Epilogue
EPILOGUE
“LISTEN UP! We’ve worked all year for this. We’re going to tear them to shreds! We’re going to run them into the ground! I want to see blood, sweat, and tears on the field today. DO YOU HEAR ME?!”
A dozen voices echo in unison, “YES, COACH!”
Their collective shouts rattle my eardrums.
As I watch this highly entertaining pregame pep talk, Lindsey comes up beside me and holds out a red Solo cup. Salt glistens on the rim. “Want a margarita?”
“Thought you’d never ask…” I take the drink from her and tip it in the direction of the Cedar Valley dugout, where their coach is now leading the team in an earsplitting rendition of Queen’s “We Will Rock You”. Freddie Mercury is rolling over in his grave.
It’s so interesting to watch them. I’m horrified, of course, but I can’t look away. I stare on as a guy aggressively tears open a packet of something with his teeth—energy goop? steroid juice?—and then he squeezes the contents into his mouth before giving a rowdy “Hoo-rah!” and chest-bumping his teammate.
I glance at Lindsey, she glances back, and we share a private smile. “I honestly thought they would have mellowed…”
“Are you kidding?” She laughs. “The fact that we beat them last summer probably ruined their entire year. They’ve done nothing but practice day and night ever since. That coach has thought about nothing else.”
She’s probably right.
“ Why do they take it so seriously?”
This is the first game of the season. Most of us haven’t touched a baseball in months; I definitely haven’t. I’ve had my hands full with newborn life.
She shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Like usual, I’m only here for the margaritas, and more importantly, between you and me, I like the way David looks in his baseball pants. I accidentally on purpose shrunk them in the wash this week.”
She admits the last part with a proud wink.
“ Lindsey! ” I dry heave.
Unbothered, she replies, “Sorry, your brother’s got a great tush.”
Gross.
“You better watch it or you’re going to have baby number two.”
She shrugs, totally unbothered by my warning. “You know what? I just might. ”
Oh god. Queenie would love that. Two grandchildren aren’t enough for her. She’s made it clear she wants a half-dozen more. In her words, we’d all better “get to work” on it.
“Speaking of kids.” I glance over her shoulder. “Where are ours? Queenie said she was going to bring them early.”
Our bleachers are mostly empty. No Queenie in sight.
“Cruz probably made her stop for donuts.” She shakes her head. “He knows she’ll always cave—”
“Hey, y’all. Listen up!” Sawyer hollers, getting everyone’s attention.
I’m all too happy to give him mine. He’s over near the dugout door, looking oh so perfect. I don’t even feel bad about checking him out. Sure, we’ve been in a relationship a long time now and I get to lay eyes on him any ol’ time I wish. Even this morning, we woke up together in bed and enjoyed a quickie before we heard cries over the baby monitor, but I just can’t get enough. The way he looks right now…well, I feel like Lindsey. I love Sawyer in his Heatwave captain’s shirt and backward hat— and with that assertive tone? Oo la la.
He looks my way, and I have to hide my devious smile behind the rim of my margarita. Still, he knows exactly where my thoughts have gone, i.e. straight to the gutter. I don’t miss the fact that he stalls and looks down at his clipboard for a second, totally blanking on what he was about to announce to the team. I’ve successfully distracted him, and I’m not even a little sorry about it.
Lindsey nudges me with her elbow. “Knock it off or we’ll lose this game.”
“ Okay. I’ll behave.” I hold up a three-fingered scout sign. “I swear.”
Just as Sawyer picks up his train of thought, a pink puffball, aka Charlotte, comes barreling into the dugout with a glittery pink bag slung over her shoulder and her keys jingling against her signature pink Stanley cup. I wonder how much whipped cream she’s swirled into her coffee today.
“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry, everyone! ” Charlotte apologizes profusely, dabbing at the pink glitter she’s applied to the outside of her eyes. “I completely overslept!”
“It’s all good,” Sawyer assures her. “I was just going over the lineup.”
She hurries to hang her bag up alongside everyone else’s and then sips from her Stanley. She scans the crowd and spots me, her eyes widening before she looks away quickly.
I’ve seen Charlotte out and about around town in recent months. I’ve even said hello to her a few times and we’ve pretended everything is A-OK between us, but as Sawyer reads the lineup and I take my seat toward the end of the dugout bench alongside her, I realize this is the first time we’ve been face to face for longer than a few seconds since that fateful day in the coffee shop, the day she made it very clear she thought I was a villain and totally undeserving of Sawyer, my now fiancé…
I glance down at the sparkling oval diamond on my left hand then fidget on the bench, cursing Lindsey for picking this moment—of all moments—to have a conversation with Pam. There’s no one to distract from the fact that Charlotte and I are sitting hip to hip in total silence. It’s so awkward I’m glad for my margarita because I need something to do with myself. I take a sip and pretend to look at my phone. Meanwhile, Charlotte clears her throat beside me.
“Great weather, yeah?” she offers vaguely.
I set down my phone. It’s almost a hundred degrees out here. This is not good weather, this is barely tolerable weather.
I look over and see she’s wringing her hands. Suddenly, I can’t take it.
