Say I Do

by Rachel Hauck

  Muffled sounds come from the kitchen.

  I raise the vase over my shoulder, prepared to hurl it at the perpetrator’s head. I am creeping toward the noise when, out of nowhere, Jake Sawyer steps into view. I yelp. He jumps. And the vase falls to the floor with a heavy clunk.

  “You scared me half to death!” I say, clutching my chest.

  “Who did you think I was—Ted Bundy?”

  “I had no idea. You didn’t announce yourself.”

  “My truck’s in your driveway.”

  “It is?” I look over my shoulder, as if I might see through the walls of my house. How did I not notice Jake’s truck on my way in? Then I remember those five words on my dad’s bucket list, the ones that had me on autopilot. “Where’s Samson?”

  “Out back chasing squirrels.” He cocks his head in that way he does whenever he’s concerned. “You okay?”

  I wave my hand, then bend over and retrieve the vase. Not even a chip. The thing is made of thick, sturdy glass—the kind of material that probably wouldn’t have knocked out a burglar so much as killed him. I’m very thankful I didn’t chuck it at Jake’s head. “What are you doing here?”

  He holds up a wrench. “You said your kitchen sink faucet was leaking.”

  “Oh, right.” I return the vase to the sofa table and cup my forehead, trying to gain my bearings. “You didn’t have to come over on your day off.”

  Jake runs his father’s hardware store. Arthritis makes it hard for Mr. Sawyer to do much besides chat with the customers, so Jake does all the real work. And whenever he’s not working there, he spends time in his gigantic man-shed, making and restoring furniture. He calls it a hobby, but I know better. Jake is a craftsman. If it wasn’t for loyalty to his dad, I have every bit of confidence he could turn his “hobby” into a lucrative, full-time profession.

  “I figured I needed to fix the leak before Mayor Altman issued you a citation.”

  I smile, but only just. Our mayor has recently gone on a crusade to make Mayfair a “green” town. His enthusiasm over the cause has failed to spread to the rest of us.

  Jake scratches the dark stubble on his chin, studying me like I studied the vase a moment ago. I wonder if he sees any cracks. “I was on my way out to get my toolbox.”

  “Oh, okay.” My conversational skills are riveting today.

  He heads outside, the screen door whapping shut behind him. The shock of finding that list, followed by the onslaught of adrenaline, has me out of sorts. I need to go upstairs and get cleaned up for the Fall Harvest Festival committee meeting. My best friend is the committee coordinator and has finagled me into joining in the planning, which means I should march up the stairs, wash up, change into something nice, and forget I ever saw Dad’s bucket list. But chirping birds and late morning sunlight woo me outside. I sit on sun-warmed floorboards and rest my elbows on my knees.

  Walk Emma down the aisle.

  He never would have written those words if he would have known I’d see them, but I did see them and it can’t be undone. Those five words are seared into my conscious, worse than the most stubborn of stains.

  Jake pulls his toolbox from the bed of his rusted-out Chevy.

  I squint at him as he walks toward me—broad shoulders clad in a flannel shirt, unbuttoned over a simple gray tee, backward Milwaukee Brewers ball cap, with his perpetual five o’clock shadow and eyes the color of the sky overhead. I wait for him to walk past. Instead, he sets his toolbox on the porch and sits beside me, bringing with him the unmistakable scents of cedar and pine. It’s a fragrance that will forever and always be Jake. “Something on your mind, Emma?”

  Should I tell him what I saw? Should I tell him about my crazy, half-cocked idea? This is Jake, after all. Buddies with my ex-fiancé, sure, but also my brother’s best and oldest friend—which would make him like a brother to me, if not for the giant crush I hid over the course of my growing-up years. He’s a guy who has the whole quick to listen, slow to speak thing perfected. I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms, thankful I’m not one for mascara. “I found my dad’s bucket list.”

  “Bucket list?”

  “Everything he wants to accomplish before he . . . you know.”

  Jake gives a slow, comprehending nod.

