We settle on a beach wedding. One of Garrett’s old teammates from Rutgers, who did pretty well for himself, owns a big Victorian house with a private strip of beach in Brielle. It’s close enough, open enough, that the whole town can come . . . and they do.
I peek out of the white tent at the clear, churning blue ocean. I spot the football team taking up the last three rows of pale wooden chairs on the groom’s side. My theater kids are in the same rows across the aisle—David and Simone, Michael, Toby, and Bradley. Miss McCarthy is here, checking her watch and tsking that we need to get this show on the road. The whole faculty is here—Jerry Dorfman and Donna Merkle finally came out of the relationship closet and are actually holding hands.
The kids are going to lose their minds over that development this week.
My sister, Colleen, is my matron of honor. Cheryl and Alison and Sydney are my bridesmaids—all wearing matching silk pale-blue gowns.
Garrett stands beneath an arch of white roses—so tall and handsome in his black tux. He’s confident—not nervous like most grooms—his mouth settled into that relaxed, gorgeous smile. Dean stands beside him—his best man—because he couldn’t choose between his brothers. Woody sits at Garrett’s feet, adorable and perfectly behaved—wearing Snoopy’s blue collar around his fluffy neck—our something beautifully borrowed.
Layla agreed to sing at my wedding. And when the flute echoes and the string quartet joins in, and her beautiful voice starts to sing our wedding song—“After All”—I take my father’s arm and step out onto the red, carpeted aisle that covers the sand.
Everyone we care about—everyone we love, from our childhood days until now—is here to celebrate with us. They all stand, watching me with wide eyes and delighted faces.
Garrett’s gaze finds mine. His eyes drift slowly down over my long, white, strapless beaded gown. He pauses at my boobs—because they’re still his favorite. And then he gives me a devastating grin that makes my stomach flip deliciously and tears spring into my eyes.
They say you can’t go home again . . . but they’re wrong.
I did.
I came home and found the love I never really lost.
The air is September warm, the breeze is light, and the sun is just starting to set. Halfway down the aisle, I stop and turn to my dad.
“I love you, Daddy.”
He smiles back, warm and proud. “I love you too, my Callie-flower.”
I glance at Garrett and turn back to my father . . . because it’s unconventional, but it feels right.
“I think . . . I think I’m going to go the rest of the way on my own, Dad.”
My father nods. Then he lifts my veil and kisses my cheek. “Go get him, sweetheart.”
I turn back towards Garrett, kick off my shoes, lift the hem of my dress—and I run. I run to the boy who always had my heart . . . to the man who always will.
My bouquet bursts when I jump, showering us in white and indigo petals. And Garrett catches me, laughing. He’ll always catch me.
He kisses me long and deep. Then he sets me on my feet, and the priest from Saint Bart’s begins the ceremony. And I become Mrs. Coach Garrett Daniels.
At last.
Epilogue 2
Baby D
Garrett
It’s our first game in October—Parker Thompson’s a junior this year—still a great kid and now, post-growth spurt, he’s a full-out monster on the field.
“Yes!” I clap my hands as he completes a thirty-yard pass for a first down. “Beautiful! That’s the way to do it, boys!”
“Nice play, Parker! Woo!”
I hear my wife’s voice loud and clear from the stands behind me. My wife. I look down at the thick platinum band on my left hand. How fucking cool is that?
Then I turn around, finding her pretty blond head, checking up on her. She’s safe and sound, sitting between her parents and her sister. Callie’s wearing a long-sleeve white shirt under an extra-large Lakeside Lions football jersey that I had custom made for her last month. It matches the one I’m wearing right now, but where mine says COACH D. across the back, Callie’s reads, MRS. COACH D. across her shoulder blades. And in front—right above her round, adorably gigantic, pregnant belly—it says BABY D.
On the field, the ref makes a shit call and throws a flag on one of my guards. I open my mouth to bitch . . . but Callie beats me to it.
“What the hell was that? Get some glasses or get off the field!”
The pregnancy has made Callie fantastically insatiable in bed . . . and ferocious in the stands. It makes my heart . . . and my cock . . . a very happy camper.
Even though she’s scheduled to pop any second now, she’s been teaching the first few weeks of school—she loves it that much. After the baby comes, she’ll take a maternity leave, but has sworn to McCarthy she’s coming back. Between my parents and her parents, her sister and my sister-in-law, we have no shortage of child-care helpers who will adore the hell out of our kid. We’ve spent the weekends getting the nursery ready and more hours than I can say, just staring at her bump, watching our baby move and stretch inside her.