by C F White
As they meandered closer to the front row, Seb laid eyes on Barbara, tissue already in hand and cradling Beatrice. Seb’s eyes welled and his sharp intake of breath caused Jay to squeeze his hand tighter. The music reached its climax just as they arrived at the front and the celebrant, a vibrant woman whose smile was as welcoming as her open arms, settled everyone into their seats.
Seb exhaled through rounded lips and he cracked his neck from side to side. This was it. They’d got here. He glanced to Jay beside him. Jay smiled then mouthed, love you. Seb might as well be a pool of mush on the floor. But he was prevented from melting into the wooden slats when the celebrant started the formalities. She was good. Funny. Poignant. But most of all, to the point. Because Seb wasn’t sure he wanted to wait any longer. He had a ring and a piece of paper burning a hole in his pocket.
So when she said, “Sebastian Michael Saunders, I believe you have written your own vows,” Seb was once again a bundle of nerves as he dug out the folded paper from his inside jacket pocket.
His hands shook as he inhaled the words on the page to remind him of what he’d scrawled down last night. Then, peering up to Jay and gripping the vows in trembling hands, he spoke loud and clear,
“It's impossible to put our eight-year journey into words.” He swallowed, licking his dry lips, and desperately hoping he’d get through this without crying. “Maybe just a musical.” He let out a breathy laugh and Jay joined him, along with the guests watching. “But I tried to do that when writing these vows because everyone should know that we had a rocky start. Then a bumpy middle. But our happy ever after is finally here.” Something clicked into place then—nerves dissipating to make way for the confidence in what he had to say. He smiled. “Jay, baby, I admire you. Every day, I’m astounded by you. I respect you. But most of all, I love you.”
He took a deep breath, allowing Jay to reshuffle on the spot before continuing, “I love you because of your unspoken passion. I love you because of your endless ambition. And I love you because of your courage to make those two opposing factors in your life work. Since meeting you, I have tried every single day to match up to your endearing qualities. To your kindness. To your unbelievably strong exterior that you hide behind. To your commitment and your loyalty—not only to me but to everyone and everything that is important to you. And what I mean by all that is, you have made me, and continue to make me, a better person than I ever thought I could be.”
Seb croaked and he had to look away to the ceiling to get a check on himself. Then, delving back into those blue eyes that gazed upon him with unbridled love and devotion, he said, “I love your cacophonous cockney tones. I love the slang you use when you forget to rein it in.” Seb grinned and Jay laughed, easing the atmosphere for a moment. “I love singing to you when you pretend to be grumpy. I love making you dance when you pretend you don’t want to. I love how you pretend that I’m interested in football.” Ripples of laughter burst from the guests and Jay narrowed his eyes with a feigned glare. “James Arnold Ruttman, you are a beautiful person. Inside and out. And I am the luckiest man in the world because you fell in love with me. Eight years ago, you met a disaster of a man. A man who didn't know what kindness or love was. A man who thought those things wouldn’t exist in his life. A man who was sure he was undeserving for a perfect work of art such as you, my Jay, my baby, my Champ, to be mine. And, now, as we stand here on this day, ready and allowed to be married, I will forever be grateful that you chose me.”
Tears rolled down Jay’s cheeks and he made no move to wipe them. Seb smiled, then swiped them away for him with his thumb. Jay caught his hand and kissed the delicate skin on the underside of his wrist, the one that held the Chinese number nine.
“I can’t imagine a life without you,” Seb said, his voice shaking as Jay held his hand so tight. “I can't imagine a single minute passing without me thinking about you. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you make me. I will be your support to hold you up when you want to fall. I will be your shoulder to lean on when you need to cry. I will be your crane to lift you back up onto the pedestal you belong. Most of all, I will be your committed, faithful, and loyal husband. From this moment and for the rest of our lives.”
Seb wasn’t sure if there was a dry eye in the house, but he hoped not. He’d worked hard on that and he gave himself a mental slap on the back. Seeing Jay with tears making tracks down his cheeks was enough to know he’d hit it right. He meant every single word.
After croaking back a tear herself, the celebrant said, “Jay?” And Jay reached into his own pocket to produce a folded piece of paper.
“Oh, fuck,” Seb muttered under his breath, knowing it was his turn and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it. Jay heard him and he peered up with narrowed eyes. “Sorry.” Seb winced.
“I could never match up to your words,” Jay said, his voice not as confident that it might not reach the back. Seb didn’t mind. This was only for him anyway. “So I’m not sure I should try. But, like when you try to make me sing, or play some instrument, or even dance, you know I can’t do it but for you I always try. So I have this time too.”
Seb let out a breathy laugh and his eyes pinched.
