When the music starts and the doors open, Laddie is the first to march down the aisle. He’s in a tuxedo like mine, and he wears a pair of sunglasses. He waves to people as he walks, and they all grin at him as he passes. He comes up the steps and joins me on the dais, holding my hand.
I lean down. “Did you remember the rings?”
He makes a show of patting his little pocket and then smiles. “Yeah, I’ve got ‘em, Dad.”
Next comes Talia. She’s stunning in an emerald-green gown, her hair blazing against it. She looks exactly like her mother, fiery Irish-American genes on full display. Emma, on the other hand, has always favored their father: dark, wavy hair; warm, golden skin; eyes that pull you in and don’t let go.
Somehow, they both have their parents in them, but also look completely different.
I look down at my own son and think about how funny genetics are. If I’d met Laddie alone on the street, I’d have instantly known he was mine; we look so much alike.
The music shifts, and everyone rises.
And there she is.
Emma fills the doorway. Her dress is so perfect, with its spaghetti straps and tight bodice. She told me the skirt was a ‘tulip shape.’ I still don’t know what that means. I just know it amplifies her curves in ways that make me feel very nervous that I might pop a boner right here in front of all these people.
As usual, Emma lets her natural beauty do the talking. She wears minimal jewelry and makeup. Her amazing hair hangs loosearound her shoulders, but small braids at the top and on the sides twist in with flowers and sparkles.
She smiles softly as she makes her way down the aisle, and when she gets about halfway, she finally looks at me, and I let loose a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
By the time she reaches me and hands her bouquet to her sister, my hands are shaking. She turns to face me, slips her fingers into mine, and the pastor starts talking.
He could be saying anything. Reciting the words toAmerican Pie. ReadingGoodnight Moon. Chomping bubble gum. I have no idea. All I can see is Emma.
All I can hear is my own uneven heartbeat.
Only when Emma squeezes my hands do I snap out of the trance I’m in and realize everyone’s staring at me, waiting.
Our guests chuckle, and I clear my throat.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head with zero shame. “My wife is so stunning, I kind of forgot where I was.”
Then we say our vows. Just the traditional ones we picked with the pastor, nothing fancy. I’ve poured my heart out enough times lately to fill a whole damn novel, and Emma knows exactly how I feel. Still, repeating those words,in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live, hits me harder than I expect.
My throat tightens, and I have to blink fast.
She says her vows back to me, steady and clear, and I slide the ring onto her finger. She does the same for me.
Simple. Perfect. Ours.
“By the power vested in me,” the pastor says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Just like that—we’re the Callaghans.
We changed Laddie’s last name, too.
I kiss my wife, probably more passionately than is appropriate, and then pick up our son. Emma holds my free hand, and we march out of the church.
Many hours later,Laddie is tucked away at Auntie Tal’s for a sleepover, and I finally have my wife all to myself in an insanely fancy suite at the Ritz-Carlton.
Emma stands in the middle of the room, swaying to a song that, I think, is older than we are. Fiona Apple, I think she said, was the name of the artist.
“You look so sexy right now,” I murmur, sliding my hands to her waist and pulling her in so we sway together.
She smiles up at me. “Well, the feeling’s mutual. You know how I feel about that tux.”
“Like you wanna rip it right off me?” I lean in, letting my breath skim across her lips.
