Chapter 75

Chapter 75
Jackson

I wake up before the alarm, before the sun, before the house starts moving.
And for one second I don’t know why, then it hits all at once.
It’s my wedding day.
I lie there in the dark and listen to the old house sounds, the vent kicking on, and the sound of one baby sighing through the monitor. There’s the sound of a faint creak in the hallway that tells me Dad’s already awake because of course he is, and somewhere in the guest room, one of the older girls laughs in her sleep.
Then Brooklyn rolls toward me and lays one hand on my chest without opening her eyes.
Not even awake and still finding me. That gets me worse than the date does. “You up?” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
We stay there another minute with the kind of quiet that only exists before a day decides what shape it’s taking. Her hand slides once over my chest like she’s checking I’m real, then she lifts her head enough to look at me in the dim light.
“Today’s the day.”
“Looks like it.”
She smiles at me. “Nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Only about logistics.”
“That counts.”
I hook one arm around her waist and pull her in. “You?”
“What?”
“You nervous about marrying me?”
“No,” she says immediately, and because she’s honest to the bone, I know she means it.
That settles something in me I didn’t realize was still moving.
The morning goes loud fast after that. Dad’s in the kitchen making coffee strong enough to revive the dead. Ashlynn’s already managing hair appointments, breakfast trays, toddler schedules, and the kind of invisible details that hold a whole family together without ever getting thanked enough for it. Boston and Lincoln show up at the same time because apparently synchronized entrances never left them. Dallas walks in five minutes later carrying a garment bag and a box of donuts like the man understands priorities now.
“You sleep?” Boston asks.
“No.”
“Good. Neither did I when I got married.”
“That’s probably because you were being dramatic.”
“That’s rich coming from the man with three pages of wedding security notes.”
Dallas grins over his coffee. “He color-coded them.”
I glare at him. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Lincoln says.
He’s right. By nine, the house is full of suits, cufflinks, steam from irons, and the kind of low hum that says every person here knows this matters. Not because a ceremony changes whether Brooklyn and I belong to each other. We crossed that line a long damn time ago. But because naming a thing in front of witnesses still has its own weight.
Dad knots my tie in the mirror while the boys pretend not to notice how quiet I get.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He meets my eyes in the glass. “You did good, son.”
That one lands harder than expected. I clear my throat. “I know that now.”
“I’m glad.”
No big speech. No ceremony before the ceremony. Just that.
Dallas steps in once Dad’s done and adjusts my jacket like he’s got any authority on formalwear. “You look acceptable.”
“High praise.”
“I’m generous.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket while Lincoln’s fighting with his cuff. I check it without thinking.
Boston catches the screen. “You working?”
“No.”
“Then put it away.”
“It’s from the venue.”
That gets the room’s attention. I answer and step into the hall. “Jones.”
The event manager sounds composed, which on wedding days means trouble’s already happened and been mostly contained.
“Jackson, I wanted to let you know there was an attempted floral delivery from an unapproved sender about twenty minutes ago.”
My whole body goes still. “And?”
“And your brother handled it.”
Of course he did. “Which one?”
“All of them, I think,” she says carefully. “The card indicated the arrangement was from Heather, and staff had already been alerted not to accept anything not cleared through you or Brooklyn. Mr. Dallas Jones flagged the van when it came through the service entrance. Your father and Dr. Jones were both present. The arrangement has been turned away.”
I close my eyes once. Exhale slowly. “Anybody get past the gate?”
“No.”
“Anybody speak to guests?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“There’s one more thing,” she says. “The driver said a woman was waiting at the end of the drive and wanted visual confirmation it made it inside. Your brother, the firefighter, walked down there with security. She left before there was any larger issue.”
A laugh almost comes out of me. Not because any of it’s funny. Because it’s so perfectly us that I’m standing in a hallway on my wedding day hearing that my brothers ran coordinated interference on a floral ambush before breakfast.
“Appreciate the call,” I say.
“Everything’s secure.”
“I know it is.”
When I head back into the room, all four of them look up.
“She tried flowers,” I say.
Boston rolls his eyes. “Told you.”
“What happened?” Dad asks.
“Nothing,” I say, and this time I mean it. “Because apparently I’ve got a family full of lunatics.”
Dallas tips his donut at me. “You’re welcome.”
By the time we get to the venue, the gardens are green and bright and full of the kind of late-spring light that makes people believe in things. Chairs line the lawn. White flowers climb the arch. String music floats from somewhere just out of sight. Kids in little formal clothes are already threatening to undo the entire vibe by existing near dirt. Perfect.
I see Lily first, because of course I do. She’s in a pale dress with a bow bigger than her patience, and she runs straight for me, yelling, “Daddy!”
I catch her up before she can wipe icing from God knows where onto my jacket. “You look beautiful, Peanut.”
“I know."
Brooklyn’s daughter through and through. The boys are with Ashlynn inside, both in tiny dress clothes, asleep, like the whole thing bores them. Maddox is trying to convince Nora the flower petals should be thrown “like confetti bombs.” Maddison’s taking her role seriously enough to scold him for it. Sawyer’s wearing suspenders and looking furious about shoes.
All of it hits me in one wave. This isn’t some abstract future anymore. This is the life. Right here. Then the music changes. Everybody turns. And there she is. Brooklyn. She steps out with her bouquet in her hands and a look on her face that nearly puts me on my knees in front of a hundred people. The dress fits her like it was built knowing exactly what she’s carried and what she’s become. Her hair’s pinned back softly. Her mouth curves the slightest bit when she finds me at the end of the aisle, and every single voice in my head goes quiet.
The rest of it blurs in pieces. Lily trying to wave from the front row. Cheyenne crying openly by the second line of the processional because she has no dignity when she’s happy.
Aspen squeezing Boston’s hand so hard he actually flinches.
