“But that’s not true, right, Orvie? On our wedding night, he took me hard from behind with his hands pulling my hair like he paid for it.”
I gasp as Freedom chuckles.
“She kept that long hair for decades for a reason,” Uncle Orval says loud enough to draw the attention of half our guests.
“Anyway, my point is, we all know it’s not your first time having the sex, because you’re already knocked up, but just because it’s your second wedding night doesn’t mean you can’t get dirty and have some fun,” Emma says, nodding along as if giving the world’s best advice known to man.
“Please, stop,” I beg, but my wife steps in front of me, her plate overflowing with food.
“No, I totally want that. Sammy, you’re pulling my hair later!” she hollers, making Emma smile widely.
“Good,” Emma replies, grabbing her food and heading toward their table. “Oh, and, Samuel?” I’m almost afraid to look her way, but I do. “You can thank me later for the wedding night gift.” With a wink, she turns and walks away, leaving us standing at the food table and wondering, what the hell they bought us.
“Come on, Sammy. Baby and I are starved,” Freedom says, pulling my thoughts away from what is sure to be a completely inappropriate gift from my aunt and uncle.
After dinner, Jensen stands up and toasts us as husband and wife, even though we’ve already held those titles for two months. My family has done everything to make this the wedding we missed out on and the celebration we deserve, including stringing white lights from the big oak trees and playing music. All and all, it’s the perfect day.
I’m standing off to the side, chatting with Levi, Linkin, and Ryan when Freedom comes up and wraps her arms around my waist. My own arm instantly goes to her shoulder, pulling her to me and breathing her in. “Hey, holding up okay?” I ask, always worried about her overdoing it.
“I’m great,” she says, holding up a cannoli. “I was able to snatch the last one of these bad boys before Max got to it.”
I laugh, picturing her grabbing the treat before our nephew. “I’m glad you were able to steal it from the clutches of a five-year-old.”
She snorts. “Right?” she says, as she drops it on the ground. “Shitballs.” Freedom drops to her knees in the grass and scoops up the dessert. Before she stands back up, her eyes lock in on my shoes.
“What? Did I step in something?” The thought makes me cringe.
Freedom reaches over with her cream-cheese filling covered hands and grabs my pant leg, ripping them up and exposing my socks. “Oh my God! You’re wearing the socks!” she bellows with a huge smile on her face.
I glance down, trying to shake my leg, much like I did all those months ago in the funeral home. “Get up, Freedom. People will get the wrong idea,” I tell her, noticing how everyone is smiling over at us. Freedom is on her knees in front of me, and I can only envision the image it creates.
“You love me,” she coos, smiling at the sex position socks she got me for my birthday last summer.
When she stands up, I take her in my arms, careful to avoid the cream cheese mess she has made, and place my lips to hers. It takes all the control I possess to not deepen the kiss the way I want to. The way I intend to later this evening when we’re alone.
I look down at my wife, and feel the waves of contentment and joy wash over me. “And you love me.”
If you were to tell me I’d someday find myself married to the one woman who has the ability to drive me mad, I’d have argued you were a liar. But here I am, against all odds, married to the woman who completes me, who drives me crazy, who sees my flaws and loves me despite them. The woman who carries my child, and will, hopefully, one day give me more. My polar opposite.
Freedom.
My love.
Another Epilogue
Mary Ann
“Good evening, Mary Ann.”
I turn in my seat to find Stan Phillips, the minister who married my son just a few short hours ago, standing behind me. “Stan, so good to see you again,” I tell him, taking his offered hand.
I’ll be honest, I’ve only seen the man a handful of times in the last few years. Word on the street was if he wasn’t at the church with his congregation, he was home, taking care of his ailing wife. Grace Phillips passed away last year after a lengthy battle with ovarian cancer. Her story actually reminds me of my niece’s story. Even though I didn’t know Trish, Orval and Emma have shared enough to create a lasting, loving impression of their daughter in my eyes.
He points to the chair beside me. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I tell him before taking a nervous sip of the red wine in my glass.
“You look well,” he says with a small smile, and I’m suddenly grateful for the darkened backyard to help hide my blush.
“Oh, uh, thank you.”
“You have a beautiful home here,” he adds, looking around and smiling as we watch my children visit and carry on with their cousins.
“Thank you. I apologize for not coming to church lately. I don’t get away from the house often.”
Stan chuckles. “Mary Ann, you haven’t been to church in about fourteen years,” he says, his eyes dancing with delight.
His eyes. I don’t know why I’ve never really noticed them before. They’re this beautiful shade of hazel. A mix of green and gold that makes my heart skip a beat. And his dark hair has definitely grayed since the last time I saw him. He has that whole salt-and-pepper thing down, and all I can think about is how handsome he looks in his pressed shirt and black dress slacks. I glance down, feeling that blush spread
