew it all to hell with a guy named Big Rick (because apparently midlife crises come with bad nicknames now), and I found myself back at square one, wondering if the best parts of my life were already behind me. Somehow, my kids--Traci, Francis, and Beth--managed to hold the pieces together when I couldn't, proving they were tougher than I ever gave them credit for. And just when I'd decided maybe happy endings were for other people, Maggie walked in--smart, stubborn, and not afraid to call me on my crap. She made me believe that the light at the end of the tunnel wasn't just another train--it was a second chance. And this time, I wasn't about to miss it.

**************

Laundry is supposed to be one of those mindless, peaceful activities. You know, something soothing. Like zen meditation, except with the faint smell of fabric softener and the slow death of your will to live. I stood there at the foot of my bed, wrestling a fitted sheet like it was a live anaconda, while Maggie calmly folded towels like some kind of domestic goddess. I swear, fitted sheets are a government conspiracy. They can't be folded. They can only be beaten into a rough rectangle through sheer spite.

"This thing is fighting for its life," I muttered, trying to pin one corner without falling over. "Pretty sure if I fold it wrong, a black van pulls up outside and the Men in Black come to 'correct' me."

Maggie didn't even look up. "You know they make YouTube tutorials for that, right?"

"Yeah, and I believe in Bigfoot sightings more than those things working." I huffed and flailed again. "This is domestic terrorism."

She snorted softly, then, in that same deadpan voice she uses to recommend where to hide a body, said, "We should get married."

The pillowcase in my hands escaped like it had been waiting for the moment. It floated to the ground, landing with a humiliating little flop. I blinked at her, my brain flashing blue screen of death. Somewhere deep in my mind, a goat screamed. Also a siren. Maybe fireworks. Definitely the faint echo of Francis yelling "Don't panic!"

"You're serious?" I croaked, my mouth so dry it felt like I'd swallowed a box of crackers.

Maggie shrugged, folding another towel with infuriating ease. "Yeah. You're it for me. No grand speech, no flash mobs, no skywriting. Just... you and me. Simple."

I opened my mouth to say something--anything--but all that came out was a wheeze that might have been English in another life. I rubbed the back of my neck, searching her face for any sign she was joking. She wasn't. She looked at me like she had just asked if I wanted coffee. Comfortable. Certain.

"You sure?" I finally asked, my voice cracking like a nervous teenager at prom. "I mean... you do know you're proposing to the guy who just lost a wrestling match to a fitted sheet, right?"

"That just makes you relatable," she teased, giving me a sideways grin. "Plus, who else would let me win at Mario Kart and pretend I earned it?"

I laughed--actually laughed--and it broke through the static in my head. God help me, I loved her. And even though every survival instinct screamed Run!, I found myself stepping toward her instead.

"Okay," I said, a little breathless. "Yes. Let's get married."

Her grin widened, and before I knew it, we were laughing and hugging, right there in the middle of half-folded towels and weaponized pillowcases. Her arms wrapped around my neck, mine around her waist, and for a moment, everything--the fear, the past, the fitted sheet war--faded away.

"I should probably warn you," I said against her hair, "I fully intend to sneak bacon into the wedding menu."

She leaned back enough to look at me, eyes sparkling. "Travis, that was never in question. In fact, it's part of the appeal."

I kissed her forehead, feeling more grounded--and more free--than I had in years. "God help you," I muttered affectionately. "You're stuck with me now."

"Good," she said, tugging me closer. "That was the whole point."

We didn't talk much after I said yes. Not because there was nothing to say--God knows I had enough thoughts buzzing around my head to power a small city--but because somehow, it felt good just sitting there with her. No big plans, no spreadsheets, no pressure. Just two idiots in love, folding laundry and accidentally agreeing to upend their lives together.

Of course, the second the shock wore off and Maggie wandered into the kitchen to make coffee, reality hit me like a linebacker on payday. I was getting married. Again.

I paced the living room, hands stuffed in my pockets, trying to convince myself I was cool, calm, and collected. Instead, I looked like a man rehearsing for a very low-budget courtroom drama.

What was I supposed to say to the kids?

Hey, remember how you finally stopped flinching every time I looked happy? Surprise! Step-mom 2.0 incoming!

Maggie poked her head back around the corner, a mug in each hand, smiling that small, secret smile that always knocked my defenses flat. "You're thinking too hard again," she said knowingly.

I caught one of the mugs she tossed me and grunted. "It's not thinking. It's... strategic pre-worrying. Totally different."

She laughed and sat cross-legged on the couch, motioning for me to join her. "We'll tell them together," she said, simple and sure. "No drama. No speeches. Just honest. They love you. They'll get it... eventually."

I sat down beside her, feeling the caffeine start to work its way into my bloodstream. I wasn't sure if she was right. I wasn't sure about anything, really. Except for one thing: if I had to brave the fire again, I couldn't think of anyone else I'd rather walk into it with.

"Tomorrow," I said finally, lifting my mug in a solemn toast. "We tell them tomorrow."

Maggie clinked her mug against mine and smiled. "Tomorrow," she agreed. And just like that, the impossible didn't seem so impossible anymore.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself right up until morning hit me like a tax audit wrapped in a hangover. I barely slept--mostly because my brain decided 3 a. m. was the perfect time to stage a full-blown anxiety parade. By the time we slid into the diner booth, I wasn't even sure if I was nervous or just running on pure existential dread and weak coffee fumes.

I stirred my coffee for the third time, buying myself a few more precious seconds of peace before detonating the brunch bomb. Across the table, Beth was scrolling on her phone, Francis was inhaling an omelet like it owed him money, and Traci was sipping her black coffee with the same grim seriousness you usually see right before someone issues a formal declaration of war. Maggie sat next to me, completely calm, like a commander about to unleash chaos on an unsuspecting village.

I cleared my throat. "So... Maggie and I have some news."

Beth's head snapped up instantly, the phone forgotten. "You're pregnant!" she shrieked so loudly half the restaurant turned to stare.

Maggie nearly snorted her mimosa up her nose. I choked on my coffee. "No! God, no. Jesus, Beth, why would that be your first guess?"

