Updated Nov 26, 2025 • ~4 min read
They honeymooned in Italy—two weeks of wandering through Rome, Florence, the Amalfi Coast. No schedule, no plans. Just exploration and wine and endless conversations.
On their third day in Positano, lying on the beach, Lizzie said, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
Oliver thought for a moment. “I wanted to cancel the first wedding three times.”
Lizzie sat up. “What?”
“The week before. I kept thinking I should call it off, that I was making a mistake. But I convinced myself it was just cold feet. That I was honoring my father’s wishes. That it would work out somehow.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Cowardice. And misplaced loyalty. I thought duty mattered more than happiness.” He looked at her. “I was wrong.”
“Yeah. You were.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Tell me something about you,” Oliver said.
“I almost didn’t show up to the bridge that night. When you asked me to meet you.”
“Why did you?”
“Ruby said I’d regret it if I didn’t. That I needed to at least hear you out. And she was right.” Lizzie lay back down. “Annoying when she’s right.”
Oliver laughed. They fell into comfortable silence, the waves lapping at the shore.
That night, over dinner at a cliffside restaurant, Oliver said, “I want kids someday.”
Lizzie nearly choked on her wine. “That’s a hell of a conversation starter.”
“I know. But we’re married now. We should talk about these things.”
“Okay. When someday?”
“Not right away. I want a few years of just us. Building our life, our careers, our foundation. But eventually… yeah. I want kids. With you.”
Lizzie thought about it. “Me too. Two, maybe. Or three.”
“Two sounds good. We can reevaluate after the first one.”
They smiled at each other, planning a future that finally felt secure.
The rest of the honeymoon passed in a blur of gelato, museums, and lazy mornings in bed. They talked about everything—their businesses, their families, their dreams. They argued about small things and laughed about it after. They learned how to be married.
On their last night, standing on their hotel balcony overlooking the Mediterranean, Oliver said, “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Me too.”
“Is it weird that I’m not scared anymore?”
“About what?”
“Losing you. Messing this up. The future. I just… feel sure. About us.”
Lizzie leaned into him. “I feel sure too. Finally.”
They flew home refreshed, connected, ready for real life. And when they walked into their brownstone, it felt different. More like home. Like a place they’d built together.
“Welcome to married life, Mrs. Miller-Richardson,” Oliver said, dropping their bags.
“How is it so far?”
“Perfect.”
“Liar. I’ve been snoring.”
“Perfectly imperfect, then.”
Lizzie laughed. “I’ll take it.”
They settled back into their routines—work, dinners, therapy (they’d decided to continue even after the wedding, as maintenance). But everything felt easier now. More settled.
One month after the wedding, they had dinner with both sets of parents. Austin had finally warmed to Oliver, Chloe treated him like a son. Savannah was gracious and kind. It felt like family. Real family.
“To the newlyweds,” Austin toasted. “May you have many happy years together.”
“Here’s hoping you make it past two,” Maddie added, then immediately looked horrified. “I mean—that came out wrong—”
Everyone laughed. Even Lizzie.
“We’ll make it,” she said confidently. “We’ve survived worse than normal marriage stuff.”
“Much worse,” Oliver agreed.
After dinner, walking home, Oliver said, “I think we’re going to make it.”
“You think?”
“I know. We’re going to make it, Lizzie. All the way. Forever.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And this time, Lizzie believed him.
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