Good Boy

by Sarina Bowen

  The music notes climb up my spine, breaking out as chills across my back. And suddenly I’m not ready. Jesus. My baby brother is getting married, and Wes’s mom made the right choice at the last minute. The music is really pretty, my eyes are hot and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

  I’m getting all gooey and the wedding hasn’t even started yet.

  “Deep breath, Jessie,” Blake murmurs. “Everything is fine.”

  He’s right. It is. But there’s no time to agree.

  With a gentle firmness, he takes my arm and leads me to the front of the group. There is nothing in front of me but the pretty green grass of the aisle. The guests turn and look toward us.

  This is it. I’ve been planning this for three months. I hope I’ve pulled it off. Maybe I’m about to get my period, because I’m drowning in emotions right now. And so much could still go wrong…

  “Ready, and…” Blake whispers.

  I step forward with him. Once. Twice.

  Just as people turn to watch us, he actually grabs my butt.

  It must be divine intervention that I manage not to shriek. Instead, I do a sort of awkward shimmy that almost takes me down onto the grass, but I recover quickly. “Oh my God,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. “Why do you torture me?”

  “You looked a little glassy-eyed. Needed to make sure you wouldn’t faint on me. Better now?”

  If I had a knife, he’d be dead right now.

  We walk down the aisle together, and I hope the photographer doesn’t capture my feral smile.

  We reach the podium and, right on cue, we take our places on opposite sides of the minister. We turn to forty-five degrees just as we’d rehearsed, and I give Blake a death stare. He smiles kindly at me.

  When I look at the crowd, they’re all watching Jamie, Wes and my parents. The four of them look radiant. My parents take their seats, my brother arrives at my side a few moments later, and I give him a little unrehearsed hug because I can’t help myself.

  “Dearly beloved,” the minister begins. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two very special young men…”

  My attention is drawn to a sniffle in the front row. Oh boy. It’s Dyson. He pulls an embroidered handkerchief out of his breast pocket and blows his nose. Loudly.

  The pastor makes some introductions and then invites my mother up to read Emily Dickinson’s poem “Forever is Composed of Nows.”

  It’s beautiful, but the poem takes me too deeply inside my own head. It reminds me that I need to move forward with my own forever by getting the now part right.

  My brother Joe reads a Walt Whitman poem, and then my sister Tammy stands up for her reading. She carries baby Lilac up to the podium, and everyone says “Awww.”

  Smiling, Tammy reads a bit of the judge’s ruling that overturned Proposition 8 in California. “Marriage under law is a union of equals,” she finishes, and the audience claps.

  I sneak a glance at Wes’s mother. She’s clapping politely. I can’t imagine what’s in her head right now as she watches my big, crazy family applauding the addition of her son to our clan.

  The last thing that happens before the vows is that the cellist plays an Irish tune while my tiny nephew Ty wobbles down the aisle carrying the rings. He gets about halfway there when he sort of stumbles to a halt, then looks around himself, as if unsure what he’s supposed to do next.

  Jamie steps out, positioning himself so that he’s centered on the aisle, then crouches down. “Over here, little man,” he says.

  Ty’s round face lights up, and he starts again, walking toward his uncle Jamie in his little suit jacket and clip-on tie. Everyone melts, and not just because they’re sitting in the sun.

  Jamie takes the rings from Ty and then picks him up, handing him to his daddy in the front row.

  When Jamie is back in position, facing Wes, the pastor asks them to join hands. From where I’m standing, I can’t really see my brother’s face. But I can see Ryan Wesley perfectly. As a rule, he’s not a solemn or serious guy. But right now his expression is full of awe.

  The minister introduces the vows portion of the ceremony and then begins with my brother. “I, James,” she says, “take you, Ryan, to be my friend and husband.”

  “I, James,” my beautiful brother echoes, “take you, Ryan, to be my friend and husband.”

  “To be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of perfect health.” My brother repeats the vow. “In times of joy and inevitable sorrow, in times of failure and in times of glory, I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and stay by your side, forever.”