Beth just grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Well, you're that age, Dad."

Francis leaned back in his chair, grinning like he already knew. "You're getting married, aren't you?" He held out his fist without waiting for confirmation. "Congrats, old man."

I bumped his fist, shaking my head in disbelief. "You couldn't let me have the moment, huh? Had to spoil the reveal?"

Traci, on the other hand, looked like she had just bitten into a lemon dipped in vinegar. She stared at me, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. "Really?" she said, the word coming out like a legal objection.

Beth, ignoring her sister's growing storm cloud of disapproval, clapped her hands together. "I'm helping with the wedding planning. Non-negotiable. I'm thinking a rustic-chic theme with fairy lights, lots of greenery--maybe a champagne wall?"

Francis piped up through a mouthful of potatoes. "Or--and hear me out--you replace the vows with a lightsaber duel. First one to disarm the other wins."

Maggie, watching all of this unfold with the serene satisfaction of a general whose troops had gone rogue exactly as planned, sipped her drink and murmured, "Told you they'd take it well."

As the chaos continued--Beth was now threatening to color-code the entire reception, Francis was looking up "legitimate officiants who also do magic tricks"--I caught Traci's eye across the table. She wasn't laughing. Wasn't even pretending. Just quietly pushing her scrambled eggs around her plate like they were responsible for every bad thing that had ever happened to her.

I waited until Beth was sketching wedding layouts on a napkin and Francis was too busy ranking Star Wars duelists, then leaned over toward Traci. Kept my voice low. "Hey, can we talk for a second? Just you and me?"

She hesitated, her fork pausing mid-scrape. For a second, I thought she might blow me off completely. But after a long beat, she nodded stiffly and slid out of the booth, grabbing her coffee like it was a shield.

I followed her toward the patio outside, heart hammering harder than it should have. This wasn't a casual 'So, what do you think about cake flavors?' chat. This was a 'Please don't hate me for moving on' conversation. One I wasn't sure I was ready for--but one I knew we both needed.

Behind us, Maggie gave me the smallest nod. I think it was supposed to be reassuring. Mostly it just felt like she was sending me off to fight a dragon with a butter knife.

Deep breath, Parker. Time to face the hard part.

The patio was quiet, just a few stray tables and the low hum of traffic beyond the fence. Traci picked a table in the farthest corner like she was minimizing the risk of friendly fire. She sat, arms crossed over her chest, coffee cradled like a weapon she might deploy at any second.

I sat down across from her, leaning my elbows on the table, trying not to look like a guy gearing up for battle.

For a minute, we just sat there, the silence stretching, heavy and uncomfortable. I finally cleared my throat. "Look, Traci... I get it. This is fast. It's a lot."

She stared at her coffee, her jaw tight. "It's not that you're dating again," she said after a beat. "Honestly, you deserve to be happy. God knows you spent enough years trying to survive Mom." Her voice cracked a little, and she shook her head. "But marriage? After everything? It just feels like you're rushing into something because you want to fix... all of it."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she lifted a hand to stop me. "I'm not saying Maggie isn't good for you. She probably is. But if it goes south... I can't promise I'll be around to watch it happen again." Her voice was tight, almost trembling. "I barely held it together last time."

Hearing that gutted me more than I expected. I reached across the table, palm up, offering--not grabbing. Just there if she wanted it. "I would never ask you to stay if it hurt you, Traci. You have every right to protect yourself." I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. "Hell, half the time I don't know how you managed to hold us all together when everything blew up. You were stronger than I ever was. You gave me strength when I didn't think I had any left."

For the first time, her eyes met mine. And there it was--the hurt, the love, the stubbornness I knew better than anyone. My kid. My fighter.

"You don't owe me anything," I said quietly. "Not now. Not ever."

She blinked fast, then set her coffee down with a soft thud and stood up. For a terrifying second, I thought she was walking away. Instead, she circled the table, hesitated, and then wrapped her arms around my shoulders in a tight, fierce hug. "I'm still standing with you," she mumbled into my neck. "Just... don't make me watch you break again, okay?"

I hugged her back just as tightly. "Deal, kiddo," I whispered. "Deal."

As I sat there, feeling the weight of her hug still lingering on my shoulders, I realized something I should've seen a long time ago. Traci wasn't just surviving the wreckage--we all were. She grew stronger in the fire while I was still picking ash out of my teeth. And maybe that was the hardest part about moving forward with Maggie. It wasn't just about trusting myself to get it right this time. It was about trusting that my kids--my stubborn, brilliant, battle-scarred kids--could heal too. Maybe even better than I ever could.

When I pushed the door open and stepped back into the warm noise of the restaurant, it was like someone had turned the colors up a little brighter. Beth was waving her hands around in a passionate argument about floral centerpieces, Francis was trying to convince Maggie that "lightsaber officiants" were a legitimate wedding industry niche, and Maggie--God bless her--was just smiling like none of it scared her off. I didn't feel weighed down anymore. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn't dragging my past behind me like a busted anchor. I was just... here. Right where I was supposed to be.

Of course, that peaceful, grounded feeling lasted exactly three hours--right up until Beth declared we were going dress shopping and Maggie handed me a coffee like a man about to face a firing squad.

I have never seen so much lace outside of a haunted Victorian doll collection. It was everywhere--cascading from hangers, drooping over displays, even oozing from the ceiling like some aggressive Pinterest project gone feral. The boutique smelled faintly of desperation and overpriced dreams, and I was already calculating how many Advil it would take to survive the next two hours.

Beth was in her element, stalking the rows of dresses like a lioness hunting indecisive prey. "This one's nice!" she called, holding up something with enough sequins to be classified as a public safety hazard. Francis trailed behind her, hands jammed into his pockets, muttering under his breath, "I could be eating pancakes right now." He shot me a look that screamed You dragged me here. I will remember this betrayal.

Maggie, ever the calm eye of the tulle hurricane, held up a simple dress and glanced at me. "What about this one?"

I cleared my throat. "It's... very white." Brilliant analysis. Pulitzer-worthy, really. Francis snorted into his sleeve while Beth gave me a look like I'd just failed a basic humanity test.