Dad standing tall beside Ashlynn with that look of fierce peace he only gets when all of us are where we belong.
Then Brooklyn reaches me. That’s when the world narrows back down. I take her hand. “You’re staring,” she whispers.
“Can you blame me?”
“Not really.”
The officiant starts talking. I hear some of it. I’m sure it’s beautiful. What I really hear is Brooklyn breathing. The tiny hitch in it when she laughs under her breath. The way her thumb strokes once over my knuckles like she’s just as aware of me as I am of her.
When it’s time for vows, I go first.
I thought I’d be composed. I’m anything but.
Not because I lose it but because truth doesn’t come out sterile when it matters.
I tell her she made a home with me before either one of us had the language for how deep that was gonna go. I tell her I’ve trusted her with every sharp part of me and never once regretted it. I tell her that every room we fill with kids, bottles, noise, and plans feels like a better room because she’s in it. I tell her I will keep showing up, keep telling the truth, keep loving her like a verb and not a theory.
By the time I’m done, her eyes are wet and so are mine. Whatever. Everybody can deal with it.
Then she reads hers and ruins me completely. Because Brooklyn doesn’t perform emotion. She hands it over clean. She tells me I’ve never loved her halfway, not once, and that’s the safest thing anybody ever gave her. She tells me our children will grow up knowing what it looks like to be chosen because I do it in front of them every day. She tells me she’s not promising perfection, just honesty, heat, loyalty, and a life so full we’ll never mistake silence for peace again.
That one nearly gets a laugh out of me through the lump in my throat.
We say yes.
We say I do.
We kiss.
And just like that, the whole place erupts. The reception goes exactly like family receptions go when there are too many children, too many feelings, and just enough alcohol to make everything louder. Dad dances with all the girls. Ashlynn cries three separate times. Boston gets cake on his cuff and acts like it’s a medical emergency. Lincoln actually relaxes once he’s got both toddlers in a conga line with Nora. Dallas sits back for a full ten minutes at one point and just watches all of it with Cheyenne tucked into his side and Sawyer asleep on his shoulder, and the look on his face is worth memorizing.
Brooklyn and I get a dance in the middle of all of it. Just one.
Slow enough to breathe in. “We’re married,” she says against my mouth.
“Looks good on you.”
“You’re biased.”
“Hopelessly.”
She smiles, and I think there probably isn’t a version of forever I’d want that doesn’t start right here.
Later, much later, after sparklers and hugs and grandparents loaded with overtired children and the last relative finally heads out, I carry my wife into the hotel suite because I’m not made of stone and I’ve had that image in my head since I saw her at the top of the aisle.
She laughs against my neck. “Show-off.”
“Your husband,” I correct.
“That’s gonna take some getting used to.”
“Hope not.”
The second the door shuts, the whole tone changes.
No audience. No reception. No brothers. No kids in the next room. Just us and the aftermath of the best day of my life spread out in white silk and tired smiles.
I set her down slow, hands still at her waist. For a second we just look at each other.
Then she says, “Kiss me.” I do.
It goes from sweet to hungry in one breath. My hands find the zipper at her back. Hers find my tie. We get halfway through undressing each other before either one of us remembers how fine fabrics work, and then we both start laughing hard enough to ruin the urgency for thirty seconds.
“Very elegant,” she says.
“Shut up.”
“Yes, husband.”
By the time the dress is hanging over a chair, and my jacket’s on the floor, all the laughter burns right back into something hotter. I walk her backward till the back of her knees hit the bed, then take my time because I’ve waited all damn day and because she deserves to be looked at thoroughly before anything else happens.
She’s gorgeous, wrecked in the best way and completely mine. “You gonna keep staring?” she asks.
“Till I die, probably.”
“So cocky.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
I kneel in front of her and press one kiss to the center of her stomach first. Then lower and lower.
The sound she makes is worth every second I spent in a suit today.
What follows is not rushed. I won’t let it be. I spend the better part of an hour putting my mouth and hands everywhere I’ve wanted them since morning, telling her exactly what I think of the privilege while I do. She’s flushed, laughing one second, cursing me the next, then coming apart so hard I have to hold her down through it with both hands and my name in her ear.
After that, she gets a turn. Apparently marriage has made her bolder, which is saying something. She pushes me onto the bed, climbs over me in lingerie and nothing else, and takes the kind of slow revenge that leaves my hands fisted in the sheets and my head back before she’s done.
“Problem?” she asks, smug as hell.
“You’re a menace.”
“Too late now.”
When I finally pull her down under me and sink into her, it feels like the whole day narrows into one perfect point. This. Her. The bed. The dark outside the hotel windows. The ring on her hand catching lamplight when she drags her nails down my back.
I move slow at first because I want to feel every inch of it, want to hear every sound she makes when I give her exactly what she’s been working herself toward all night. Then moving slower stops being possible when she wraps one leg high around my waist and whispers, “Come on, Baby.”
That’s all I need, and what comes after is filthy in the best way, hot enough to leave the windows fogged, emotional enough to matter, intimate enough to feel like the whole book of our life just turned a page and didn’t lose a single line getting there. I tell her I love her. She says it back like a prayer and a dare. We finish tangled up in each other, both of us wrecked, both of us laughing a little at the fact that my wedding band keeps tapping lightly against her hip every time I forget to brace properly.
Hours later, after a shower and more sex because apparently vows didn’t make us less greedy, she falls asleep against my chest with one hand spread over my heart.
I stay awake a little longer. Not because I’m anxious. Because I want to look. At the ring. At the woman. At the quiet.
At the life waiting on the other side of this room with our children and our family and all the noise we built together. Heather sent flowers.
My family sent themselves. In the end, that’s the difference between performance and love.
Only one of them stayed long enough to dance.