  “Almost everything is crossed off.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Three are left. One he’ll be able to cross off as soon as he returns from Door County. Another I’m sure is in the works. And then the last one is completely outside of his control.” I grip my elbows. “But not mine.”

  Jake raises his eyebrows. “What is it?”

  “Walk Emma down the aisle.” And there it is, gathering quicker than I can blink—moisture in my eyes. I swipe at a lone tear and look away. “On my way home, I was contemplating calling Chase.”

  “Chase?” Jake says the name with disgust, like he can’t believe my nerve.

  “I know, but it’s my dad. And this is finally something I can give him. You know how much I’ve been looking for a way to help. Well, here it is.” Selfishly, I want it for myself too. What girl wants the sole memory of her father walking her down an aisle to be of her six-year-old self saying I do to an overweight, crooked-eyed Boston terrier?

  Jake scratches his jaw. “Do you still love Chase?”

  I shake my head, hating the answer even as I give it. I’m not sure if I ever really loved Chase, at least not in the way brides are supposed to love their grooms. He was a safe bet. I knew exactly what our life would be together. Until Dad got cancer and all bets were off, even the safe ones. “But he’s a great guy. We get along. People get married for a lot less.”

  Jake takes off his cap and runs his hand over his dark hair as he looks out at my overgrown lawn and the leaves rustling on the branches of my maple tree. I can guess what he’s thinking. Chase and Jake were friends, and I broke Chase’s heart. Surely there’s some sort of guy code that requires Jake to watch his buddy’s back. Keep the ex far, far away. He slides his baseball hat back onto his head. “If you’re looking for a groom, I can do it.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be your groom.”

  I laugh. “Be serious . . .”

  “I am being serious.”

  “You can’t be my groom.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not . . . I’m not . . .” I fumble my words, trying to grasp one of a thousand different reasons. “You have a girlfriend.”

  He pulls his chin back. “A girlfriend?”

  “That mystery woman the bunco ladies are always gabbing about.”

  He cocks his head, like he’s disappointed I would believe anything that comes from the mouth of a sixty-year-old woman wearing a pink T-shirt with the words Bunco Babe on it.

  “What—there’s no mystery woman?”

  He shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  “But why?”

  “The bunco ladies kept trying to set me up. I kept saying no. So they made an assumption I didn’t bother to correct.”

  “No, I don’t mean why isn’t there a mystery woman. I mean why would you offer to be my groom? That’s . . . that’s . . . a little different than fixing my faucet.”

  Jake’s cheeks turn pink, and Jake never blushes. He scuffs his work boot against the cement. Drags his broad palm down his face. My ravenous curiosity eats up more and more of my shock the longer he makes me wait. What could possibly motivate him to make such an offer?

  “Ben.” The name escapes on an exhale—shockingly un-expected.

  “You’re offering to be my groom because of your brother?”

  “Remember when Ben made it to the Lumberjack World Championships in Hayward?”

  “He was the town celebrity.” I smile a sad smile. Despite graduating in the same class, Ben and I were never close. Our link was always Jake. Whenever we ran into each other, like people do in small towns, that’s who we’d talk about—Jake, and how he was liking life in Milwaukee. But now Jake is ba
ck in Mayfair, and Ben . . .

  “He begged me to come watch him compete. It was a big deal.”

  “You didn’t know what would happen.” Nobody did. Not a single person on this earth could have predicted that two days into the tournament, Ben would die in a freak accident. Everyone had high hopes that Hayward would be the first of many world championships for the youngest Sawyer boy.

  “Doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t go.”

  I pull at the sleeves of my sweatshirt, wishing I could change the subject, wishing I could take away the sadness clouding Jake’s eyes. Seems that’s all I do these days—wish, wish, wish. Only there isn’t a genie in sight and the stars aren’t out yet.

  “It was the only time Ben ever asked me for anything. And I didn’t give it to him.”

  “Jake . . .”

  “Trust me, Emma, you don’t want to live with regret.” He lets out his breath, then sets his hands on the floorboards behind us, leans back into his arms, and nudges me with his shoulder. “Besides, it’d get the Bunco Babes off my back. You can be my mystery woman.”