"Try it," Beth demanded, shoving a second dress--this one bedazzled within an inch of its life--into Maggie's hands. "And this one too. For science."

Francis leaned closer to me and stage-whispered, "Science is a lie. This is fashion anarchy."

While Maggie disappeared into the dressing room, I collapsed onto a ridiculously pink velvet chair that looked like it had personally witnessed six hundred emotional breakdowns. Francis flopped into the chair next to mine and immediately pulled out his phone, possibly googling "How to fake a medical emergency in a bridal boutique."

Then the curtain pulled back, and Maggie stepped out.

All the sarcastic remarks died in my throat. She wore a sleek, simple dress that hugged her in all the right ways--elegant without trying too hard, timeless without feeling stiff. She shifted under the boutique lighting, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks.

"Well?" she asked, her voice light but--if you listened closely--just a little uncertain.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Closed it. Opened it again. "Wow," I finally managed, which felt wildly insufficient for how hard my heart was currently trying to beat its way out of my chest.

Beth gasped dramatically. "Holy crap, Dad! That's your 'I'm having an emotional moment but pretending I'm chill' face."

Maggie grinned at me, one eyebrow arched. "High praise?"

I stood up, still stunned. "You look..." I shook my head helplessly, feeling like words were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. "You look perfect, Mags."

Francis leaned toward Beth and mock-whispered, "Should we get the tissues now, or wait until he full-on cries when they swipe the credit card?"

"Shut up," I muttered, but I was smiling. Smiling like an idiot who knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was the luckiest damn man alive.

The first time I did this--wedding, marriage, all of it--I remember feeling like I was racing a clock I didn't set. Like I was ticking boxes because that's what you were supposed to do: meet someone, settle down, shut up about it. This... standing there, watching Maggie smile at me like she knew exactly who I was and still wanted this life with me? It didn't feel like running out of time. It felt like finally starting it.

It figured that right when my heart was full, my kids were ready with battle plans for turning the wedding into a three-ring circus--and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Beth practically slammed her notebook down on the tiny boutique table like she was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "First option: Galactic Battle Royale. Think laser swords, metallic tuxes, maybe even a fog machine during the vows."

Francis nodded solemnly, like a man who had witnessed true genius. "And we can train a hawk to deliver the rings. Very medieval. Very majestic."

I leaned back in my pink chair, giving Maggie a look that clearly said Save yourself. It's too late for me.

To my absolute horror--and maybe just a little pride--Maggie grinned and leaned into the chaos. "Counter offer," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Woodland Goblin Aesthetic. Everyone gets fake ears and questionable fashion choices. Travis gets to carry a sword."

Beth gasped. "A wedding AND cosplay? Mom would die."

Francis nodded. "Better. Dad might."

Maggie laughed, but then her smile softened. "Or," she said, setting the fake notebook aside, "we could just do something simple. Us. Family. Friends. No goblins. No hawks. Just... real."

For a second, even Beth--high priestess of chaos--looked thoughtful. Francis shrugged and said, "Yeah. That actually sounds pretty good."

I looked around the table at the three people who somehow, against all odds, made my messy life feel whole again, and nodded. "Simple sounds perfect."

Turns out, the only thing I ever needed was right in front of me--no grand gestures, no fireworks, just real love and the people who never gave up on me.

We didn't need fireworks or a thousand-dollar cake or a hawk in a tuxedo. We just needed each other--standing side by side, laughing through the awkward parts, holding steady when the nerves kicked in. As Beth and Francis launched into mock debates over who would cry first at the ceremony, and Maggie leaned into my side, smiling like we already had everything we needed, I knew this wasn't just another chapter starting. It was a whole new story. And this time, it was ours.

That night, curled up on the couch with Maggie's feet tucked under my leg and a wedding checklist abandoned on the coffee table, we started tossing around honeymoon ideas. You know--the usual: beaches, mountains, remote islands where no one knew your name or cared if you forgot to wear shoes to dinner.

"I'm thinking something romantic," I said, spinning a loose thread on her sweatshirt between my fingers. "Maybe someplace with hammocks. Sunsets. Limited witnesses if I accidentally fall asleep face-first into a daiquiri."

Maggie grinned without looking up from her phone. "Good. Because I already know exactly where I want to go."

Something about her voice made me pause. "Oh?" I said carefully. "Where?"

She set the phone down with a flourish, like she was laying down the winning card in a poker game. "Disney World."

I blinked. Then laughed. Then realized she wasn't joking. "You're serious."

"Dead serious," she said, beaming. "I've always wanted to go as an adult. No kids. No schedules. Just... us being idiots with Mickey ears and churros. Come on, Travis. It'll be fun."

I opened my mouth, ready to unleash a persuasive argument about literally anywhere else--somewhere with room service and no animatronic pirates trying to sell me fake treasure--but one look at her face and I knew I was sunk. She had that look. The I let you think you had a choice but you never really did look.

"Disney World it is," I muttered, already bracing myself for the inevitable humiliation. Maggie just laughed, curled deeper into my side, and whispered, "Best husband ever."

The night blurred into lazy kisses, tangled blankets, and a few whispered, half-serious arguments about which Disney ride we had to hit first. Sleep came sometime after midnight, heavy and easy in a way I hadn't felt in years. By morning, the real world came knocking--with bacon, bad decisions, and the sudden, horrifying realization that I had forgotten one very important detail.

I was halfway through a glorious, grease-dripping bite of bacon the next morning when it hit me like a freight train full of flaming circus clowns. I froze, fork in midair, chewing mechanically as panic bloomed somewhere behind my eyeballs. Had I told my parents? No. No, I had not. Somewhere between lace disasters, goblin-themed threats, and Maggie smiling at me like I hung the damn moon, I had completely forgotten.

I stared blankly at the kitchen wall, mentally calculating how fast I could book a witness protection plan. Maggie glanced up from her coffee, her eyebrow arching in that terrifyingly accurate way she does when she already knows the answer. "You forgot to tell your parents you're getting married, didn't you?"

