Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

“Way to think ahead.” I move up the walk, watching how the light catches in her hair, making it shimmer like sunlit ripples on the surface of the lake.

Vi glances beyond my shoulder. “Are your boys coming to the wedding?”

“They are. Aaron is taking his own car—picking up his girlfriend—so Spence and Brayden wanted to ride with him. He’s a lot cooler than I am.”

“Right,” she laughs. “So it’ll just be us on the drive over?”

I nod. And I can’t stop looking at her.

“Just us.”

I hold out my arm, to be sure she doesn’t trip on the way to the truck and because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, and . . . because I want to be closer to her.

“Ready?”

Violet takes a breath, then exhales slowly. I catch the scent of strawberry—the mouthwatering, addictive kind—like sweet, sugary bubble gum that never loses flavor.

And she slides her arm into mine.

“Ready.”

* * *

I like to think I’m a sensitive guy.

I’m in touch with my feelings, I go to group therapy—I vacuum on a regular basis. Being married for a decade and a half trained me to notice things like a new hairstyle, a change of curtains, the difference between a comforter and a duvet.

But I’m still a guy.

Unless it’s a cool Indy stripe on a classic muscle car or a set of sweet new rims—floofy, purely decorative touches don’t really impress me.

Until now.

Dean wasn’t kidding when he said Lainey practiced modern-day witchcraft—because when Violet and I walk into their backyard, it’s been transformed into a magical wedding wonderland—and I’m damn impressed.

Every surface and corner are accented with bunches of pale-pink roses, swirling silver ribbons and tall glass-encased white candles. The pristine lake is a stunning backdrop for a long, rose-petal-strewn path, with a dozen rows of white wooden chairs on each side, each with an elegant pink seat cushion and a gossamer bow tied in back. The aisle ends at the mahogany-stained dock with a tall wooden wedding trellis laden with soft pink roses and twining green ivy.

A section of violin, harp, and cello players—that I know is comprised of students from the high school orchestra—warm up their instruments on the emerald grass to the right of the dock. Closer to the house is a huge open-sided white tent with a square oak dance floor in the center. Surrounding the dance floor are round light-pink cloth-covered tables with tall rose-filled silver vase centerpieces, shiny silver place settings, and a long buffet table of chafing dishes that extends across the entire back. Strings of clear bulbs hang overhead and unlit, wrought-iron tiki torches and firepit basins frame in the whole area.

Even the weather is perfect—a cloudless, robin’s-egg blue sky, with a gentle crisp breeze off the water that keeps the sun from feeling too hot.

“Holy shit,” I say to Garrett, who meets us at the end of the aisle wearing a sharp black tux. He’s in the wedding party, an usher, because Dean ended up asking Lainey’s teenage son, Jason, to be his best man, as Garrett thought he should be.

My brother nods, eyes scanning the yard. “Damn skippy.”

Then he gives Violet a peck on the cheek—the same way he’d greet my sister-in-law or one of Timmy’s long-term girlfriends if he ever actually has one.

“Good to see you again, Vi. You look beautiful.”

“Thanks, Garrett. It’s good to see you too. This place looks incredible.”

“Yeah, Lainey really kicked ass and took names. She told Dean her posts on the wedding preparations are the most viewed on her blog ever, and she’s gotten a bunch of sponsors and advertising offers.”

“Well deserved.”

Garrett nods and points at the chairs on the groom’s side.

“Why don’t you guys sit down? The show’s going to get on the road soon.”

In the first row, in the seat of honor, wearing a purple gown and matching hat, is Grams—Dean’s petite firecracker of a grandmother who raised him. Beside her, looking blond and too young to have a son in his thirties, is Dean’s mom. They’re not super close but Dean was happy when she said she was flying in from Vegas for the wedding.

I tap Garrett’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

We find seats in the same row as my parents, Tim, Ryan, and Angy. The place fills up quick—half the town is here and all of the high school faculty. I keep an eye out for Aaron, his girlfriend, Mia, and Brayden and Spencer. When I spot the four of them walking into the backyard, I lift my arm, waving them over to the last of the empty chairs beside me. Once they’re seated, I tip back in my chair, gesturing to Vi.

“Guys, this is Violet. Vi, these are my boys—Aaron, Brayden, and Spencer.”

The introductions come with an unashamed ring of pride—because raising good kids is hard, being a good kid can be even harder, and I’ve seen enough to know that I’m damn lucky to have three good ones I get to call my own.