  The words unleash a flutter in my chest. I tell myself it’s a silly, leftover reaction from days long gone. “Okay, but what happens after? I mean, you’d be . . . we’d be . . .” The rising heat in my cheeks makes me want to pull my hood over my head.

  He clears his throat. “It wouldn’t be a real wedding. I mean, we wouldn’t sign the marriage certificate.”

  “Oh, right.”

  The crease between his eyebrows deepens. “Unless . . .”

  I wave my hand, shooing away whatever his unless might be. I mistook his friendship once before. I promised myself a long time ago I would never make that assumption again. “No, of course that’s what we’d do. But Jake, you don’t have to do this. I mean, it would be . . .”

  “Crazy?”

  I laugh. “Beyond.”

  “Crazy’s not all bad. I’ve actually heard that crazy can be fun.” He smiles at me then—the kind of smile that is bracketed between a pair of parenthetical dimples. “So what do you say, Emma? You want to be crazy with me?”

  It’s nothing like my first proposal. There is no ring or flower bouquet or man on one knee professing his undying devotion. There is no hesitation either. Without letting myself think about the consequences or implications, I say yes to Jake Sawyer. For my dad.

  Chapter 3

  A cotton candy sunset frames my parents’ house as Jake turns the key to his truck. The grumbling engine goes quiet. “You ready?”

  I wipe my clammy palms against my jeans. “My stomach’s been doing nonstop pirouettes since you picked me up.” Up until this point, our less-than-twenty-four-hour-old engagement has been nothing but an enticing idea—one Jake and I talked through at length over an entire pot of pumpkin spice coffee yesterday, after he finished fixing my faucet and I had returned from the Fall Harvest Festival committee meeting. We sat at my too-tiny, can-never-have-more-than-one-guest-over-for-dinner kitchen table and hashed out a plan.

  “Are you afraid they’ll be upset?” Jake asks.

  “Are you kidding? My mom will be thrilled.”

  “She will?”

  “Come on. She’s dreamed about us getting married since we were teenagers.”

  His eyes crinkle in the corners. “No she hasn’t.”

  “Trust me, she has.”

  He leans back in his seat, the evening’s shadows darkening his features. “Huh.”

  I take a deep breath, annoyed with my pesky conscience. According to doctors, my dad has one month, maybe two, and as far as I’m concerned, there will be no items left uncrossed on his bucket list. Not if I can help it. Whatever confessions I need to make can be made after he’s gone. Surely God will understand. Surely, after twenty-seven years of playing by his rules, he will allow me this one indiscretion, if something so gray can even be considered an indiscretion.

  “Emma?”

  I blink.

  Jake’s staring at me. No baseball hat. No five o’clock shadow. Not even one of his flannels. His transformation from rugged to dashing does little to improve my focus.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I have something for you.” This time, he’s the one who wipes his hands on his jeans. The show of nerves is comforting somehow, a reminder that we’re in this together. He shifts his hips forward, reaches into his back pocket, and brings out his fist. “I thought, since we’re engaged . . .”

  “Please tell me you didn’t buy a ring.”

  He opens his hand.

  My fingers move to my lips.

  “It was my maternal grandmother’s. I inherited it from my mother. I know it’s not a diamond, but it seemed like something you would wear.”

  “Jake, I can’t wear this.”

  “Sure you can.”

  I shake my head. Jake should save this for the woman he loves. For the woman he’s going to spend the rest of his life with. That woman isn’t me. I can’t wear his grandmother’s ring. But before I’m able to voice any of this, he slips the piece of jewelry onto my finger—a gold band set with an oval-cut pearl surrounded by tiny red gemstones. “Now they’ll believe us.”

  I look at him, this man I’ve known since I was three. I grew up tagging along with him and my brother, at first wanting to be one of the guys, then wanting to date one of those guys, and here that guy is, putting his grandmother’s ring on my finger. I stare down at my hand, reminding myself this isn’t real. Jake is only doing me a favor. Besides, I laid my schoolgirl crush to rest a long time ago. Chase had been proof. “It’s beautiful.”

