“I suppose that’s a good point,” I say with a sigh. “What can we do about this?” She knows I’m joking, says the smirk pinned onto her cheek. “I wasn’t looking for a chef, a maid, a nanny, or the world's cheeriest person. I was looking for —someone real, and you aren’t afraid to be that person.”
“But you love food,” she says.
“I love you more.”
Journey freezes as if remembering something important, breaking up the mush-fest we don’t typically take part in. “Did you talk to Hannah about this first?”
I toss my head back and laugh, sounding a bit crazy with the way my cackle comes out. “I don’t think you’d believe me when I say she helped me pick out the ring.”
“Wait,” Journey says, placing the palm of her hand on the side of her cheek. “She told me she needed to measure a piece of string using my finger for a science project a couple of months ago. I couldn’t figure out what kind of science project she had, but I forgot to ask more questions.”
“She did that without talking to me first. She brought me this piece of string, her fingers still pinched in the correct spots, told me to measure—for science reasons—then said: ‘There. Now, you have the size of Journey’s ring finger. Don’t mess this up.”
More tears fill Journey’s eyes. “Hannah likes me that much? It’s hard to assume anything with her because she’s a bit moody … most of the time, but really?”
“She loves you, Journey. She told me she knew you were the one because you are literally the only person in the universe who understands her. She might be a little selfishly biased, but I don’t disagree with her.”
“I love her too. I see a lot of me in her soul, and I feel the connection we have.”
“You’ve respected her boundaries, and it’s been a huge thing for us. Everything just works,” I say. “Except you’re cooking, though. That doesn’t work.”
“Yeah, but everything else—”
“Is perfect,” I tell her.
18
“Babe,shouldn’t you be getting ready or something? I mean … like, we’re getting married in a few hours,” I call out to Journey. She’s been oddly quiet at the kitchen table for the last hour or so. I’m sure she’s feeling last-minute jitters and internalizing them like she does so often, but today of all days, her nerves are my nerves. I’ve already showered and shaved per the request of my bride-to-be, and I’m not the one who takes a long time in the bathroom. “I hope I didn’t just shave for nothing.” It’s a joke. I shave when the beard gets out of control. We’ve compromised on a slightly longer stubble look versus clean as a baby’s butt—as she prefers, or preferred—to thick strands that sometimes contained remnants of a previously eaten meal. My body, my choice—I firmly stand by this, but the irritation on her face from the abrasiveness of my whiskers is real and we’ve managed to find a happy medium. Marriage is about compromise, and if my beard is the worst of it, I will be a happy man.
“Yeah, I should be,” Journey mutters.
I step out of the bathroom with my towel wrapped around my waist, wondering what reason lies behind her unusual tone. Her back is faced toward the hall so she doesn’t see me observing her at the kitchen table—an elbow pressed against the wood as her hand holds up her chin. On the other hand, she’s holding a note. “Whatcha’ reading?”
“This note. I found it taped to the front door this morning when I went out to grab my shoes from the Jeep.”
Who the hell leaves notes on doors these days? Why do I have a pit in my stomach, wondering who wrote the note? “Who is it from?” I ask. I sound wary, afraid, nervous, looking for a reason I can’t come up with.
“Well,” Journey says with a long sigh. “You can come see for yourself.”
I don’t like the way she said the words that just came out of her mouth. This is bad, and on our wedding day of all days—just why?
As I reach Journey, searching her face for more clues while taking the note from her hand, concern fills my chest when I see how pale her complexion is, and forlorn her eyes appear. “Is this going to ruin our day?” I ask. Not that it matters because it looks like it already ruined hers, and today is about us, not just one of us.
“You tell me, I guess,” she says, sounding aggravated. My mind spins with questions about who this could be from or what it’s about. I hardly talk to anyone these days with how busy I am at work and taking care of Hannah, while also trying to be a good (almost) husband to Journey. I’m coming up short with ideas of who would purposely try and ruin today—
Yeah, it just hit me. Who would deliberately try and ruin today? Unbelievable. She isn’t going to stop until she draws blood from my goddamn heart.
I shake out the note, finding it typed out—not surprised.
Brody,
I know the timing is incredibly wrong, and I should have said something months ago, but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t figure out how to make you pause long enough to hear me out after everything we’ve been through.
Do you remember how you used to talk to me about the meaning of fate? You would tell me we’re all meant to be at the right place at the right time to handle the particular challenges and rewards we face in our lives. I don’t know why it took me so long to understand why you used to say those words to me, but it’s suddenly clear now more than ever. Brody, I don’t think we’re supposed to be apart. I made a mistake. I took a step in the wrong direction and got lost along the way. You said that could happen—people can become lost, and it can take years to find their way home. I remember you saying those exact words to me after I hurt you. I’m glad you were right. I am.
I know you’re getting married today, and Hannah is gaining a new stepmom, but I feel the need to let you know how I feel so you can make your decision today based on truth—the truth that I never stopped loving you, and I will always love you. We have a daughter together, and there isn't a love that can be much stronger than the one that brings a child into the world, turning two people into a family.
I would never want to do anything to hurt Journey, but we all have selfish times in our lives, and this is mine.
