“You snitch!” he gasps. “She’s my wife.”
“And the Banners!” Winnie continues.
Brooke puts her hands on her cheeks and rests her head on the steering wheel.
Jack gives our sister a wet willy, deservedly so, and wraps her in a headlock. “Winnie told Danger via a group text she’s in with all of his friends.”
That does explain the large group of people I’m starting to recognize, hanging out with Danger just down the way, taking what they think are inconspicuous photos of Sumer Morrison and her crew as they pose for photos in front of a rather lackluster government building.
“That was an accident!” Winnie grunts, trying her best to maneuver out of his grasp. “And you swore to secrecy, you snake.”
“We’re going to break their hearts. Oh my gosh. What if this kills Gram? We can’t kill Gram. I love Gram. We can’t do this… I can’t do this.” Brooke’s mumbling quietly into her lap when Breezy glides back into the car, barely acknowledging his intestinal emergency or the wrestling match still active in the back seat. Instead, he wraps his arms around the back of both Brooke’s and my seats and leans between us.
“So… that was a close one.” He blows out a relieved breath. “Hey, it’s cool I told the guys, right? I knew you wouldn’t want them to miss out on your big day, and it’ll be my first time officiating, so… it’s a big day for all of us.”
And that’s when the team bus rolls into the lot. The giant Honey Badger emblem mocks me from the side, and a crowd of fully grown men hang out of the windows in formal wear with homemade signs that read:Knock her outta the park, Jones!Cheers to third base!andGrand Slam Tonight!
Jack actually giggles.
“Out,” I demand, turning off the car and taking a deep, cleansing breath. Winnie may have been on to something. “Everyone out. Now.”
My siblings continue bickering but obey my wishes, dragging an ever-confused Breezy out of the car with them.
“This was a terrible idea, Owen,” Brooke begins as soon as we're alone. Her beautiful brown eyes have a lining of unshed tears that I can’t abide. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. They’ll be devastated when they find out this isn’t real.”
“Hey, hey, hey…” I cup her cheek with my good hand, wiping a tear away from her perfectly soft skin. “Who says this isn’t real?”
“Owen…”
“Listen, if you don’t want to do this, then we won’t. I’ll march out there, tell the cameras and my family and the whole dang team to go home, and we’ll get out of here, grab a pizza, watch old episodes ofSuite Hearts, and fall asleep on the couch with pepperoni grease on our faces. No problem. We don’t owe anyone anything. And I will never have you do something you aren’t comfortable with.”
She looks at the group waiting on the steps of the courthouse. To everyone out there, it probably looks like we’re having a pre-wedding argument. Or maybe a classic case of cold feet. But inside the car, I’m staring down a playoff pitch. This moment might just determine where we go from here, so I leave everything out on the field, in terms I pray won’t panic her more.
“But if you still want to do this… If you want to marry me…”
I refuse to acknowledge the game right now. To let her believe I’m only in this for the fun of it. I know it’ll be fun to be married to my best friend. Of course it will be. To share our lives together… To share everything. But it isn’t about a reality show for me, and I don’t believe it is for her.
“Brooke… we love each other, right? We always have.”
When she won’t look me in the eye, my confidence takes a tiny stumble. Like maybe I misread the years’ worth of signals I took to mean Brooke was just afraid and wounded but notnotin love with me. But when I use my thumb to tilt her chin, her eyes and body follow willingly, drawing an inch closer.
“Yes,” she whispers, more tears flowing.
Yes. Sweetest homerun I’ve ever hit.
“Yeah, Babe. We do.” I nod, a foolish, unrelenting hope bubbling in my chest. “And we’re gonna go in there and say vows to one another that we truly mean. Okay? They aren’t about anyone else. Just you and me. Babe and Ruth. Brooke and Owen.”
She nods, worrying her lip between her teeth.
“And what about that pizza?”
I can’t hide my sigh of relief. “What my wifey wants, my wifey gets.”
“Your wifey never wants to be called that again.”
“Noted.” I solemnly and silently swear to call her every iteration of wife for every day I’m able. I tilt my head towards the crowd still watching us. “Should we go in? Get hitched. Hit a grand slam?”
She swats me in the chest. “Yeah, Ruth. Pizza promises and a couch to sleep on. How’s a girl to refuse?”