I swallowed hard. "Define 'forgot.'"

Calling my parents was right up there with root canals and surprise tax audits on my list of favorite activities, but there I was, standing in the kitchen, phone in hand, dialing the number with all the enthusiasm of a man marching to the gallows. It only rang once before Dad picked up, voice as steady and booming as ever. "Well, if it isn't my second-favorite son," he said. "What's going on, kid?"

I cleared my throat. "So, uh... I have some news." I could already picture Dad leaning back in his chair, kicking his boots up like he was settling in for a good story. "Maggie and I... we're getting married."

There was a beat of silence--then Dad let out a sharp laugh. "About damn time! I like her. She's got more grit than you, and she doesn't let you get away with half your usual crap." He sounded genuinely happy, and for a second, some of the weight slid off my shoulders.

Of course, that's when Mom got on the line. "Travis Michael Parker," she said, her voice slicing clean through my brief moment of peace. "You're getting married? Already?" She didn't sound angry--just deeply, painfully skeptical in that special way only mothers can master.

"Mom, it's not 'already,'" I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "We've been together for a while now. It feels right." I could hear her huff on the other end, that slow, measured exhale that usually preceded a verbal dismantling. "You know I like Maggie," she said. "We both do. But you're the first Parker in five generations to get divorced. And now you're the first trying marriage again this soon. It's not a record we're particularly excited about extending."

I winced, because damn if she didn't have a point. "I know," I said quietly. "I'm not rushing this because I'm scared to be alone. I'm doing it because... because I'm finally with someone who makes all the broken pieces feel like they still fit somewhere. She doesn't fix me--she just... doesn't leave."

There was a long pause. Then Mom sighed, softer this time. "I just don't want you to get hurt again, baby." Her voice cracked, just a little, and somehow that hit harder than the lecture. "We're happy for you. Truly. But call your brother, too. He deserves to hear it from you, not secondhand from one of your kids posting about it online."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Yeah. I will," I promised. "Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad." I hung up feeling lighter, but also like someone had tightened the invisible tether connecting me back to the people who built me. They weren't saying don't be happy. They were just saying don't forget who you are while you chase it.

I sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Thomas's contact like it might bite me if I moved too fast. I'd called my parents, survived Mom's lecture, and now... now there was only one name left. My big brother. The golden child. The man who could give a TED Talk on stoicism and still somehow make you cry by the end of it. I was halfway through psyching myself up when Maggie wandered in, coffee mug in hand, catching the look on my face.

"You okay?" she asked, sliding into the chair across from me. She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle missing a few key pieces.

"Yeah," I lied, because that's what little brothers do. Then I caught myself, sighed, and added, "Just gotta call my brother. Tell him the news. He's... not gonna give me grief, exactly. He's just... Thomas."

Maggie frowned a little. "You don't talk about him much," she said gently. "What's he like?"

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a second, searching for the right words. "Thomas used to be the guy who had it all figured out. Successful CEO. Built his company from scratch. Had this... light about him, you know? Not flashy. Not arrogant. Just steady. Solid. He met Mary when his company hired her as a translator during a big deal they were working on in Hong Kong. She wasn't supposed to be anything more than a bridge between two boardrooms--but somehow, she became his whole damn world."

Maggie stayed quiet, listening the way she always did when something mattered.

"Mary was from Australia," I continued, my voice softening around the memory. "Sweet, funny, sharp as hell. They fell hard. Married within a year. You could tell, even if you were blind and deaf, how much he loved her. It was the kind of thing that made you feel two ways at once--like your heart grew just seeing it, and like you were missing something you didn't even know you needed." I cleared my throat, the ache slipping into my voice. "Then Mary got sick. Cancer. Came on fast. Aggressive. There wasn't a damn thing Thomas's money or success could do to stop it."

I rubbed my thumb over the edge of my phone, remembering. "After she passed, he took her back to Australia, like she'd asked. Buried her in her hometown, under this huge gum tree she loved. Then he just... stayed. Walked away from everything. His company, his penthouse, the life he built. Bought a little house a few miles from where she's buried. Spends his days taking care of the land, helping the local community... just being close to her."

Maggie reached across the table, lacing her fingers through mine. I squeezed her hand, feeling that familiar mix of awe and sadness that always came when I thought about Thomas and Mary. "I used to envy that love," I admitted quietly. "Not the ending. God, not the ending. But the way they were... the way they fought for each other. I wanted that. I think... I think I finally found a piece of it with you."

I sat there for a second, just holding Maggie's hand, feeling the weight of everything I'd just said settle between us. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added, "You know... Thomas and Mary, they're Traci's godparents."

Maggie's eyes widened slightly, her fingers tightening around mine. "Really?"

I nodded, smiling a little. "Yeah. We asked them not long after Traci was born. It just felt right. Thomas was always the steady hand I needed, and Mary..." I trailed off, exhaling slowly. "Mary couldn't have kids. It was one of the hardest things they went through together. So when Traci came along... it meant a lot to them. To us."

Maggie brushed her thumb over the back of my hand, silent but present in that way that made everything easier to say.

"Traci's middle name is Marie," I said, voice quieter now. "We gave her that name for Mary. A piece of her, you know? A way to say that even if Mary couldn't be a mom, she'd always be family."

Maggie blinked fast, her smile bittersweet. "That's beautiful, Travis."

"Yeah," I said, my throat thickening a little. "It was. It still is."

Maggie gave my hand one last squeeze and said softly, "All the more reason you should be the one to tell him, Travis. He deserves to hear it from you."

I nodded, swallowed hard, and before I could talk myself out of it, I hit call--because if anyone deserved the truth straight from me, it was Thomas.

Thomas picked up on the second ring, his voice as dry and steady as ever. "Took you long enough, little brother," he said, not bothering with hello. I smirked, leaning back in my chair. "Well, I was hoping to soften the blow with time and distance, but I see that's not gonna work." He made a low, amused sound--the Thomas equivalent of a belly laugh. "You're calling to tell me you're getting married," he said simply. "Traci already beat you to it."

