Chapter 74

Chapter 74
Brooklyn

Three days before my wedding, I’m standing in Ashlynn’s bathroom in a silk robe that cost too much money, staring at a sheet of vows, while Lily tries to feed a cracker to one of her baby brothers from the tile floor.
“Absolutely not,” I tell her, scooping the cracker up before she succeeds in inventing a new pediatrician conversation.
She smiles at me like she did me a favor.
Behind me, Aspen laughs from the vanity. “She’s helpful.”
“She’s feral.”
“Those things overlap.”
Fair. The boys are down for a nap in the guest room. Lily’s too old and too stubborn to take one when there are people around she might boss instead. Raleigh’s on the bed folding tiny flower-girl tights because apparently we’re all pretending that’s a task requiring group effort. Cheyenne’s sitting cross-legged with her ankles tucked under her and one hand absentmindedly low over her stomach while she helps me decide whether the vows in my left hand sound more like me than the ones in my right.
“I hate all of them,” I say.
Aspen snorts. “No, you don’t.”
“I hate writing things he’ll remember forever.”
“That’s because you’re in love and annoying,” Raleigh says.
“Thank you so much.”
“I’m here to help.”
The truth is I’m not nervous about marrying Jackson. There isn’t a single inch of me doubting that part. I’ve lived too much life with that man already to confuse nerves about the event with nerves about the marriage.
What’s twisting me up is everything around it.
The dress hanging in the closet. The seating chart on the kitchen table. The kids in their little outfits. The fact that our daughter keeps saying “Mommy party” whenever anyone mentions Saturday. The way that Heather’s shadow still tries to crawl across everything important even when nobody invited her.
Ashlynn studies me in the mirror. “You’re drifting.”
“I know.”
“Where.”
I glance down at the vows in my hand. “I think I’m afraid of the whole thing feeling too big.”
Cheyenne tips her head. “Too big how?”
“Like if I stop moving for five seconds, I’ll suddenly realize I’m doing this in a body that still feels new, with two babies, a toddler, an entire family watching, and a woman on the outside who’d love to find one crack in it.”
Nobody gives me a fake speech. That’s why I love these women. Aspen just says, “Then don’t give her one.”
And honestly, that’s so Boston-coded through marriage that I nearly laugh.
Raleigh tosses the tights aside. “Also, your body’s not a problem needing better branding. You built three kids with it. One of them currently uses your ribs as a napkin.”
Lily, hearing herself discussed, grins from the floor. Ashlynn comes over and takes the vow pages from my hands. “Go take a breath. Then come back and write what’s true.” I do.
Or I try to. I step out onto the back patio and let the afternoon air hit my face. It’s warmer than it should be for May, bright enough to make everything feel sharper. For a minute I just stand there with both hands on the railing and breathe.
The door opens behind me a few seconds later.
I don’t turn. “If any of you tell me to visualize calm, I’m jumping the fence.”
“It’s me.”
Jackson. That gets me turning. He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt with one of the boys asleep against his chest in the carrier and the other one in his arms like he couldn’t choose which son needed him more. I stare at him for a full second because the sight is unfair in about nineteen different ways.
“What are you doing here?”
“Dad called and said you looked like you were thinking too hard.”
“Traitor.”
“He loves me more.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already moving toward him. “Give me one.”
He passes the baby in his arms over without argument. Our son settles against me, easy, warm, heavy, and milky-sweet. Jackson looks at me for a second, one of those long looks that always feels like he gets farther under my skin than anybody else could.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Liar.”
“I’m mostly okay.”
“Better.”
He shifts the carrier a little higher. “You don’t have to do this all perfectly.”
“I know.”
“But?”
“But if I don’t, it feels like I left something important unattended.”
His mouth tips. “That’s the most you sentence you’ve ever said.”
I laugh before I can help it. “Says the man who assessed exits at the venue.”
“Valid.”
He comes close enough that our foreheads almost touch, careful because of the babies between us. “Brooklyn.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t care if the flowers are wrong. I don’t care if the napkins offend somebody. I don’t care if one of our sons screams through the first half of the ceremony and Lily tries to steal the cake knife.”
“She probably will.”
“I know.” His hand cups the back of my neck. “I care that you show up. That’s the whole job.”
Something in me loosens so suddenly it almost hurts. Because that’s it.
Not performance. Not symmetry. Not proving I can hold every thread at once without dropping one. Showing up.
I lean in and kiss him, soft because of the babies, then less soft because the second his mouth opens under mine, I remember I’m not only in love with this man, I’m still desperately turned on by him in a way that’s becoming inconvenient.
