Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

That’s what unlocks my tongue.

That’s what gets me to breathe.

Because even on the happiest day of our lives when I should’ve added Nervous Nelly in the legal name change to Osprey, he’s there for me.

My almost-husband gives me all his kindness, his strength, his unwavering love.

I breathe in slowly and count to five, smiling into his eyes.

It might take a good thirty seconds, but there’s no hesitation whatsoever when I wrangle my nerves under control.

“Yes,” I whisper back. “God, yes, I’m ready.”

He squeezes my hand one more time, his smile bursting with more joy than I would’ve ever dared imagine him capable of when he was just my grumpalicious boss.

“Pink. I love it,” he teases softly, mouthing the words more than saying them.

This time, I almost double over, clutching my sides.

Pink.

He means the color on the sash on my trailing, sleeveless white wedding dress. The roses in my bouquet and in my hair. My cute strappy heels.

And last but hardly least, my lipstick, carefully chosen to break him.

They’re all the same vivid shade of magenta-pink.

“Can you blame me?” I answer. “I like driving you nuts.”

The way he shoves his fingers through mine reminds me how much he loves it, too.

At last, it’s showtime.

The priest clears his throat—and, hand in hand, we turn to face him.

It almost feels like a ceremonial reading. The vows are a formality.

We’ve already made our promises living together. We’ve found our unshakeable love that no words can describe, much less sanction.

This is just showing off for other people.

Don’t get me wrong. It matters.

It means a whole lot to show the world that no matter what came between us—no matter what’s ahead—nothing will ever pull us apart.

Even if it’s just a silly tradition, there’s a knot in my throat by the time we get to the vows.

With this ring, I thee wed.

So surreal.

I feel like I’m waking up from a dream—or is it falling into it?—as Roland slides that shiny ring on my finger, then I plant a matching ring on his, and our fingers lock.

“I do,” he says, looking down at me.

And I meet his eyes with my heart in my throat as I try to speak.

“I-I...I-I-I d-d-d-dammit.”

The entire crowd bursts out laughing.

In another life, I’d be wrecked with shame.

But with a newly minted, absurdly gorgeous husband holding my hand, it just makes me feel warm.

Bright.

Loved.

These people aren’t laughing with malice.

From my dad to my mom next to him with tears in her eyes, to Barry grinning with all his might, to the entire Just Vibing editorial crew, to Easterly and Milah and several of the other girls who came forward to help, even Wanda and her niece Corinne...

They’re laughing with affection and delight.

They’re laughing because they’re happy for us.

And knowing that makes it easier to shutter my nerves and offer Roland an honest smile as I try again.

“I do.” This time, it comes out flawlessly.

It’s like those two words break some kind of seal—and everything erupts into loud cheers, applause, fist pumps, and Roland sweeping me off my feet with a deafening whoop.

He spins me around with my toes dangling off the floor.

I’m in heaven.

At least, I think I am, but I’m proven wrong a second later when he torches my senses with our first kiss as husband and wife.

Holy unholies.

I don’t even remember dropping my bouquet.

I just know my fingers are in his hair, completely mussing it.

My mouth goes greedy against his, and God I don’t think any kiss has ever tasted as good as my very first kiss as Mrs. Callie Osprey.

I could live in this moment forever, his hands on me, his mouth so sweet and hungry.

But after a small eternity, he sets me down, his mouth moving roughly against my ear.

“Just a few more hours. You belong to everyone else right now,” he breathes, inhaling slowly and fiercely. “Then you’re all mine. Get the fuck ready.”

Before I can react with more than my jaw falling, we’re swept into the noise and away to the reception.

Barry and Dad take the stage not long after we arrive, throwing an improvised concert.

What better way to celebrate our first dance as husband and wife?

We only slow down from the reverie to stop and stare when Dad passes his guitar over to Milah freaking Holly and climbs down to dance with my mom. Milah and Easterly do an improvised duet, going from incognito guests to the main act in a split second.

It’s beyond marvelous, but I’m stuck wondering just when my parents started looking at each other like that again.

My eyes are wet with a whole new reason to cry.

Roland wipes them tenderly off my cheeks, smiling like the gentleman he is.

So maybe Barry’s song was right.

Love can find a way through the pain.

Ours certainly did, and it looks like we’re not alone.

I think it has to be love that keeps me on my feet through the festivities and reception.