Rough Road (21 page)
Authors: Vanessa North
He makes a little show of straightening something on my suit jacket—which I happen to know is pristine as fuck—but I let him anyway, and then he hugs me again and I figure the emo-talk is over for now.
“Hey, Ed,” Dave says behind me. “Can I steal my husband-to-be away?”
“Of course, Bedhead.” I turn to face him, and he’s freckled and smiling, with his hair tamed into something almost orderly. “He’s all yours. I think it’s time to show Ben’s mama to her seat.”
Ben groans. “Don’t let her get talking. She’s still on about how she doesn’t know why it has to be called ‘marriage,’ and can’t we all just call it something else so no one gets confused.” He mimics his mama’s Southern drawl with a practiced ear and a flair for the absurdity of her remark. I roll my eyes. I can hear it now.
“At least she’s here,” Dave says quietly enough that I don’t think I was supposed to hear it, and I take my leave before my reaction can show on my face. To Dave’s knowledge, his family—at least his mother and his stepbrother—aren’t here, and their absence is clearly weighing on him. There was no way Romeo would ever let his son travel out of state to a gay wedding.
Dave doesn’t know that Ridley came to my office after Election Day with a plan to thwart his parents and come to the wedding anyway. I feel an anticipatory thrill, knowing that Ridley and his friend Caden arrived at the hotel just after brunch. His plan had given me an opportunity to stick it to his dad while doing something nice for Dave and Ben. A win-win all around. I couldn’t wait to see Dave’s face when he saw his brother.
For all her lack of political support, Ben’s mother loves her son enough to be here for him, and when I hold out my arm, she takes it with a big smile.
“I always figured he’d end up with you,” she says in a stage whisper, poking me in the chest with one peach-painted fingernail. “Shows what this old lady knows.”
“Why, Mrs. Warren, we all know I’m too much of a bad influence on a good boy like Ben.” I wink at her, and she laughs.
“Well, I don’t reckon you turned out so bad,” she concedes.
Across the aisle, young and awkward and immensely pleased with himself, Ridley is settling Dave’s aunt—his dad’s sister—into her seat. He catches my eye, and I give him a little nod. We go take our places by the officiant and wait. I search for Wish out among the guests and find him halfway back, watching me. I give him a surreptitious smile, and he answers it with one of his own.
Then the music starts.
Ben and Dave walk down the aisle together, hand in hand, and the moment Dave sees Ridley is something I’m not likely to ever forget. He startles, looks like he’s going to cry, then wipes the back of his hand across his eyes and nods, like a major problem is solved and everything is all right now. And I guess it is. Ben leans in and whispers something to Dave, and they both turn to each other and grin.
They don’t stop grinning at each other throughout the ceremony, and by the time they get to the kiss, answering grins spread throughout the guests. Ben’s mama lets out a wolf whistle, his dad tries to shush her, and everyone bursts into laughter and applause.
Ben leans his forehead against Dave’s for a long moment, eyes closed, then tugs his hand and leads him back down the aisle. Ridley and I follow, and it hits me, really hits me: Ben is married, and I’m nothing but happy.
There’s something about the silly half-drunk people get at wedding receptions that makes me smile. Ben, of course, is drinking soda, but the wine flows freely, and when Davis pulls me into a dance, I’ve got my own buzz working. He’s taller than me and, like me, clearly suffered through ballroom dance lessons at some point. I giggle when he pulls me into the classic form and starts to lead me through a fox-trot, which devolves to a sloppy, overly lewd rumba when Ben whistles at us.
“Thank you so much for being here,” Dave murmurs against my ear. “It means the world to both of us.”
I squeeze him around the waist and give him a teasing grope. “It means a lot to me too.”
“I think we wouldn’t be here today if it hadn’t been for you. And what you did for Ridley? So he could be here? I can’t tell you—” He breaks off and sniffs, his steps faltering.
“Oh, no, Bedhead. No tears, I am not equipped to handle that today.” I take the lead and pull him into a turn. “What did Ben say to you, halfway down the aisle? Made you grin like a fool?”
Dave laughs. “He said ‘I’m flying.’”