He feels it too. Of course he does. His hand tightens at my neck. Mine slides up under the back of his shirt. The baby in the carrier snores right through it.
Jackson pulls back just enough to look at me. “They’re all inside.”
“I noticed.”
“Your mom’s got eyes.”
“My mom’s in love with you.”
“She has taste.”
“God, you’re cocky.”
“You like me best this way.”
He’s right, and it’s infuriating. Twenty minutes later, after both boys are settled in bassinets in the guest room and Lily’s downstairs being spoiled by literally everyone, he closes the bedroom door behind us, and I finally let myself look at him the way I’ve been trying not to all afternoon. He notices immediately.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says, and his voice has already dropped.
I set the vow pages on the dresser. “That sounds like fear.”
His eyes darken. “That sounds like a man trying to be decent before his wedding.”
I walk toward him anyway. “You’ve got three days.”
“I’m aware.”
I stop close enough to catch the heat off him. “Good.”
Then I kiss him. Not slow this time. Not careful. I’m done being careful for the day.
He catches my waist fast, backs me up two steps, and every bit of tension I’ve been carrying since morning takes one look at where this is going and starts begging to be burned off. I open the robe myself because, honestly, I’m not in the mood to waste time on symbolism. His hands drag over my hips, my stomach, my breasts, and every place he touches feels like it wakes up twice.
“Jesus,” he mutters, looking down at me. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
“Try me.”
That gets a rough sound out of him, and then his mouth is on my throat while he walks me backward till the backs of my knees hit the bed. I sit because the room’s going a little soft around the edges already, and he stands between my legs with his hands spreading my knees apart like he’s done it a thousand times and still hasn’t lost one ounce of appreciation for the view.
I love that about him too. That he never acts bored by what’s his.
He drags his thumb over my lower lip. “You nervous about Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“About marrying me?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
Then he drops to his knees. That’s the thing about Jackson. For all his control, all his planning, all the sharp edges people see first, he’ll still kneel in front of me like worship is a private language he only speaks with his mouth and hands.
I lean back on my palms and let him ruin me with it.
He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, and looks up once right before he gives me what I’ve wanted all day. That look alone nearly does the job. The first touch of his tongue finishes convincing my body there’s no point pretending composure still matters.
I say his name once, then again sharper. He answers with a hum that vibrates straight through me and spreads my legs wider.
What follows is filthy and perfect and exactly the kind of thing I need from him when the world gets too loud. He keeps one hand on my stomach half the time like he knows that’s where my doubt gathers, then tells me how beautiful I am while he makes me shake hard enough to lose track of where I am for a second.
By the time he stands and gets his jeans open, I’m already reaching for him.
“You still got vows to write,” he says.
I wrap my hand around him once and enjoy the way his breath stutters. “Then maybe don’t waste my time.”
He laughs, low and wrecked. “Mean.”
“You’re marrying me anyway.”
“Best decision I ever made.”
He pushes me back on the bed, slides the robe off my shoulders fully, and comes over me slow enough to make the anticipation mean something. When he sinks into me, I grip his arms and close my eyes because there are some feelings too big to look at directly at first.
He moves like that too. Like he knows. Deep, deliberate, strong enough to erase every messy thought I dragged in here with me. I hold on and kiss him every chance I get. He talks to me against my mouth, low and dirty and sweet without separating any of it, and I love him for that too. That with him, desire and devotion never act like they’re enemies.
When we both finish, it leaves me breathless and laughing at the same time.
He rolls onto his side and drags me with him, one hand still stroking over my stomach like he can’t stop.
“Feel better?” he asks.
I turn my head and look at him. Hair wrecked. Mouth swollen. Eyes softer than they were ten minutes ago.
“Yeah,” I say honestly. “A lot.”
He kisses me once, easy now. “Then go write vows.”
“What if all they say is, I love you, please don’t die.”
He grins. “That’s actually pretty on brand.” Maybe it is.
When I go back downstairs half an hour later, Aspen takes one look at my face and snorts into her water.
“Wow,” she says.
Raleigh leans back in her chair. “He stopped by to help, huh?”
Cheyenne just grins because she’s an asshole when she’s happy.
Ashlynn, saint that she is, only says, “You seem clearer.”
I sit down, pick up the pen, and smile at the blank page. She’s right. I am.
Because the vows don’t need to sound like a performance.
They just need to tell the truth. And the truth is easy. I’ve already lived the answer.