She only nods, again, her soft cheek pressed against mine, and her body fitting perfectly in my arms.
“Alright. Win,” I call for my sister after setting Brooke back down on solid ground. Winnie gallops up the steps like she’s been waiting for her moment. “Brooke’s ready to get changed now. Will you and Dinah help her and meet us at the park in ten?”
“Yes, we’ll meet you at the park in twenty, because we’re women and will be ready when we good and well please,” she says, grabbing my fiancé and dragging her up the stairs.
Brooke nervously looks back, mouthing,“See you soon,”before she disappears into the building.
“Jack!” I shout, eyes still pointed at the door my fiancé just entered.
My brother’s at my side immediately.
“Did you bring the stuff I asked for?”
He nods. “Dinah’s got it all.”
“Okay, I need you to move all of these people down the street to the park.”
“Alright, bro…” He hesitates. “And you’re sure you want to do this. Even if…”
Jack and I have had quite a few heart to hearts over the last few days. He’s always suspected my feelings for Brooke went far beyond friendship, and after our impromptu, or rather, providential engagement, I came clean about the depth of my feelings. Though I know he’s worried, Jack has been nothing but supportive.
“She’s it for me, Jacky. I’ve got to take this shot.”
“Okay, man. Then, I’ll be by your side. All the way.” Jack smiles, rubbing the shadow of hair on his jaw. “I’ll take care of the crowd. What are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna get married.”
Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, Brooke walks down Sugartree’s Main Street, lined by our friends and family, towards me. Wearing the crown of daisies I asked Jack to make her, she’s breathtaking in a cream-colored dress with tiny string straps that look particularly delicate against her porcelain skin, the fabric flowing down the length of her body, accentuating her curves perfectly.
An elderly couple, I’m betting she’s never met before, stops her on her journey and only releases her from their clutches when a woman steps out of the local coffee shop and shouts, “Mrs. Woodhouse, let her be! She’s got places to go!”
“She’s a bride, Georgia, and that groom ain’t goin’ no where!” the woman shouts back but kisses Brooke’s cheek and shoos her on her way, closer to me.
When our eyes catch, that gut feeling in my belly sets itself steady into my heart and mind. This is right. This is how it was always supposed to be. Me and Brooke. She smiles her nervous smile, and I rub my hand in a circle over my belly—the secret way I’ve been telling her I love her since I was sixteen and ate every bit of the terrible birthday cake she baked just so she wouldn’t lose her confidence. She says my heart lives in my belly.
I know wherever it is, my heart beats only for Brooke.
Her hands, holding a small bouquet of daisies that match her floral crown, mirrors mine, rubbing a circular pattern over her belly, too. And I know without a doubt, this is going to work.
So it’s here at the end of the street in an overgrown field with kids spitting sunflower seeds—our support system, now gathered in front of us, a camera crew and famous pop star whispering about shots and angles, my brother and sister at our sides, and my dad officiating—where I promise to love and cherish, to protect and honor, to lead and to walk beside my best friend all the days of my life—and to feed her pizza, weekly, on our living room couch, watching reality TV shows, and warming her feet with my body heat—till death do us part.
And when my dad declares usHusband and Wife, and Breezy, his co-officiant, tells me I can kiss my bride… I do.
8
HOUSE PARTY
SAM HUNT
BROOKE
One week of marital bliss to Owen Jones has looked a whole lot like the past ten plus years of friendship with Owen Jones. We spend our mornings together much like we always have, especially given the fact that half of my physical belongings have lived in that spare room of his, since Owen gave me a key after buying the place and insisted I make myself at home. His place is just so much cozier than mine.
We spend nights lounging on the couch playing Mario Kart or streaming our favorite shows—where I often fall asleep twenty minutes in and only go to my room with the butter-soft sheets if Owen wakes me with a kiss on the forehead and whispers encouragement to go to bed.
He’s usually up before the sun rises, while I sleep well past my three alarms and pride myself on getting ready for the day in less than ten minutes. Typically, Owen spends time reading his Bible before going for an early morning run or working out at the gym, all before I’ve hit snooze four or five times. Thanks to his recovery, he’s unable to workout for six more weeks, so he nowreads his Bible and makes daily, painstaking efforts perfecting a cinnamon maple latte for me, hiswifey.
His words, not mine.
