AnI can’t wait to call you my wife and bang my hands on my chest when I give you my last namesort of vibe.
Maybe we’d sneak out early that morning before the rest of our wedding party woke up for one last, pre-wedding kiss. I’d write her a letter to read on her own and send her a gift… something to make her laugh before the ceremony. Then, when she walked down the aisle to me at the end of the church, she’d be the only one I’d see in a hushed crowd of all our friends and family. We’d dance all night until I whispered sentiments only she could hear, telling her all the reasons why I should take her home… to the home we picked out together when we were still just friends but, also, so much more. It’d take little convincing and so little time.
In my wildest, wedding day fantasies, we weren’t working through the finer details of our agreement on the drive to the courthouse over a cup of shared pretzel bites—though I’m not complaining on that front—with nacho cheese dip splattered across my jeans, my siblings bickering in the backseat over who gets to make the wedding toast, and Breezy sitting between them as he goes over his notes for the ceremony.
But I’m not here to complain.
I know I’ve caught lightning in a bottle here. I get to marry my best friend. The woman I’ve quietly loved since we were fifteen. The fact that I had to convince her to do so has weighed little on my attitude over the last week of negotiations, most of which revolved around Brooke’s newest boundaries regarding physical touch. Which only encourages me further. The woman doth protest too much.
And that kiss… If I never kissed Brooke again, our kiss at the bar the other night would carry me through a lifetime of wanting her. But thanks to the civil ceremony we are running late to in a town over—so as not to alert the Honey Hill text chain of our nuptials—I will get to repeat that kiss all over again. Very soon.
And thoroughly, if I have anything to say about it.
I’ve essentially got eight weeks, give or take, to prove to my fiancé—soon to be wife—that we belong together. Permanently.
Though I don’t know what’s going on in her head, and we haven’t broached the subject yet, I have no intention of putting an end date on us. I’m making Brooke a Jones today, and I intend to keep her that way.
“Do you think we could stop to use the bathroom?” Breezy asks, his voice shaky with nerves.
My eyes flick to the rearview, noticing his pallid color and the sweat dripping from his temples. “We’re almost there, man. Can you hold it?”
“You know I have a nervous gut,” he says through clenched teeth.
“I told you not to eat those jalapeno bites.” I clench my fists. “You can’t handle the butter and spice combo.”
“I’m sorry, bro. I’ve really got to go.” He’s shaking now, giant legs bobbing up and down.
Brooke puts her hand on my arm, resting on the console. I’m not cleared to drive, since I’m still in a sling, but I can’t say I mind the view of Brooke in the driver’s seat of my Bronco. “Of course we can stop, Lance, if it’s an emergency, but we are almost there. You gonna be okay?”
“If the cloud of funk back here has anything to do with it”—Jack groans, rolling down the window—“I’d say he isnotokay.”
Add Lance Breezy’s digestive issues to the list of unexpected, non-romantic details on the most important day of Brooke’s and my life.
“Hey, big guy.” My sister pats Breezy on the shoulder and does some sort of deep breathing exercise. “Breathe through it. You’re alright. You’ve got a big job today. It’s probably just anxiety.”
“And the pound of buttered Jalapeno Cheddar Pretzel Bites you just kicked back.” I have zero empathy. Breezy knows his limits, and his IBS will not ruin my wedding day.
“No one can resist Dinah’s jalapeno bites.” Jack is suddenly so smug, I don’t even feel sorry for his proximity to Breezy. “They’respicy.”
I do not love the way he just emphasized that word.
“I’m sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking it through.” Breezy whimpers but manages to keep himself steady until we pull into the Sugartree Courthouse parking lot before he launches himself out of the car and into the building.
Brooke and Winnie erupt with laughter, a joy that fades pretty quickly when we all realize what’s waiting for us on the steps of the courthouse.
“Is that Sumer Morrison?” my sister asks, her voice pitching up an octave. “Talking to Gram?”
Even from her much shorter stature, Gram looks like she’s giving the famous musician a dressing down. Though we’re still in the parking lot, I can make out the unmistakable body language Gram exudes when she’s sassing someone.
“Why is Sumer Morrison at the courthouse?” Brooke asks aloud but appears to be talking to herself. “They weren’t supposed to be here today. No one is supposed to be here today. But she’s right there. Sumer Morrison is right there.” She turns to me. “And why is Gram here, Owen?”
Brooke and I agreed on three major points before making it to our wedding day. First being the previously mentioned nohanky pankyrule. I’m paraphrasing, of course, but only because I think it’s ridiculous. Second, we’d have a small wedding ceremony at the courthouse, so as not to draw more attention to ourselves before the show starts filming. And lastly, we agreed to have Breezy marry us—since he was so pumped to do so—with my siblings as our witnesses. A choice I am deeply regretting right now.
“I may have mentioned something to Gram…” Winnie begins, “and I didn’t know Mom was there at the time.”
“Mom knows?” I glare at my sister in the rearview mirror, only to see her eyes double their size as she looks ahead of us where I discover our mother guiding a camera man, her arm threaded through his, down the steps to greet my dad, who is dressed in a gray suit.
“Um, yeah, I’d say so.” Winnie bites her lip and gives me the most pathetic, apologetic shrug before turning on her cohort. “Jack told Dinah.”
