by Nikki Chase
“Yeah. I know.” I smile. “Thanks, Hannah.”
Epilogue
Aiden—Two Years Later
As I bend down over the desk to write a short note, it strikes me how much Aubrey and I have been through. Things are so different now compared to that day when I saw her again at the church where Earl got married. Sometimes, it’s hard for me to believe it’s only been two years.
I’m a corporate medical advisor now, working to help injured workers find the right treatments for their conditions. It pays just as well as a hospital job, and the hours are more certain.
I like it okay.
I make enough money to help my mom with her rent so she can work fewer hours, and I’ve also been footing the bill for her therapy sessions. One of the great perks of my job is having solid insurance options at discounted prices, so that’s been a big help, too.
I’d never tell Aubrey this because she’d feel guilty, but if it weren’t for her dad’s threat, I’d still be working as a doctor right now.
It’s been a pleasure, watching Aubrey bloom into a confident doctor. She feels like a doctor these days. She does good work and her patients love her.
Sometimes, when I listen to her stories about the hospital, I kind of miss it.
I don’t regret my career change, though. When I finally signed the contract for my current job, it felt like a big weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I could breathe easy.
I mean, really, a job’s a job. Aubrey, on the other hand… Well, she’s about to be my wife. She’s family. She’s my priority, and always will be.
“Are you done yet?” Marcus asks, elongating his words to tell us just how bored he is.
Clearly, I’m the only person in this room who thinks this is the most exciting day in history. Earl’s playing with his phone with a facial expression that looks a lot like his son’s.
Great. Both my best man and my ring bearer are already uninterested, although maybe it’s just early and I’m being an over-sensitive Groomzilla.
“Yeah,” I tell Marcus as I pass my handwritten note to him. As a boy, he gets the privileged access to both my dressing room and Aubrey’s, so he’s the only one who can be my messenger.
He glances at the note. “This is so lame,” he says.
“Yeah? Well, I’m sure your Aunt Bee won’t think it’s lame.”
“Girls are lame,” Marcus says.
“You’re what, nine?” I ask. “You have a few more years until girls start to seem a lot less lame.”
Marcus shrugs. He stares at the bottom of the note. “Hey, if you’re Uncle A and she’s Aunt Bee, are you going to call your kid Cee?”
Earl bursts out laughing as I narrow my eyes at Marcus. Marcus and his parents are the only people who call Aubrey Bee, so I’ve never realized this before.
“If it’s a girl, you can call her CeeCee, and that can be her name. If it’s a boy, you can go with anything that starts with the letter ‘c’ and just call him Cee.” He pauses to think, then with confidence, he says, “Carlos would be a good name.”
I join Earl in laughter. What a random name. I shoot Earl a questioning look.
“Carlos is his best friend in school,” Earl explains. To Marcus, he says, “When you see your mom, tell her I know her dress has pockets. I have about fifty pictures of it already on my phone, so she can stop sending them.” Earl pauses to think. “But also tell her she looks pretty so she doesn’t get mad.”
“Okay, cool,” Marcus says as he saunters out of the hotel room, my note in his hand.
Watching him walk away, I muse, “I get the feeling he thinks we’re just as lame as the girls.”
“Oh, there’s no question about it. He does, for sure,” Earl says. He goes quiet for a few seconds. “Hey, what is it with women and pockets?”
I shrug. I don't really care about that right now. I just hope Aubrey will like my sappy little note.
Epilogue
Aubrey
“Princess,
Out of the billions of men on Earth, you’ve chosen to be with me. That makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world. You’re the most beautiful person I know, inside and out, and sometimes I still can’t believe you’re mine.
Twelve years ago, when we first met, you were just a cute girl at work, but I knew I had to talk to you, even if it took me weeks to work up the courage to ask you out. And now, you're about to be my wife.
Even though the road here has been long and winding, I don’t regret a single thing. You’re my best friend, and I can’t imagine going through life without you.
In a few hours, I’ll be able to tell everyone you’re my wife. I can’t wait.
See you at our wedding! I’ll be the guy standing next to the minister at the end of the aisle.
Love,
A
Tears spring to my eyes as I read Aiden’s note. It’s so sweet. He’s so sweet, and I’m the lucky one for having him in my life.
“Aww…” Hannah smiles as she snaps some pictures of me with her phone camera. I hear multiple clicks. “Seriously, you two are adorable.”
“Those pictures had better not end up on Instagram,” I warn my sister, even though I’m sure I don’t sound threatening at all with my voice distorted by crying.
“Okay. Facebook it is,” she says.
Mom hands me the box of tissues. “You’re going to ruin your makeup if you keep crying like that.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I dab carefully at my eyes and cheeks.
I’ve fantasized about my wedding day, of course. Which girl hasn’t?
But just a couple of years ago, I never would’ve expected that I’d be getting married to Aiden. And even in my wildest imagination, I never would’ve dreamed of marrying Aiden and having my whole family attend the wedding.