“I’m flying? What the hell does that mean?”
Dave grins at me, and then spins me under his arm. “It means I love him. And he knows it.”
“Y’all have some weird-ass inside jokes.” I shake my head and give him a side-eye for good measure, but then I see Wish talking to Ben across the dance floor, both of them watching us with grins on their faces, and I think I’ve got a good idea what he means.
When the song ends, we make our way over to them, and I take Wish’s hand. “Come walk with me.”
His hand is warm and firm in mine, and I give it a little squeeze of appreciation. It’s a balmy night for November, and as we walk out onto the plantation grounds, a cool breeze catches the Spanish moss in the trees, making it sway and rustling the last few oak leaves to the ground.
“You did it,” he says. “You let him go. First the dealership, now the wedding.”
“He was never mine to let go.” I look over at him. “You ever see yourself doing something like this?”
“Get married?” He glances back at the lantern-lit dance floor and shrugs, but his face is wistful. “My mom would like that. But I don’t think it’s my thing.”
Thank God for that. I don’t know what I’d say next if he professed to dreaming about his wedding day since he was old enough to walk two G.I. Joes down an imaginary aisle.
“What about moving in with someone?” I nudge his hip with our hands. “Someone who loves you, and wants you in his home because it feels more like home with you there. Someone like me.”
He stills, turns to me. “Someone who loves me?”
I nod. “I love you. I know I asked you before and you said no, and I hope it was because the way I asked you was wrong, and not because you don’t want to be with me. Because I want you with me, and I want you to want to be there, and . . . and I’m going to shut up now because I’m doing this babbling thing I do when I’m nervous and I’m sure it’s not very flattering.”
His grin is dazzling, even in the dark. “I love you too. And I want to be with you all the time. But . . .”
“Wait,” I stop him. “Before you give me an answer—same as before, I don’t expect to treat it like a roommate situation. But however you want to contribute to our household expenses, I’ll accept graciously. I understand and respect why that’s important to you.”
“So romantic, S-Class,” he teases. “How is a guy supposed to resist a proposal like that?”
“I’m serious.” Please, let him see how serious.
“I know you are. I know. And I appreciate that you’ll let me contribute. It feels—I don’t know. It just feels better. Thank you.”
“Is that a yes?” I dare to hope.
“Yes, I’ll move in with you.”
“Thank God.” I pull him into a kiss, breaking it only to say, “I didn’t know how I was going to ask a third time if you told me no again.”
“I don’t ever want to say no to you again,” he murmurs against my lips.
I hold his hand as we walk back to the wedding reception, giddy with relief that he said yes, excitement at the idea of living with him—not only the nights of sweaty kinky sex or enjoying the view of his downward-facing dog first thing in the morning, but also having him in my big tacky house to make me feel wild and alive like no one else ever has.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I think running my car off the road this summer might be the best thing that ever happened to me,” I confess.
He laughs a little. “Masochist.”
“Now with a live-in sadist.” I squeeze his hand.
“For as long as you want me.” He squeezes back.
“Does forever sound okay?” Oh that was cheesy—I can’t believe I actually said it, and I am going to die of embarrassment.
He doesn’t laugh. He gives me that little crooked grin, brushes his hair out of his eyes, and nods.
“Yeah, S-Class. That works for me.”
And then there’s no more talking, and I don’t ever want to stop kissing him.
I owe a debt of gratitude to those who helped me muscle this book into shape. To Sarah Frantz Lyons for poking me from time to time while I worked through several false starts. To Chris and Liz for medical consulting. And to Caz—many times over—for helping me shape the words I thought I meant into the words I meant to say.
Author of over a dozen novels, novellas, and short stories, Vanessa North delights in giving happy-ever-afters to characters who don’t think they deserve them. Relentless curiosity led her to take up knitting and run a few marathons “just to see if she could.” She started writing for the same reason. Her very patient husband pretends not to notice when her hobbies take over the house. Living and writing in Northwest Georgia, she finds her attempts to keep a quiet home are frequently thwarted by twin boy-children and a very, very large dog.
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vanessanorth.com
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