  Oh, man. My eyes sting like crazy as I listen to my baby brother repeat those lovely words. Because I know he’ll make good on them. And Wes is looking back at Jamie like he’s hearing words of love for the first time in his life. Like he’d better not breathe because he might miss something.

  And I want that, too. I want someone to look at me like they just won the lottery. And I want to feel sure that I have, too—that I can say “forever” and know I’m making the absolutely right decision. I’ve been in love before. A little. But never like that.

  When it’s Wes’s turn, he lifts his chin in preparation.

  The minister feeds him the first line: “I, Ryan, take you, James, to be my friend and husband.”

  “I, Ryan,” his husky voice repeats, “take you, James, to be my friend and husband.”

  “To be yours in times of plenty and in times of want.”

  “To be yours in times of plenty…” He clears his throat, and his cheeks pink up. “And in times of want.”

  “In times of sickness and in times of perfect health…”

  Wes repeats each line slowly, though his voice becomes a little rougher each time. “I promise to cherish and respect you…”

  His eyes are wet now, and I clutch my flowers a little more tightly. Come on, sweetie, I silently encourage him. You’re almost there.

  I feel Jamie lean forward a degree or two, squeezing Wes’s hand.

  “To care for and protect you,” he gets out. Then one fat tear launches itself from his eye and down his rugged cheek.

  My heart breaks into little tiny splinters. Maybe I didn’t enjoy planning this wedding, but I’m sure as hell happy to be part of it now.

  “And stay by your side, forever,” Wes finishes eventually.

  Noisy sobbing can be heard from the front row. It’s Dyson, of course. I force a smile onto my face so I don’t start crying, too. Though there are plenty of people dabbing their eyes in my peripheral vision.

  “By the power vested in me by the State of California,” the minister announces with a smile, “I hereby declare you legally married. You may kiss your husband now.”

  Wes lunges forward and wraps Jamie in the tightest hug I’ve ever seen, like he’s needed to do that for hours. My brother pats his back and turns his head to kiss him, and everybody cheers.

  The musicians begin to play again. Dyson weeps loudly, and everyone gives our men a standing ovation.

  Ladies and gentlemen, my party planning career has peaked. I’ve helped create magic, and I never need to do it again.

  5 Purr-fection

  Blake

  Jess knocked this wedding out of the park. I don’t know why she was stressing so hard, because everything is purr-fection. The ceremony, the dinner, this kick-ass reception. Everything.

  I don’t think a single guest is having a bad time. Folks are dancing and chatting and munching on the five-tiered wedding cake that I forced myself to have only one slice of. If not for my solid good judgment, I’d already have eaten four of the five tiers.

  I eat tons.

  Right now I’m focusing on drinking. Wesley and J-Bomb sprang for the good stuff—the serving staff is handing out bottomless flutes of Cristal and Dom, and there’s an entire table of craft beer on the lawn. I chose champagne. I’ve always loved weddings. The cake. The
bottles of Dommy P. And since I’m never having a wedding myself, I might as well enjoy this one.

  “Hey! You’re one of Ryan’s teammates?” a female voice coos.

  I shift around to see a hot redhead in a hot-pink dress. Tricky color combo, but she pulls it off.

  “I’m a huge fan,” she continues.

  “Really? Hockey fan?” Jamie always tells me that hockey isn’t big in Cali.

  “You are so built!” She squeezes my biceps over my jacket like she’s at the grocery store trying to pick out a ripe melon.

  I tolerate this because it’s my champagne-holding hand and I’ll probably spill the Dommy P all over myself if I make an abrupt movement. But my Spidey senses are tingling. There’s something about her that rubs me the wrong way. Make no mistake—I love having a chick’s hands all over me. But at least buy me dinner first. And I’m not one hundred percent sure that my big fan even knows my name.

  “What’s your favorite thing about hockey?” I ask.

  “Just…all of it,” she says, sweeping hungry eyes over me.

  “Me too,” I admit. “Did you see that game between Miami and Seattle? Crazy, right?”

  “Great game.” She nods enthusiastically, her hands on my lapels.