I still don’t know when it finally clicked for me that I’m supposed to be with Aiden, and there’s nothing I can do to change that—not that I ever wanted to.
The clock seems to crawl until I finally walk through the open doors into the old stone church where we're about to get married.
As he promised, Aiden’s at the end of the aisle, grinning at me with pride and love in his blue eyes. He’s absolutely striking in his tailored suit. And whenever Aiden looks good in something, I get the urge to take it off and jump his bones.
Today, though, I have to wait all day and all night until we get some time alone.
But at least, now, he’ll be by my side. Nobody can keep us apart anymore, not even just for one night because it’s “bad luck” for us to see each other before the wedding.
I can’t believe how much I miss him. It’s not easy for me to maintain a slow pace to match the music, because all I want to do is run into Aiden’s arms. Aside from last night, we’ve always shared a bed ever since Aiden stole me away from Hannah’s home.
Everything has just fallen into place easily for us. I realize now why it never worked with any other guy. I know now why they always seemed too clingy. It’s simple: none of them was Aiden, and I was never into anyone else.
The wedding guests have stood up to their feet, and most of them are looking my way (although Marcus is stealing a little of my thunder with his cuteness). But I’ve got my eyes on Aiden.
Because of my dad’s excessive need to control me, I used to want to be a lone wolf. I wanted to break free and do everything myself.
Now, I see that it’s okay to depend on other people sometimes. I mean, if it weren’t for Hannah’s help, yes, Aiden and I would still be together, and we’d probably be doing fine.
But as I walk down the aisle, holding on to my dad’s arm while gazing giddily at Aiden, I realize that going it ourselves wouldn’t have been as satisfying.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say just before we reach the end of the aisle. I give him a light kiss on the cheek.
My dad smiles sagely and pats my hand before I let go. He tends to be quiet at emotional moments like this. He always looks awkward too, like he doesn’t know what to do wi
th himself.
He hasn’t said much about Aiden ever since the intervention, but they’ve been warming up to each other. They greet each other and speak civilly when they meet at birthdays and holiday dinners.
I don’t think my dad is ever going to be as close to Aiden as he is to Earl, seeing as they’ve been working together for years. But I’m okay with that.
I know now why my luck was so shit when I met Aiden again at the parking lot and at the slot machine. I think I used up all my luck meeting him. He’s been worth the trouble, though. I’m glad he showed up again, and I’m glad I never moved on after we parted the first time.
As Aiden takes my hands, my surroundings turn into background blur. All I see is Aiden—his dark hair that makes me want to reach out and run my fingers through it, his strong jaw, and his sharp, blue, familiar eyes.
The minister is probably saying something important, but Aiden and I are busy sharing our excitement.
To everyone else, we may appear to just be staring and grinning at each other like idiots. But we’re having an entire conversation with our eyes right now. I’m telling him I loved his note, and I hated waking up to an empty bed. He’s telling me he was so excited he couldn’t sleep last night.
In front of everyone we know and love, we share a private, wordless conversation in our secret language.
And when the minister gives the prompt, we make a public vow. To love and to cherish each other for as long as we both shall live.
“Before you kiss the bride,” the minister says, “let me end with a quote from the Bible. “Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”
I hope my dad hears that, I think to myself. Aiden smirks and gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking about, and he agrees . . . but it’s time for our wedding kiss now.
He pulls me close and I let my eyelids flutter shut. These lips . . . No matter how many times I’ve kissed them, it never feels like enough.
Aiden pulls away. Amidst the cheers of our wedding guests, he says, in a low voice only I can hear, “You’d better not get tired of doing that. Because you’re stuck with me now. For better or worse. You heard what the minister said.”
I giggle. It’s scary how well Aiden reads my thoughts, but it’s even scarier how comfortable I am having him in my head.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you, too, princess.” He pauses and turns to look at me. “I mean . . . I love you too, wifey.”
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed Aubrey and Aiden’s story.
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Preview: My Brother’s Friend, the Dom
Prologue
Something cold and wet falls on my forehead. I look up, but it’s not raining. I wonder if someone’s window A/C’s dripping.
Then, all of a sudden, my world goes dark.
I start to scream, but a large, masculine hand covers my mouth, muffling my voice. A thick arm wraps around my waist and presses on the valley between my breasts.
“I thought you’d be happier to see me . . . doll,” whispers my captor. His breath falls hot on my ear and spreads as goosebumps all over my skin.
He’s here.
PuppetMaster’s here.
And he’s a big, strong, burly man. Even though he’s just one person, it feels like there are hard, solid walls of man surrounding me on all sides.
His chest is broad and sturdy against my back; his arms are so strong I can barely move in his steel grip. Yet, he’s careful not to hurt me or put me in discomfort in any way . . . for now, at least.
