Page 120 of Shutout
“You guys are so in love.”
“I’m gonna cry.”
“No, don’t ruin your makeup. The makeup artist already left.”
I stare at them in a deadpan, but the only one who gets the hint is my mom. In a complete mother hen move, she starts herding the unruly women toward the door, saying, “Let’s go find the broom. I’m sure we can find a way for him to not see the bride, so we can keep the good luck.”
They’re all flutter and chatter as they leave the room, and in the ensuing quiet I strongly regret Brooke’s and my policy of no cellphones during the preparations. The whole idea was to heighten the excitement, but now I wish I could just call him.
Maybe ten minutes pass before the door opens softly and Brooke pokes a hand in to wave at me.
“Um, Liv?”
“I’m here.” My dress rustles as I head over to him and clasp his hand in mine. “Hey, blondie. Are you coming in or not?”
He sighs heavily. “As much as I want to see you, I don’t want to add more bad luck to today. I was told you heard.”
“Yep.” I make thepsounds pop, and his hand squeezes mine harder. “You shouldn’t have tried to keep that from me.”
“I just didn’t want to worry you.”
“But it’s okay for you to stress by yourself?” I lift his hand to press my lips on the warm palm. “That’s not what marriage is about, you goof. We’re supposed to share the good and the bad, in sickness and in health and all that.”
“You’re right,” he mumbles beyond the door. “Well, I feel like a definite goof now.”
“And you should be. I’ll marry you with hair ties if I must.”
“I don’t think I have any of those, but I’m sure the reception desk will have some rubber bands.”
My face splits into a grin. “Those would work too.”
Brooke tugs at my hand and I go with the motion until my arm pokes outside. I stiffen as his breath fans over the back of my hand. And then, ever so softly, he presses his lips to my knuckles like something out of a regency romance.
Except Brooke being Brooke doesn’t leave it all sweet and chaste. Nah… His lips work a little on my big knuckle, the moist warmth promising a lovely, delicious wedding night. My knees weaken and I have to hold myself by the door frame so I don’t swoon.
“Thank you,” he mutters all of a sudden.
My voice is throaty as I ask, “For what?”
“For marrying me even though I’m a ditzy blond who managed to lose the wedding rings on his wedding day.”
That tears a little laugh out of me. “I love you not despite that but including it, you know?”
“And I love all that you are,” he volleys back easily, not like he’s just said the most beautiful words a bride can ever hear. “So we’re still on?”
“Oh heck yeah. We’re still in the game. Just promise me you won’t try to shut me out every time something happens in the future.”
“You have my word.”
With that, the wedding proceeds. Even though rain pours while we drive to the church, and one of the groomsmen expels some noxious gas right before the ceremony starts, and the ceremony gets interrupted when the rings box appears in my niece’s flower basket, we make our vows and are pronounced husband and wife.
It only hits me as we walk up the aisle together, our eyes trained on each other’s and not on the way, or on the happy congregation around us, and Brooklyn enunciates the words…
“My wife.”
Heat climbs up from my chest, my throat, to my face, and I have to blink back tears. Because at last it clicks on me that I made it, I married my best friend—the man I’ve loved my whole life, and who will love me back the rest of it.
I return, “Mi esposo.” And we stop at the entrance for one more kiss to start the rest of our lives.
THE END
*