“Sebastian Michael Saunders, because of you, I can do anything. And I will do anything.” Jay looked up from having been reading from the page and met Seb’s eager and waiting gaze. “Anything I fear. Anything I’m unsure of. Anything you ask of me, I promise I will try. Because I love you.” Jay inhaled a deep breath. “I love you for who you really are. For the man that no one else sees. The man who taught me to accept myself. To live fearlessly and to love unconditionally. The man who can’t ever be quiet.”
Seb arched an eyebrow.
“And I don't want you to be,” Jay added and whether that was on the paper Seb would never know because he screwed it up and tucked it back in his pocket. “Because I love listening to you. Whether you sing for everyone else, you shout to be heard or you whisper just for me, your voice is my home. So I promise to keep listening. And I promise to love you. To hold you. To believe in you. And I promise to be your faithful, loving husband from this day onwards, upwards and when we eventually descend downwards.”
Seb couldn’t keep looking at Jay, because his tears were streaming down his face and it was Jay’s turn to wipe them away for him.
The celebrant took over and, after the exchange of rings, she declared to those waiting on bated breath, “I now have absolute delight in pronouncing Sebastian Michael Saunders and James Arnold Ruttman legally married.”
Seb didn’t hesitate. He launched at Jay and kissed him with Jay’s arms sliding onto his hips and flooding him in warmth. The guests launched to their feet, applauding the moment or the reaction, he wasn’t sure. Seb had been the focus of many applause in his time—from the summer festivals, to the intimate gigs, to the standing ovation at the West End—but this…this was…something else.
Music played and Seb broke the kiss to take Jay’s hand and as they turned to face the crowd—their crowd—he lifted their arms to more thunderous applause and piercing whistles.
“Here we go,” Seb said as he tugged Jay forwards and they walked back up the centre aisle, waving and nodding to each loved one they passed. When they emerged into the main foyer, an usher gestured for them to keep going. After exchanging confused glances, they followed and the crowd floated behind them for the ride. At the front entrance to Saunders House, they stepped out into the piercing daylight.
There, stood dotted along the sweeping drive and all around the central fountain, in matching suits, were the entire West Ham and England football teams. They erupted into cheers and threw confetti into the air to sprinkle over him and Jay.
“What the—” Jay flinched, plucking paper confetti from his lips. “Did you?” he asked Seb.
“No.” Seb shook his head, as much bewildered as Jay looked. “No, it wasn’t me. We said low-key.”
“It was me, son.”
They whi
pped around. John was standing behind them. “Tony knew something was up and he asked,” he said, “I let it slip. Then he asked if the teams could do this.” John tapped Jay’s face. “You did something so fucking brave, son. They’re here to show you that it meant something. That they’re behind you. All the way.”
And it seemed as though they were, as each one stepped forward, offering shaking hands of congratulations to them both. If Seb was awestruck at the gesture, Jay must have been dumbfounded. Seb watched the emotions play out over his husband’s face as he hugged each teammate with indecipherable to Seb whispers in his ears.
“We don’t have to stay.” Ronnie Walker was the last to shake Jay’s hand and he gripped tight. “We wanted to honour the occasion. Honour you. This was never a problem to us, Jay. Crossed wires. Miscommunication. But we’ll leave you in peace.”
Jay glanced to Seb, and Seb was sure he was answering for them both when he said, “Stay.” He waved to them all. “Bring them in. Wives and girlfriends too. It’s about time we demonstrated that equality and inclusion we bang on about.”
Seb kissed his husband then, in front of both squads and they received applause along with more confetti for them to swallow and pick out of their suits for hours to come.
* * * *
After the sit-down meal, and the speeches had been delivered, the evening started with a live band chosen by Martin from one of the Drops’ support tour acts. It was Jay who led Seb onto the dancefloor first, thinking he needed to get this part over and done with. Their first dance. As a married couple. With three left feet between them. Regardless that Jay’s left foot was worth a hefty sum in insurance premium. For kicking a ball that was. Not for dancing. And it showed.
Seb had written their song and stepping up onto the stage to perform it was also him. Not the real him. But the one currently performing as him on stage at London’s West End Art House Theatre. The musical would be using the understudy today, as this performance was far more important.
Jay snaked his arms around his husband and, in front of the West Ham team, the England squad, their wives and girlfriends, his family and friends, he attempted to dance. Properly. Seb had taught him a few moves over their time together. He knew he was rubbish. But his vows started here. He would try anything. Do anything. For him. For Seb. Because the world had shifted, and it was in their favour for a change.
When their song merged into the next, couples joined them on the floor to Jay’s delight that he wasn’t the centre of attention anymore. It meant he could enjoy Seb in his arms without the fear he’d make a tit of himself. Barbara hovered their way and handed over a sleeping Beatrice. Jay held her and Seb kept one arm around him as they swayed to the gentle music and gazed down at their daughter.
“If ever there was a perfect moment,” Seb said and kissed Bea’s forehead followed by Jay’s lips. “I think this is it.”
Jay smiled, then peered over his shoulder. “You seen that?”
Seb whipped around, hand still on the small of Jay’s back. “Oh, God, no.”