I let my head thud back against the wall behind me. "Of course she did," I groaned. "Is there anything in my life I'm allowed to announce myself anymore?" Thomas chuckled, and it was the kind of sound that made me miss him a little more than I cared to admit. "Probably not," he said. "But for the record, I'm happy for you. Maggie sounds like good people." I smiled, feeling a little lighter. "She is. She really is."

There was a pause, long enough that I shifted a little in my seat. "Listen," I said, scratching the back of my neck. "If you wanted to come to the wedding... I'd love to have you there. No pressure. Just..." I let the sentence trail off, feeling stupid and hopeful all at once. Thomas was quiet for a second, then answered the way I knew he would. "I can't leave, Trav. I can't leave Mary." His voice was low, but not apologetic. Just a simple truth. "But I'll send a gift. Something that's useful, not decorative garbage."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, nodding even though he couldn't see it. "I get it," I said quietly. "Thanks, Thomas. Really. Means a lot just to hear your voice." There was a beat of silence that felt warm, not awkward. Then he said, "Be happy, Travis. Don't look back unless you have to." And with that, the call ended--not abruptly, not coldly, but clean and sure, the way Thomas always did everything.

When I set the phone down, Maggie was still sitting across from me, watching with something soft and understanding in her eyes. She didn't say anything, not right away. She just reached for my hand and laced our fingers together. And in that moment, I knew she understood--understood why Thomas had stayed behind, why he couldn't leave Mary even after everything. It wasn't about grief. It was about love--the kind that doesn't end just because someone's gone. The kind that stays, even when everything else moves on.

I wasn't chasing some fairytale--I just wanted Maggie to know, years from now, that when it came to loving her, I never flinched, never ran, and never once let go.

If nerves could physically choke a man, my tie would've finished me off about three minutes ago. I yanked at it for the fiftieth time, convinced it was tightening itself like some kind of cursed artifact. Francis smacked my hand away without looking up from his phone. "Stop strangling yourself, old man," he muttered. "You're getting married, not heading to a public execution."

"I dunno," I muttered back. "I've seen Maggie when someone double-books a hotel reservation. Feels about the same."

The small crowd of family and close friends settled into the rows of white chairs nestled among the flowers. The botanical garden smelled like spring had thrown a party and forgotten to clean up afterward--roses, lilacs, something aggressively lemon-scented. Maggie was still inside the main building, probably getting last-minute pep talks from Beth. Speaking of which, Beth came sprinting across the lawn, waving something shiny overhead like she was trying to signal a rescue chopper. "Found the rings! Crisis averted!"

Francis winced and muttered, "I was totally on my way to get those."

Beth snorted. "Sure you were, Mr. Best Man. Good thing one of us is carrying this team." She tossed the ring box to him. Francis bobbled it like a clumsy goalie before tucking it into his pocket with a sheepish shrug.

Before I could breathe a full sigh of relief, I spotted Traci lingering at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, wearing a look that could've curdled milk. I caught her eye and nodded toward a quieter path that led toward the trees. She hesitated--then followed.

We stopped beneath an old oak, the ceremony music soft and muffled behind us. She looked at me, chewing her bottom lip the way she used to when she was little and terrified of thunderstorms. "I'm scared, Dad," she said, voice raw. "What if it goes wrong again? What if you get hurt again?" Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her dress, restless and unsure. "I don't know if I can watch that happen a second time."

I knelt a little so I was eye level with her. "Traci," I said, steady and certain, "you don't have to carry that weight for me. You never did. You get to feel scared. You get to worry. But this--Maggie and me--it's different. I promise you, I'm not walking blind this time. And neither is she."

She blinked fast, like she was trying not to cry. Then, without warning, she threw her arms around me, squeezing hard. "If you screw this up," she muttered against my shoulder, "I'm still siding with Maggie."

I laughed, a choked, messy sound. "That's fair," I said, hugging her tighter. "Honestly, you should."

When the music shifted, signaling it was time, we walked back together. I took my place under the floral arch, hands finally steady, heart hammering not with fear, but something warmer, heavier. Maggie stepped into view, stunning in her simple dress, sunlight weaving gold into her hair.

As she reached me, she squeezed my fingers--tiny, private reassurance--and suddenly, I could breathe again.

When it came time for vows, I spoke first. Naturally. And somehow it came out sounding more like one of my rants than anything romantic: "I'm not promising to be perfect. You've seen me try to assemble IKEA furniture. You know what you're signing up for." Laughter rippled through the crowd. I smiled, but pressed on, voice thickening. "I'm promising to show up. To fight for us when it would be easier to quit. To make you laugh when you want to cry. To stand with you, even when the world doesn't make sense. To love you the way you deserve--not just today, but every messy, ridiculous day after."

Maggie smiled, tears bright in her eyes, and when she spoke, it wrecked me in the best way possible. "You're my chaos, Travis Parker. My anchor. My favorite argument, my safest place. I don't need perfect. I just need you--exactly as you are." She took a breath, her voice wobbling just a little. "I'm not promising a smooth road. But I promise you'll never walk it alone again."

And right there, standing under a sky so blue it hurt to look at, my chest squeezed so tight I knew I was done for. Tears burned behind my eyes. I cleared my throat and muttered, "Allergies," earning a soft chuckle from Maggie and a loud, obnoxious "Sure, Dad," from Francis somewhere in the front row.

As Maggie slid the ring onto my finger and smiled at me like I was the only man in the world who had ever gotten anything right, I realized something so simple it nearly knocked the breath out of me--this wasn't just a new beginning; it was the life I was always meant to find, standing here, messy and imperfect and real, in the middle of a garden that smelled like second chances.

The reception was small--just the people who mattered. Folding chairs and fairy lights strung through the trees, Beth taking a thousand blurry photos, Francis giving a toast that started strong and ended with him getting choked up and blaming "pollen." Traci, sitting at the corner table, watching with that wary, fragile hope she tried so hard to hide. Maggie danced with all three kids, one by one, her dress twirling, her laughter rising above the music like a promise that maybe, just maybe, this would all be okay.