I kick and scream, knowing that will irritate PuppetMaster. Maybe I’ll annoy him enough to make him want to hurt me.
He tightens his hold on me, sliding his hand up to my neck and squeezing until I stop struggling. “Remember the safe word, doll?” he asks again in a raspy whisper.
“What safe word?” I ask.
“Exactly.” PuppetMaster continues to speak in a strange, low whisper. “Promise you won’t fight me, doll?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You don’t want people to stare and get us into trouble, do you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good girl,” he rasps.
Sarah
In ancient India, when a man died, his widow would throw herself into her husband’s funeral pyre and burn to ashes.
Of course, not every widow did this. If the husband had chosen to be buried instead, she could simply join him in his coffin—alive. She could also choose to drown herself.
So, you see, plenty of options for those widows.
This practice was outlawed in the nineteenth century, not long after Europeans entered India and started meddling in their affairs.
I know. It sounds like a terrifying, inhumane practice.
But right now, I wish those Europeans would’ve seen some good in it and spread the custom throughout the Western world instead.
As men lower a shiny, brand-new, wooden casket into the ground, undeterred by heavy rain, I raise my gaze to stare at her—the woman who’s made my life a living hell more times than I can count.
Her ex-husband died years ago, and this funeral is for her son, but better late than never, right?
I guess, technically, she’s not a widow because she’d already gotten divorced when her ex-husband died, but I don’t think divorce existed in ancient India.
I imagine myself pushing her off into the damp, muddy hole while black-clad mourners cheer and egg me on. I’d be doing the right thing. I mean, I’d prefer to see her go out with a literal blaze, but it’s raining pretty hard right now, and I don’t think we could start a blazing pyre if we tried.
Or maybe we can. I don’t know. I’m really not an expert on the subject; it was just something I came across on Wikipedia when I was bored.
I don’t feel like looking it up on my phone now because that would be disrespectful to the good man whose funeral I’m attending. Besides, the wind’s trying to snatch my black umbrella away, and I need to hold it with both my hands.
I don’t care about being historically accurate. I just want to fantasize about my mom dying a horrible death.
It’d be easy, too, because she’s practically skin and bones these days.
Her hair is dull. Her skin is pale and blotchy. The darkness around her eyes isn’t just makeup.
She looks bored with her empty gaze, no doubt because she’d rather be shooting up some drugs at home. I’ll bet good money that underneath those long sleeves, she’s hiding needle marks.
Even though it’s only been five years since I last saw her, it looks like she’s aged twenty years. The lines on her face are so deep and numerous that her skin appears leathery.
If she showed up at a plastic surgeon’s office, asking for Botox, they’d have to restock their supplies when they were done with her. I can’t even begin to imagine how she’d look with permanently tight facial muscles, though. As it is right now, her face shows no emotions. Or, maybe she doesn’t have any left anymore.
That said, when I was growing up, it felt like she was always wearing a scowling mask. Maybe her current lack of facial expression is an improvement.
I tighten my grip on the umbrella handle as the wind pulls it in all directions. My black lace dress is already half wet, despite my best efforts in rotating the umbrella every time the wind changes directions. It’s chilly, and I can’t help but shiver every once in a while, gritting my teeth together.
Almost everyone else is battling the elements, including the minister, who’s got an altar boy holding an umbrella over his head while he reads from his holy book.
Yet, there’s one man who doesn’t seem perturbed by the weather at all. Water’s soaking his clothes until they’re d
ark and heavy. He can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t appear to care.
Taller than everyone else, his head pokes out above the dark umbrellas. His eyes are red, but if he’s crying, I can’t tell. Droplets of water shower down on him and drip down his entire body—his dark hair, his somber face, his collared black shirt that sticks wetly to his hard body.
I’m going to hell for this, I think to myself when I find my eyes wandering up his rolled-up sleeves and settling on his muscular, tattooed forearms. This is my brother’s funeral. I shouldn’t be checking out an old one-night-stand, not even if all I feel like doing now is cry on his broad shoulder.
But I can’t deny it’s almost impossible not to notice Luca today.
He stands apart. Although most people are huddled together as close as their umbrellas will let them, there’s at least three feet of space between him and the next person. Thanks to his myriad of tattoos and ex-convict status, the townsfolk are distrustful of him.
To be fair, Ashbourne is a small town that’s suspicious of any outsiders, especially those who keep to themselves.
That was probably why he got along so well with my brother. They were both misfits.
Luca doesn’t scare me, though. In fact, it was probably those bad-boy vibes that grabbed my attention in the beginning. I did it for the thrill.
I do a quick mental calculation. He must be thirty-one now.
He’s let his facial hair grow. Dark shadows line his strong jawline, his chin, and the bit of skin above his lips.
Like my mom, he appears older, although that’s probably just a temporary effect of grief. He’s just lost his best friend, and it shows. He slouches his shoulders and stares blankly at the grave. It’s like only his body is here.
