Page 65 of A Night to Remember

EPILOGUE

Eight months later

Gabe

“Goddamn fuckingpiece of shittorture device.” Kayla is cursing under her breath as she rips off her pantyhose in the kind of apoplectic rage normally reserved for the omission of your favorite song by your favorite sexy lion in a misguided remake of your favorite movie.

“Don’t distract me by showing me your legs or I’ll crash this car,” I warn her. She glares at me and goes back to fighting with her hose under layer after layer of stiff crinkly mesh.

I drive slowly towards Kentwood’s downtown, the courthouse looming against the night sky several blocks away. Downtown is deserted this time of night, but I’ve learned my lesson about not watching the road.

“I can’t believe she made me wear this thing,” Kayla fumes, flinging the hose onto the dashboard and arranging the voluminous pink ruffles of her maid-of-honor gown back over her pretty legs. “I mean Ican, it’s been eight solid months of suffering?—”

“It hasn’t beenallbad,” I interject, giving her a smile.

She grins back and ruffles my hair. “No,” she says. “And it was a lovely wedding. But still.”

I get it. Allison’s family is Catholic; Tom’s is... not. Trying to pull off a traditional Catholic wedding Mass that was somehow bedazzled enough for the Ambroses and spartan enough for the Matuscheks was challenging. Not to mention the fact that Kayla’s been working remotely as an editorial assistant while also trying to build on the momentum from her first publication. I’d ended up organizing most of the bridal shower—unbeknownst to Allison—though my new duties as deputy city attorney have been keeping me busy, too. The whirlwind of the past eight monthsalmostmade me postpone proposing to Kayla last July. Almost.

“I’ll get back at her, though,” Kayla starts up her rant again. “Atourwedding, she’s going to have to wear the most boring maid-of-honor dress I can find. It will be black. Or gray. Or beige. Orgreige.”

“I was sort of hoping you’d start wearing ball gowns more often,” I say, turning to her with a grin. “Or are you going to get married in greige, too?”

“I’ll get married in jeans—WILSON, LOOK OUT!”

I slam on the brakes before I even see what she’s talking about. Then I spot it too: a scruffy dog—no collar, no leash, no owner anywhere in sight—disappearing into the alley behind the café.

“Holy shit!” I exclaim. “The dog!”

“Whatdog?” Kayla asks, but instead of answering, I throw the car into park and leap out into the street.

I skitter around the corner into the alley and force myself to move slowly to avoid scaring it. It’s pitch black, but I don’t dare turn on my phone’s flashlight. Instead, I let my eyes roam around dumpsters and trash cans, searching for any signs of life. I’m almost at the next street when I spot it snacking on some candy leftover from last weekend’s homecoming parade.

“Here, pup,” I call softly. It pricks up its ears—one up, one down—and regards me suspiciously. I crouch down as slowly as I can. It wags its tail cautiously.

“C’mon, pup,” I cajole. “I won’t hurt you.”

Timidly it makes its way over to me, tail down, clearly ready to bolt any minute. I hold out a hand, but otherwise keep as still as possible. It sniffs me thoroughly, then gives me a questioning look.

I risk a little scratch behind the ears. It leans into me appreciatively and wags its tail again, more confidently this time.

“Would you like to come home with me?” I ask. “I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.”

It loses its fear quickly; before long, I’m giving it a good thorough scratch, and then it’s trotting happily next to me back up the alley towards the car. I open the rear passenger-side door and encourage it to jump in.

“Wilson, what on earth?” Kayla says in surprise, but I can tell she’s pleased. “Who’s this?”

“The dog,” I stress. “The one I was trying to avoid hitting when I almost hityou. The day I came back into town. Remember?”

“I thought you made that up,” she laughs, reaching back to pat him. “Plus, there’s no way this is the same dog.”

“It’sdefinitelythe same dog,” I insist. “And besides, what does it matter? We like dogs.”

“Do you think our landlord will let us keep him?” she asks, squealing as he jumps over the center console into her lap, spattering her dress with mud and, probably, fleas.

“He has to. According to Paragraph 5 of our lease agreement?—”

“Okay, okay, Counsel, I believe you.” She smiles at me. “Are we ready for this much responsibility?”

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