I kept catching glimpses of her across the lawn--the way she tilted her head when she laughed, the way she knelt down to tie Beth's shoe, the way she somehow made every single person feel seen. God, I'd married her. I still couldn't believe it.

After a few lazy, perfect hours, people started packing up. Traci hugged me longer than usual. Francis punched my arm like affection hurt him. Beth made me swear not to lose the ring because, as she put it, "You're forgetful and emotional and prone to tragic soundtrack moments." Then they were waving goodbye, promises of seeing us when we got back hanging in the air like a second round of confetti.

By the time we reached the airport, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Maggie squeezed my hand as we dragged our suitcases toward the terminal, her Minnie Mouse carry-on rolling obediently behind her like a tiny, glittering sidekick. I was exhausted in the way you only get when your heart's been running a marathon your body can't quite keep up with.

We boarded the plane still in wedding clothes--wrinkled, a little disheveled, still laughing about Francis trying to "borrow" centerpieces for his apartment. Maggie fell asleep on my shoulder before we even reached cruising altitude, her hand tangled with mine, and I stared out the window at the night sky, feeling more grounded than I had in years.

The moment we stepped out of the rental car and into the blazing Florida sun, I knew I had made a tactical error of catastrophic proportions. Jeans. Actual, heavy, soul-crushing denim. Within thirty seconds, I could feel my dignity--and about a gallon of sweat--pooling around my ankles. Maggie, on the other hand, looked like she had just walked out of a Disney princess training montage: breezy sundress, sunglasses, and a pair of glittery Minnie Mouse ears perched proudly on her head.

"You look like you're starring in an allergy medication commercial," I muttered, tugging at my waistband in futility.

"And you," she said, grinning as she straightened her ears, "look like you lost a bet with humidity."

She plucked a pair of Mickey ears off a kiosk as we walked by and held them out to me with an expectant look. I took a cautious step back, like she was offering me a live grenade. "Not happening," I said. "I have to preserve what little street cred I have left."

Maggie pouted. Full lower lip, wide innocent eyes--the kind of look that could bring the toughest negotiator to his knees. "Please?" she asked sweetly, bouncing just a little on her toes. I sighed so hard I probably shifted the barometric pressure in the area, then snatched the ears out of her hand and jammed them onto my head.

"Congratulations," I grumbled. "I'm officially part of the happiest hostage situation on earth."

We hadn't made it ten steps before a woman hauling a group of about fifteen people in matching neon shirts barreled toward us, waving frantically. "There you are, Cousin Ted!" she cried, grabbing my arm and steering me into the center of their chaotic, sunburnt mass. Before I could protest, a dozen camera flashes went off.

Maggie barely contained her laughter, biting her lip so hard I thought she might sprain it. I smiled dutifully for the next round of pictures, resigning myself to my fate. If I was going to survive this day without spontaneously combusting from secondhand embarrassment, it was going to be on a strict diet of churros, sarcasm, and the faint, desperate hope that somewhere out there was an air-conditioned bar that served hard liquor inside a souvenir cup shaped like a castle.

It didn't stop there. Oh no. Maggie was in full Disney mode now--dragging me from ride to ride, clutching my hand like an overexcited five-year-old hopped up on cotton candy and dreams. Every photo op? She was there. Every snack stand? Sampled. Every street parade? Front row. I, on the other hand, was developing a unique survival system that involved selective hearing, strategic shade-hopping, and pretending the $8 churros counted as a balanced diet.

"Come on!" she chirped, yanking me toward another line that snaked across the sun-scorched pavement. "This one only has a 45-minute wait!"

"Only?" I croaked, dragging my jeans-clad legs behind her like I was on a forced march through the Sahara. "Babe, in 45 minutes I could start a small business. I could learn to whittle. I could possibly discover a cure for foot sweat."

She just laughed and looped her arm through mine. "You're whining, but you're still moving. That's love, Travis Parker."

I grunted, adjusting the Mickey ears I hadn't yet found the courage to rip off. Somewhere deep down--under the sarcasm, sweat, and creeping sunstroke--I knew she was right. It was love. The messy, ridiculous, sore-footed kind.

If I was going to survive this day without spontaneously combusting from secondhand embarrassment, it was going to be on a strict diet of churros, sarcasm, and the faint, desperate hope that somewhere out there was an air-conditioned bar that served hard liquor inside a souvenir cup shaped like a castle.

I should have known better. Truly. When Maggie pointed at It's a Small World and said, "Oh come on, it's a classic!" my instincts screamed flee. I hesitated on the dock, giving her a wary side-eye. "Classic," I repeated. "You know what else is a classic? The Titanic." She smacked my arm lightly and dragged me onto the boat before I could stage a proper protest.

At first, it was harmless enough. Dolls spun in synchronized terror, singing that relentless anthem of world unity. I leaned over and whispered, "Ten bucks says one of them blinks wrong and we're trapped in a horror movie." Maggie snorted, elbowing me in the ribs. "They're just dolls, Travis. Relax. Be culturally appreciative." I looked at the papier-mâché kangaroo wobbling violently on a spring. "I'm appreciating my impending nightmares, thanks."

We were about three verses deep when the boat suddenly jerked and... stopped. Right there, mid-scene, under a chorus of animatronic children singing like their lives depended on it.

The music didn't stop.

The dolls didn't stop.

Only the boat--and any last shred of my sanity--stopped.

I turned slowly to Maggie. "Day 14," I said in a dead, gravelly voice. "Still trapped. The dolls have unionized. I think the kangaroo's their ringleader."

Maggie lost it, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Tears started rolling down her cheeks. She wheezed out, "Should I start rationing the snacks?"

"We have no snacks!" I hissed, looking around like a prisoner assessing his cellmates. "It's just us, sugar water in the air, and them." I pointed at a group of particularly sinister-looking marionettes doing the can-can with dead eyes and forced smiles. "That one winked at me. I swear it."

She clutched my arm, practically vibrating with laughter. "If we don't make it... tell Francis he can have my record collection." I shook my head grimly. "Tell Francis he's the new head of the Resistance."