  He winks, climbs out of his truck, and opens my door, letting in the chill. I swing my legs around and take his offered arm. Together, we crunch through the leaves in the same lawn we used to play in as kids—ghost in the graveyard, kick the can, capture the flag, and every other neighborhood game—when two things happen simultaneously: I notice my brother’s motorcycle behind Dad’s Lincoln Navigator, and the front door flies open.

  Mom stands inside the door frame, beaming from ear to ear, her gray-blonde curls tucked behind her ears, a novel’s worth of questions sparkling in her hazel eyes. Nix the gray and the wrinkles and twenty extra pounds, and I am basically her doppelgänger. “If it isn’t Jake Sawyer!” She steps forward and gives Jake a tight squeeze, making eyes at me over his shoulder, mouthing his name as if I don’t already know it. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Tate.”

  “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times.” Mom gives his chest a friendly prod with her finger. “It’s Marie to you.”

  The pirouettes in my stomach pick up speed. We might be able to fool my parents, but my brother is a whole different ball game. To say his presence complicates our plans is the understatement of the year. “Liam’s here?”

  “He got back from his trip this afternoon. I invited him to join us.”

  Jake and I exchange a nervous glance.

  “How was Door County?” he asks Mom.

  “Oh, just wonderful. Gorgeous in the fall. Have you ever been?”

  “A couple times as a kid.”

  “It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?”

  He nods earnestly.

  Mom looks from him, to me, to him, to me, her eyes dancing. “Should we go inside?”

  I want to shake my head. Nope, no thank you. I would much rather stand out here, away from Liam and his prying, astute eyes. Judging by the way Jake’s feet do not move, I think he’s in agreement with my plan.

  “Come in, you two. Come in. Martin, Liam, look who’s here!” Mom motions for Jake to go ahead, then takes my arm before I can follow, a question written all over her delighted face. What does this mean? As much as I’d like to stand out here where it’s safe and attempt to explain my unexpected guest to her, I cannot leave Jake on his own. He’s already doing enough.

  “Mom.”

  She lets it go for now, and we join the men, who are busy shaking hands in the middl
e of the living room. Jake stands with a stiffness in his shoulders while a slightly sunburned, mostly tan Liam looks on with an unmistakable gleam in his eye, as if he’s tucked a smirk into one corner of his mouth. We haven’t even explained ourselves yet and already he doesn’t believe us. I can tell. Trying to ignore him, I smile at Dad. Except for the scar on his bald head and the sharp edges of his shoulders, there is no trace of the cancer spreading throughout his brain. He’s even gained back some weight since finishing his last round of chemo several months ago. His warm brown eyes sparkle as he steps forward and wraps me in a tight hug. I don’t want him to let go. I want to stay right here, in this moment forever.

  “Fun trip?” I manage to squeak out.

  “The best.” His voice rumbles against my ear, an ocean of calm. It makes the tightness in my throat tighter. My father has always been my hero, but these past two years, especially these past several days, has him superseding hero status. “How were the cats?” he asks.

  “Don’t get me started.”

  He chuckles, then lets me go and addresses Jake. “It’s a nice surprise to see you here.”

  “Definitely unexpected,” Liam adds.

  Jake sticks his hands in his back pockets. “I thought you were sailing around the San Juan Islands or something like that.”

  “Finished a day early.” My brother has an insane job. He actually gets paid—and good money too—to take rich people on outdoor adventures, all in the name of leadership training. He’s climbed Kilimanjaro, hiked the Na Pali Coast in Kauai, and almost everything else in between. Technically, he lives in Mayfair. But he’s gone more often than he’s around. “So what’s this?” He flicks his finger between Jake and me. “Are you two together?”

  I look at my partner in crime, then back at my brother. “I guess you could say that.”

  Liam’s eyes widen.

  I give him my best pleading look.

  It only makes the smirk in the corner of his mouth bigger. He gives Jake a friendly slap on the shoulder. “It’s about time, man! Emma only had a crush on you all through high school.”