  Ah, hell. I knew it. Those cities don’t even have NHL teams. My interest in this conversation dies a fiery death. Don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with women looking for hockey players or women looking for sex. But what I can’t stand are phonies.

  My head gives a stab, and I rub my temple.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “…back in to-ow-ow-ow-own!”

  I’m spared from answering thanks to the dying cat on stage. Also known as Matt Eriksson trying to sing. Eriksson, one of our star forwards, is shit-faced and belting out his version of “The Boys Are Back in Town.” I immediately search the lawn for Jess, because I’m pretty sure drunken hockey player karaoke wasn’t something she arranged.

  I spot her in the corner of the shiny dance floor, in deep conversation with my man Cindy. Jess doesn’t seem to notice that it’s Eriksson performing with the band instead of the wedding singer she probably picked after interviewing five thousand other candidates.

  The crowd notices Eriksson, though. And they’re loving him. Loving him hard. Ten of my teammates are gathered at the bottom of the stage, their ties loosened, glasses and bottles raised in the air as they sing along, loud and off-key.

  “You hockey boys sure are rowdy,” Red remarks with a giggle. “Do you…” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “…want to get out of here? Go somewhere a little more private?”

  I gently pry her manicured talons off my arm. “Sorry. Got best-man duties to attend to.” Then I dart off before she can object.

  I get it—weddings make people super horny. But I’m not feeling this chick. She made me feel like a piece of meat, and not in a good way. That ain’t cool.

  “Fuck,” comes a dejected voice. “Gonna miss this.”

  I slap my teammate Forsberg on the back as he sidles up to me. “Naah, nothing to miss. You know there’s this thing called a postal service? People can send each other letters and shit, and I could be wrong, but I think it’s possible to mail stuff between countries. I know, right? Freaky. But that means when you’re down in Florida, you can just open your mailbox and presto! You’ll see all the save-the-dates and bar mitzvah invites and the court summons I plan on sending you when I sue you for that hundred buckaroos you owe me—”

  “Okay, okay, I gotcha.” Forsberg sputters out a laugh. “Do you ever shut up, bro?”

  “Naah.”

  He rakes a hand through his scruffy hair and then chugs half his beer. “I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see you guys, but…shit. Getting traded still sucks balls.”

  “Yeah. I know, dude.” And I hope it never happens to me.

  If I got traded, I wouldn’t worry about adjusting to a new team. I fit in everywhere. Throw me on a dude ranch and slap some assless chaps on me? I’ll be roping steers and riding broncs like a champ before the day is done. Adapting to a new franchise would be even easier. Hockey is hockey, right?

  But I like my life in Toronto. My apartment, my teammates, my family. I’m not ready to say goodbye to any of that yet.

  Forsberg doesn’t look ready either, poor fucker. He’s been walking around all sour-faced ever since the GM told him he was being booted to Florida. It’s goddamn sacrilege almost. Forsberg is one of those players who gets traded every few seasons, and he’s really fucking sick of it.

  It’s going to be weird not to have him on my line this season. Toronto traded Will Forsberg, a solid veteran, for Will O’Connor, a hotshot with a chip on his shoulder. A Will giveth and a Will taketh away. Life always evens itself out, I guess.

  Except, O’Connor’s played for three teams in two years. Grapevine says he can’t keep his mouth shut or his pants zipped. Apparently someone in the head office thought it’d be a good idea to welcome a media nightmare into our town.

  “I got a life here,” Forsberg mutters.

  Shitballs. He looks close to tears. I’m not good with tears. Especially man-tears.

  Luckily, Eriksson stumbles over, saving me from having to bust out a stand-up routine in order to cheer up Forsberg.

  “What’d ya think?” Eriksson asks, nodding toward the stage. “I kicked ass up there, huh?”

  I nod fervently. “You should quit your day job, dude. Like, right now.”

  He nods, too. “And Kara always said I couldn’t sing! Told her she was crazy! The twins love my songs!”

  Oh no. He’s bringing up Kara and his kids? Already? I wasn’t expecting ex-wife and twin-girl talk to start until Eriksson had downed at least five more beers.