Finally--after what felt like a lifetime of emotional erosion--the boat jerked forward. I almost flung myself onto the dock the second we reached it. Tugging the Mickey ears off my sweaty head, I jabbed a finger back at the ride. "Never again," I declared, as if banishing a demon. "Boats. Ducks. Kids with water balloons. All dead to me now."

Maggie wiped her eyes, still laughing as she grabbed my hand. "You're such a drama queen," she teased.

"Survivalist," I corrected solemnly. "You don't survive Small World and walk away unchanged."

I glanced over at Maggie, still laughing, still somehow making even this ridiculous disaster feel like a memory worth keeping. And standing there, soaked in sweat, dignity shot to hell, smelling faintly of stale churros and bad decisions, it hit me harder than any Hallmark speech ever could--being stuck in doll hell with her was still better than most of my so-called best days when I was alone. No contest. Not even close.

We stumbled away from It's a Small World like two survivors of a minor but deeply traumatic natural disaster, weaving through the crowds in desperate search of shade, food, and whatever was left of our dignity. Maggie was still laughing every few steps, wiping tears from her eyes. I let her have it. She earned it. I was pretty sure at some point in that boat, I'd fully dissociated and started planning my escape route through Canada.

We hit a pretzel stand first--because trauma demands carbs--and Maggie insisted we "walk it off" through Adventureland. Walking it off turned into browsing pirate hats, getting fake-sword-challenged by a six-year-old, and a somehow serious discussion about whether we could pull off matching Buzz Lightyear backpacks. (Maggie: 100% yes. Me: 100% hiding behind a shrub.)

We even managed a relatively peaceful twenty minutes riding the carousel, which Maggie claimed was "therapeutic" and I claimed was "an existential metaphor for adult life," but honestly, by then I was too heat-stupid and churro-full to argue.

After another lap around the park--and one near-death experience involving an overeager dad with a double stroller--we finally found a patch of blessed shade near a fountain. Maggie flopped down onto the bench dramatically, fanning herself with a map. I followed, groaning like a man three decades older than I actually was.

"You know," Maggie said, tilting her head back to catch the tiniest hint of breeze, "I think we're killing this whole honeymoon thing."

"I think we're being killed by this honeymoon thing," I muttered, reaching for my water bottle like it contained actual salvation.

We were sitting under a merciful patch of shade, trying to rehydrate and emotionally recover from our brush with animatronic doom, when my phone buzzed. I wiped the sweat off my face and checked it. It was a text from Beth, complete with no fewer than six crying-laughing emojis. "Hope you guys warmed up your vocals! I entered you in the Disney Newlywed Karaoke Contest! Good luck, lovebirds!"

I stared at the message like it might physically bite me. "We have a problem," I said grimly. Maggie leaned over, reading the text over my shoulder. Instead of reacting like a sane person--with horror, dread, maybe a polite request for witness protection--her whole face lit up like she had just been gifted a lifetime supply of wine and spa days.

"Yes!" she squealed, bouncing in her seat. "This is going to be amazing!"

"Amazing is how people describe landing a plane safely," I muttered. "Not publicly dying of embarrassment in front of a guy in a foam mouse suit."

"You'll be fine," she said, grabbing my arm and tugging me to my feet. "It's not about being good. It's about being adorable! People love newlyweds who try their best." She paused, squeezing my hand with a wink. "And you, my love, look like a man who's about to try very hard."

Somehow, fifteen minutes later, we were standing on a brightly lit stage with Mickey Mouse himself clapping his giant foam hands in encouragement. The song choice? "A Whole New World." Because life clearly hadn't humiliated me enough today. As the intro music kicked in, Maggie gave me a mischievous grin. "Don't worry," she whispered. "Just follow my lead."

The music swelled--and Maggie dove in with full Disney Princess energy. I, on the other hand, blanked completely on the lyrics about two lines in. Panicking, I decided that if I couldn't remember the words, I'd at least commit to the performance. I started miming flying a magic carpet, dramatically steering left and right. A kid in the front row yelled, "Crash it!" and I gave an exaggerated nosedive spin that nearly took Maggie out. She dissolved into giggles mid-verse, barely getting her lines out between laughing fits.

As we butchered the chorus together, Mickey Mouse covered his eyes in mock horror, then peeked through his gloved fingers and gave me a pity thumbs-up. I turned to Maggie mid-song and deadpanned, "I feel like this is how real magic dies," earning even more laughter from the growing crowd. She bumped her shoulder against mine. "You're killing it, carpet captain!"

When the song mercifully ended, the audience whooped and cheered--whether from genuine affection or secondhand pity, I didn't care. We somehow placed third. Maggie threw her arms around me, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "Told you!" she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes.

I groaned and buried my face in her neck. "If Francis ever finds out about this," I mumbled, "I'm blaming you, Beth, and possibly Walt Disney's ghost." Maggie just kissed the side of my head and whispered, "Best day ever, Captain Nosedive."

Somewhere between the forgotten lyrics, the pity applause, and Maggie's laughter tangled up in mine, it hit me--being ridiculous with her, being real with her, felt more right than all the years I spent trying to be perfect for the wrong people. This... this mess was ours. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

We found a patch of grass on the edge of the lagoon, just far enough away from the crowds to breathe but close enough to see the fireworks when they started. Maggie sat down first, kicking off her sandals and leaning back on her elbows like she belonged there--like she belonged anywhere she wanted. I dropped down next to her, grunting a little, because apparently my knees now filed official complaints when I asked them to do things quickly.

For once, I didn't feel the need to fill the silence with sarcasm or smartass commentary. I just... sat there. Next to her. Breathing in the sticky Florida night air, the faint smell of churros and popcorn, the sound of distant laughter. When the first firework exploded overhead, painting the sky in electric gold, Maggie rested her head lightly against my shoulder. I closed my eyes for a second, committing it all to memory--the weight of her, the warmth, the way the world didn't feel so heavy for once.

We sat like that for a while, just the crackle and bloom of fireworks filling the night. Then, right as a big burst of blue stars shimmered overhead, Maggie's voice slipped out, quiet and unsure. "Do you ever think about... having kids? With me?"

