Blue Amber Hearts

Author: Frances Wilson

Chapter 4: Homecoming and Acceptance

On October 29, Alex and I drove home. Somewhere along the way, I realized the gray patch in my left eye was gone—my vision clear and sharp, like a freshly washed windshield.

Everything at home was ready: the wedding room filled with balloons, the guest list sorted, the hotel menu set.

I had to admit—my fiancée was the perfect partner: smart, capable, kind.

She could’ve run the whole wedding herself; swap me for a scarecrow, and the day would still be flawless.

Alex drove his family’s BMW 7 Series as the lead car to my house; fireworks lit the sky, flower girls tossed petals, the host read vows. I said "I do," we hugged, kissed, and celebrated.

My wife asked, "Remember our first trip? The beach? You said it was your first time seeing the ocean—and there’d be many more firsts."

I nodded.

Honestly, maybe I’d never really been to the beach. If the surface is sparkling, no one cares what’s trapped at the bottom—no one sees the dried fish drifting in the depths.

That night, drunk and dazed, Alex said, "Bro, I’m joining my dad’s business. It’s dumb not to use what you’ve got. I’ll make it here, easy."

Emily was right—every choice you make is the most reasonable one.

I had endless chances to chase her; Alex had a million reasons to fight elsewhere.

We seemed lost, but maybe we were clearer than anyone.

When we clinked glasses at a small hometown restaurant, the dust in the air and the bubbles in our beer felt just like anywhere else.

We can run from places, but not from life.

No one can solve your problems but you.

I might never swim out of this sea.

I thought my future was limitless, chasing every color of light.

But the blue seawater isn’t just confinement—it’s also protection.

Maybe next time, no one will write your name on their flyer, let their hair down for you, fall in love with sour oranges because of you, or understand your drama and pull you back from the edge.

Maybe next time, when you pour your heart out to an old flame, she won’t kindly show you the way—she’ll threaten, joking or not: "Send me $50,000, or I’ll forward these chats to your wife."

Running away solves nothing.

After the wedding, I drove my wife to her parents’ house.

She peeled an orange in the passenger seat, carefully removing the pith and feeding me slices.

Oranges were sweet this season.

I told her, "I quit my job—planning to write full-time."

She tucked the orange into the cup holder. "Good. No more long-distance."

Me: "The CEO said I’d regret it."

Her: "Do you?"

The phone chimed—a new message.

Me: "Check it."

She unlocked and opened Messenger. "Emily sent you $90—‘Happy wedding, no worries ahead.’"

Me: "I chose this. No regrets."