“Hold on, angel,” he says as I reach for my phone’s red end call button. “We need to talk about you getting some help.”
“Don't want to be rude to whoever’s at the door,” I answer—right before I'm rude to Waylon by hanging up.
I flush the toilet and throw back some mouthwash, hoping that's enough to cover the bad breath smell.
I open the door a few seconds later, and I'm shocked to find my best friend Sierra standing on the porch, wearing a mask and a pair of scrubs.
When Waylon gifted me with a phone after we got back to Angel Pond, the first person I called was Ant to make a tearful apology.
He forgave me in an instant.
“I’m just glad you’re okay, hermanita. As pissed as I was about that MC dude blackballing us for a minute, I gotta admit he was crazy into you. I don’t get like that over girls, but he seemed like he was all about protecting and loving you the way you deserve. So you’re okay, right? Happy? I don’t got to worry about you marrying some asshole who don’t respect you no more?”
Somehow it had never occurred to me that Ant was just as worried about me as I was about him this whole time. My stomach twisted with guilt. But it wasn’t the old guilt surrounding things neither of us could change. It was the kind of guilt that came with not realizing how special and unbreakable our bond truly was. No matter what, he’d always be my little brother, and I’d always be his hermanita big sister. And we’d always have each other’s backs.
“I’m great, Ant. You most definitely don’t have to worry about me. I’m so happy.” I assured him. But then I cringed when I had to tell him about the second wedding I hadn’t invited him to attend—this time at a courthouse in Cedar Rapids.
But in this case, he was A-OK with that. “I love you, hermanita, but not enough to come out to Bumfuck, Iowa. Text me some pictures are whatever.”
Sierra was the second person I called after Ant. And she freaked out when she heard my voice for the first time in three months. Then in a rare turn of semi-seriousness, she insisted on visiting me to see for herself that I was okay.
“I mean, that dude was foine. I might’ve peaced out on Dr. America myself and not called nobody for a few months. But I have to make sure you’re not out there in the middle of nowhere, Iowa, living that Stockholm Syndrome life.”
So that was how Waylon ended up driving me a few weeks later in his black pickup truck to pick Sierra up at the airport in Cedar Rapids for a Christmas visit.
I still treasure the memory of that ride. It was early in my first pregnancy—before morning sickness made driving long distances hard. It was also prior to the worst of the pandemic when I wouldn’t have felt comfortable driving into a big city to pick someone up at a major airport. I was truly happy, freshly married, and looking forward to spending the rest of my life with my new husband. And it must have shown.
When Sierra climbed into the back seat of Waylon’s truck, she took one look at me and said, “You aren’t just glowing, you’re a lightbulb, girl!”
Then she’d taken one look at Waylon in the driver seat and declared, “And, I think I understand why. Are there more like him in this Angel Pond town you love so much?”
“Of course, there’s nobody like Waylon,” I answered with a soft smile in his direction. And I’m pretty sure I looked a lot like Colin Fairgood when I insisted, “Nobody on Earth.”
Sierra couldn’t believe it when we pulled up to our home in Angel Pond. “It’s the house from your painting! What the…?”
I laughed and explained that Waylon built the entire place for me from scratch in the year we were apart.
“He did not build this for you!” she shouted, climbing out of the car to goggle up at the house with her mouth gaping open. Then she turns to me and asks, “Did your legs fall right on open after you saw your dream house? I bet you spent days thanking him for this one, sis!”
I could only wince and admit, “I mean, if you’re going to forgive someone for crashing and stealing you from your wedding, a dream house is a good start.”
“Don’t need no forgiveness for that,” Waylon declared with slitted eyes. “I was the hero in that situation.”
Then he asked why we were laughing.
Sierra loved the house and “aw”ed all over the painting Waylon had Vengeance bring back along with my yellow wardrobe from my otherwise completely abandoned apartment in Wilmington.
I thought she’d go into full-on interrogation mode after she asked Waylon to leave us alone for some girl time when the house tour was done. But I must have forgotten who I was dealing with—Sierra just wanted to give me all the tea on Jonathan while we drank coffee.