Will and Sylvia were at the edge of the dancefloor. Together. Very together. Her arms wrapped around Will’s neck and, as he drew her to his chest, he gazed into her eyes as if he’d never seen anything quite so enchanting before.
“I take it back. The world will now implode,” Seb said, turning back to Jay and screwed his eyes shut. “I can’t watch it.”
“They’re kissing,” Jay whispered into his ear and chuckled at Seb’s grimace.
“I’d tell them to get a room, but I have a horrible feeling it’s the one next to ours.”
Jay laughed, then after a moment’s reflection, he said, “Sometimes, things just work out when it’s time.”
Seb tilted his neck. “Very profound.”
“I have my moments.”
“And I’ll be there for every single one of them.”
The End (again)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly search for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.
Eventually she moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
After her second son was born with a rare disability, C F White’s life changed and it brought pen back to and paper after having written stories as a child but never had the confidence to show them to the world. Now, having embarked on this writing journey, C F White can’t stop. So strap in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Other books by C F White
Responsible Adult Series
Misdemeanor
Hard Time
Reformed
St. Cross Series
Won’t Feel a Thing
Won’t Be Fooled Again
London Lies Series
Fade to Blank
Hide to Seek
Bring to Light
The District Line Series
Kick Off
Break Through
Come Back
Extra Time
Pink Rock Series
Love & Tea Bags
Ex
Misdemeanor (Responsible Adult #1)
Excerpt
Chapter One
The Sun Keeps Rising
“Shit!”
Micky cursed loudly and squinted through the morning glare to read the alarm clock that was obviously having trouble performing its one and only basic function. He threw off his duvet and jumped out of bed, his foot landing on a plastic wind-up toy penguin discarded on the floor. The penguin openly mocked him by tossing itself into a noisy backflip.
“Fuck!”
Micky cursed again, bending down to pick up the toy and throw it savagely against the wall. It shattered into a million pieces and Micky felt instantly guilty.
“Flynn!” he yelled, hopping over to his bedroom door and yanking it open. Treading more carefully to the bathroom opposite, he rubbed his eyes before coming face-to-face with himself in the mirror above the sink.
He looked like shit. No change there. The three hours of almost sleep he’d gotten obviously hadn’t done anything to improve on his disheveled appearance. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. He needed to shave but now didn’t have the time. Micky turned on the tap, dunked his head under the cold stream and squeezed paste onto his toothbrush.
“Flynn!” he shouted again, louder this time, before shoving the toothbrush into his gob and brushing vigorously. The minty taste did nothing for his dry mouth.
“Yes, Micky,” came a quiet little voice from the bathroom doorway.
Still holding the toothbrush between his lips, foam dripping out from the side of his mouth, Micky turned.
“We’re late,” he said, trying to suck the minty drool back up and stop it escaping from the corners.
“I’m dressed,” Flynn replied with a huge proud smile.
Flynn stood in the doorway, clutching another wind-up plastic toy. He kept spinning the thing around, setting off an ear-piercing buzz as it unwound at double speed. He appeared so small and fragile. More like a five-year-old than his actual eight years. He’d gotten dressed. Sort of. He’d managed to pull on his gray school trousers over his pajama bottoms and his army-green jumper clung inside out. No socks, and his mousy-brown curls stuck out from his head in all directions.
Micky’s heart melted a l
ittle at the sight.
“Well done, Flynn.” Micky finished brushing his teeth, spat down the plughole and cupped a handful of water into his mouth to rinse. Turning back to his brother, Micky then crouched in front of him. “But how about we try taking the pajamas off?”
Flynn looked down, waggling his toes, and back up at his big brother. “Why?” he asked, confused. “I put them back on later.”
Micky laughed. The kid had a point.
“Come on.” Micky took hold of Flynn’s hand to walk him back into the small box room. It had twin beds, pushed up against opposite sides. One had used to belong to Micky before he’d moved into the master bedroom.
“What time did you get up today?” Micky asked, dragging Flynn’s jumper over his head.
“Five five two,” Flynn replied.
He wound up the blasted plastic toy again and Micky breathed in deeply, preventing his immediate instinctive reaction to take the thing and smash it against the wall in comradeship with its penguin mate.
“That’s early,” Micky said, pulling off Flynn’s pajama top then rooting around in the drawer for his brother’s school polo shirt. He found it scrunched at the bottom and helped Flynn squirm into it while trying to smooth out the creases.
“For what?” Flynn asked, holding on to Micky’s shoulder as he knelt and stepped out of his trousers.
“Everything,” Micky replied with a yawn.
“Daddy didn’t say it was.”
Micky looked into Flynn’s blue eyes. The white starburst pattern within them gave him the feeling of being hypnotized. Micky blinked.
“Dad’s not here, Flynn,” Micky said slowly, standing to inspect his now school-uniform-clad little brother.