  “A good wife would’ve encouraged you to audition for American Idol,” I say solemnly.

  “I know, right? Good fuckin’ riddance! She was holding me back.” But he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, and now I’m sandwiched between two guys on the verge of man-tears.

  Abort! a voice in my head shouts.

  I’m all about being there for my buds, but this is a celebration, dammit. I’m having fun and I’m a wee bit buzzed. Too buzzed to think of any inspirational speeches right now. I already used up my epic speech quota last night and then again tonight at the reception dinner.

  “’Scuse me,” I say, taking a hasty step. “J-Bomb’s waving me over.”

  And holy shit, I’m not lying. Jamie is waving me over. I spare a brief look up at the heavens—Did you do this? I ask the big man. He must’ve. The timing can’t be a coincidence.

  I lumber over to Jamie, who immediately claps a hand on my arm and murmurs, “Look.”

  I follow his gaze to the self-serve dessert station. Wesley is there with his mom. No, Wesley is there hugging his mom.

  “How on earth did you make this happen?” Jamie sounds astonished.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How’d you get Angela Wesley to come to the wedding? My mom and sister have been calling her for months. Hell, I even called her.” His guilty expression darts toward his new husband, as if he’s scared Wes might overhear us all the way across the lawn. “I called her three times,” he admits. “Called his dad’s office, too. They hung up on me every time.”

  “Samesies. I was starting to get a complex. I mean, not even my high school girlfriend Katty hung up on me that much, and bro, she did that a lot.”

  “Katie?”

  “No, Katty. Like cat but with a K. Katty. She had huge tits.”

  Jamie snickers. “Of course she did.” He pauses, his voice thickening. “So you just kept calling?”

  “Every day since you got engaged.” I wrinkle my forehead at his wide eyes. “I knew it’d make him happy to have at least one of his folks here. What? That’s not normal?”

  “Um, no. It’s not.”

  The next thing I know, I’m swallowed up in a bear hug.

  “You’re a good friend, Blake. Like…
the best.”

  I reach around and smack him on the ass. “Right back atcha, J-Bomb.”

  Jamie glances at Wes and Ang again. So do I, and I notice that Wesley’s eyes look a tad shiny. Awesome. More man-tears.

  “I think my hubby needs rescuing,” Jamie says wryly. “If that photographer Jess hired gets a picture of him sobbing, he’ll kick the guy’s ass.”

  Speaking of Jess…where’s my angel at?

  Jamie walks off to join his hubby, and I search the crowd again until I find Jess. She’s hugging her mom, too. Lots of mom hugging going on tonight. And now she’s walking off, but not back to the party. She’s hurrying down the limestone steps that lead to the gardens.

  This property is awesome. I walked down there earlier with Granny Canning, and there was a cool flagstone path that wound through the gardens. A really nice koi pond, too.

  But it’s weird that Jess is disappearing mid-reception. People have barely started dancing, and we still need to do the toss-the-jockstrap-bouquet thing. (At least I’m hoping we do. Though someone probably vetoed that idea, too.)

  I drop my empty flute on the tray of a passing waiter, then head toward the stone staircase, reaching the top in time to see a flash of purple near the path.

  I take the steps two at a time and duck past a row of hedges toward the path. My legs are about twice the size of Jess’s, so my stride eats up a lot of ground. I reach the koi pond just as Jess is flopping down on the stone bench across from it.

  Oh, and she’s crying her eyes out.

  Cheezus. Is this a fucking party or a screening of The Notebook?

  “Go away,” she croaks when she spots me.

  Yeah, right. I march over and sit beside her.

  “I said go away,” she growls.

  I hide a smile. Now this is what gets me going—a woman who doesn’t give a shit that I’m Blake Riley the hockey player. A woman who’d rather shoo me away than impress me. It’s…refreshing.

  I’m surprised there aren’t any lights out here lining the walkway or shining at the pond, but it’s dark. We’re in the shadows, so it’s hard to see her expression. I don’t really need to, though. If she’s crying, I’m pretty sure that means her expression ain’t sunshine and rainbows.