The words hit me square in the chest, knocking the air out of me in a way no punch ever could. My brain went straight into emergency evacuation mode. Kids? Diapers? PTA meetings? Standing awkwardly in a field while my future mini-me plotted my downfall with a nerf gun?

I felt the initial panic bubble up--because holy hell, that was big. That was life-altering, no-going-back big. I opened my mouth, ready to make some dumb joke to buy myself time, when something across the grass caught my eye. A little boy, no more than four, wobbling toward his dad, balloon string clutched tight in one tiny fist. The kid giggled so hard he almost fell over, and the dad caught him mid-topple, laughing with him like the world had never been broken.

I stared at them, heart hammering against my ribs, and in that one second, all the noise in my head finally shut up. Because it wasn't just the idea of kids. It was the idea of building something real with her. Something messy and loud and imperfect and absolutely ours.

I turned back to Maggie, and when I spoke, my voice was steady--not because I wasn't terrified, but because somehow, I wasn't scared enough to say no. "Yeah," I said quietly, threading my fingers through hers. "I think about it. With you... I want all of it."

She smiled at me then, slow and soft, like a sunrise. And for the first time in a long, long time, I felt like I wasn't just surviving my life anymore. I was finally living it.

Every fear I had--the doubts, the what-ifs, the scars I carried--suddenly felt a hell of a lot smaller than the life I wanted to build with her.

We spent two more days wandering through Disney World like we had nowhere else to be--and honestly, for the first time in a long time, we didn't. We rode Space Mountain twice, mostly because Maggie claimed she needed "scientific proof" that she screamed louder than I did. (She didn't, by the way. I have witnesses.) We ate our way through Epcot like it was a competitive sport, high-fived a surprisingly aggressive Donald Duck, and stayed out way too late watching fireworks that still somehow managed to feel like magic even after the fiftieth explosion.

It wasn't perfect--there were sunburns, overpriced bottled water, a minor incident involving a rogue turkey leg--but it was ours. Every sore foot, every missed GeniePass, every ridiculous souvenir we didn't need but bought anyway. It felt like we were building something without even trying: memories stitched together with laughter and bad decisions and the kind of tired happiness that you can't fake.

By the time we finally packed up to leave, I was sunburned, two churros heavier, and somehow lighter inside than I'd been in years. Maggie fell asleep against my arm on the flight home, and I just sat there, breathing her in, feeling more sure of her--of us--than I ever thought possible.

We landed late, stumbled through baggage claim half-awake, and by the time we got back to the house, I was half-convinced I was still dreaming. Home felt different now. Fuller. Like the air itself had shifted.

Disney took my dignity, my wallet, and about three pounds of water weight, but it gave me back something better--us.

I should never be allowed near Amazon after midnight. That was the first thought that ran through my head when I woke up the next morning and checked my order history, still half-asleep, my thumb mindlessly scrolling. Right there, in glaring confirmation of my questionable life choices, was a "Future Jedi" baby onesie--size 0-3 months. No returns. No shame either, apparently. I stared at the screen, equal parts horrified and... weirdly proud.

Before I could come up with a halfway decent excuse, Maggie padded into the living room, hair messy, one of my old t-shirts hanging off her shoulder. She leaned down to kiss the top of my head, then noticed my expression--and the guilty way I was clutching my phone like it had personally betrayed me.

"What did you do?" she asked suspiciously, the tiniest hint of amusement tugging at her mouth.

I turned the phone around and showed her. For a second, she just blinked at the screen, like her brain was buffering. Then she let out this quiet, wonderful laugh and pulled me up off the couch into a hug so fierce it knocked the wind out of me. "You're such a dork," she whispered against my chest.

"Hey," I muttered into her hair. "It's proactive planning. Strategic baby prepping. Future-proofing."

She leaned back to look up at me, smiling like I'd just handed her the keys to the whole damn universe. "It's perfect," she said, squeezing my hands. "Just like you."

We ended up curled on the couch together, legs tangled, coffee forgotten on the table, just... sitting. No rush. No demands. No plan except maybe, someday, filling this place with more noise, more chaos, more life. Our future wasn't polished or Instagram-ready. It was messy, unpredictable, probably full of sleepless nights and mystery stains and little hands grabbing at everything--and God help me, I couldn't wait.

Perhaps... this was what "happily ever after" actually looked like. Messy. Loud. Ordinary. Ours.

As we sat there, the morning sun creeping across the floor, Maggie rested her head on my shoulder and said, completely casual, "We should probably order another onesie... just in case."

I froze mid-sip of my coffee, nearly choking. "Another--wait, just in case of what?!" I croaked.

She just laughed, soft and wicked, and kissed my jaw. "You'll figure it out, Captain Future Jedi."

And just like that, my brain short-circuited, my heart did a stupid little flip--and somehow, the world felt even bigger and better than before.

Somewhere deep in my brain, a tiny voice whispered, Is it too early to build a panic room? Asking for a friend. And that friend is me.

God help me, I've never been happier.

-----------------------------

Notes from the Wyld:

I think this is a good place to hit pause on the Tale of Travis--for now, at least. If enough people are gluttons for punishment, maybe I'll come back and write about him trying to survive newborn life without accidentally diapering the wrong end of the baby. I want to thank my two loyal fans (you legends--wink) for sticking by me through all the chaos, bad decisions, and emotional fits. It honestly means more than I can put into words. I do try to reply to feedback when I can (some of you already know I'm not a complete ghost), but life occasionally dropkicks my schedule. So thanks for hanging in there--and for sticking around longer than Travis's first attempt at folding a fitted sheet.

Fun fact: The chaos in the Disney scenes? 100% field-tested. In 1999, my wife and I got stuck on the Small World ride at Disneyland. My running commentary almost made her laugh so hard she needed a change of clothes. Fast-forward years later, my whole family got stuck upside down on the Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey ride at Universal Orlando. Naturally, I started cracking jokes. I had the entire family laughing until my wife, between gasps for air, begged me to stop -- partly because gravity is a harsh mistress, and partly because dignity was about to suffer critical damage. So yes, when Travis panics mid-animatronic nightmare... that's just me, lovingly preserved for future generations.