I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. “Listen, hey. Let’s rewind, okay? Fresh start?”
Her eyes light up as she turns to look at me. I swear she might cry. “Would you be willing? Really? I was such a jerk and I know I owe you an apology. I just feel like…like I was so nasty that day in the coffee shop. To be honest, I had a little crush on Sawyer and I let it cloud my judgment. I feel real shame about the things I said to you. I tell my students to treat others the way they want to be treated and there I was, acting all high and mighty when I should have tried to be your friend.”
Just as suspected, Charlotte is filled with ooey-gooey goodness. I can’t hate the girl.
I smile. “Well I appreciate that, Charlotte. Don’t worry about it. It’s all good.”
She beams. “And can I just say, y’all’s baby is so cute!”
Now I’m the one beaming because yes, he is.
“Hey Madison, come here for a second,” Sawyer calls, waving me over. Uh-oh, am I in trouble with the captain? Wink.
I smile once more at Charlotte to let her know things are all good between us and then I head over to Sawyer. He’s still standing at the door of the dugout, reviewing his clipboard and making sure everything’s game ready.
“What have I done this time, captain ?”
He looks at me with a straight face, trying to act like he can’t stand my antics when we both know he loves them.
“Listen, when we take the field, I need you to play catcher. Jimmy is out sick.”
I immediately panic and clench my hand, preempting the pain that will come my way if I shimmy into all that catcher’s gear again. “No way! Pick someone else. Anyone! ”
He tucks his clipboard under his arm, drops his hands on my shoulders, and turns to face me fully. “Listen, I’ll go easy on you, I swear. It won’t be like last time.” His eyebrows pinch together in remorse. “I’m still sorry about that.”
I shoot him a warning scowl. “Yeah well even still, I’m not doing it…”
He sighs and bends down, lowering his voice. “I swear you’ll be fine. And if somehow one of my pitches hits your glove a little too hard, I promise I’ll make it up to you later.”
Oh. Now we’re talking.
My cheeks turn cherry red with all the possibilities, but I’m still not convinced. “ How? ”
His eyes darken; he knows he already has me wrapped around his finger. “I’ll wash all the dirty bottles sitting in the sink and I’ll fold the laundry.”
“ Pfft. Sweeten the pot.”
He laughs. “Okay, a back rub and—” He pauses and looks over my shoulder to make sure no one’s paying us any attention. When his eyes lock with mine again, I shiver. “I’ll do that thing you love. With my hands and my—”
I fling my hand over his mouth before he can continue. I won’t be able to concentrate in this game if he starts talking dirty to me in this dugout.
“Yes. Yes! I’ll play catcher!”
I remove my hand, and his triumphant smile only makes him that much more handsome.
This man. I swear…
He steps back and whistles to the team. “What are you guys sitting around for? Let’s go! ”
Later that evening, we’re at home enjoying our triumphant win over Cedar Valley for the second year in a row. The house is quiet— for now . Sleep when the baby sleeps, that’s what everyone tells you, but no one actually follows that advice. I can’t go to sleep at six PM, not when Sawyer is continuing to fulfill all those promises from earlier. The only thing left to do is wash the baby bottles, and he’s doing it now while white bean chicken chili simmers on the stove. He makes the meal for me every Saturday night; it’s our tradition. If I went in there and offered to help, he’d tell me to march my butt right back to the couch.
I love evenings like this, when it’s just our little family at home. It’s not picture perfect, mind you. There are dirty burp cloths strewn about, dried milk crusting on my oversized t-shirt, and some miscellaneous baking show is playing on the TV, but I’m not paying any attention to it. I’m too busy trying to upload a batch of baby pictures to Facebook. It’s tough whittling them down to only a few when really, I have at least a hundred I’d like to spam out to my friends list.
Before I get carried away though, something on my feed distracts me. A wedding photo, and not just any wedding photo.
It’s Matthew and Emma!
I bring my phone closer to my face and almost bruise my finger with how fast I click on the post to enlarge the image. Oh wow. Matthew certainly took my advice. From the looks of it, he and Emma ran off and got hitched in Vegas. In the picture, an Elvis impersonator with thick sideburns stands off to the side affecting the King’s signature smirk and finger-point pose. Matthew’s wearing a bright blue tuxedo with ruffles and Emma’s in a wedding dress so short I think I see butt cheek. They’re wrapped around each other tightly, face to face, and they look blissfully happy.
I’m stunned. It’s hard to believe there was no fancy wedding, no cocktail hour followed by dancing in the Shanghai ballroom, no all-white bouquet courtesy of Fiona and her team.
His parents must be livid.
I laugh and call out to Sawyer, “You won’t believe what I just saw on Facebook!” then I consider commenting or liking the post, but I hear little Anvil crying through the baby monitor.
Just kidding.
There is no Anvil. Much to Marge and Queenie’s dismay, we named our son Tucker, and he’s an adorable three-month-old with curly brown hair, dimples like his dad, and ideally the IQ of Einstein, but we’ll accept any lesser-known physicist as well. As of yesterday, he started rolling over on his own. I’m shocked he’s progressing with gross motor skills at all , let alone on schedule, because the boy never touches the ground. When I bring him into the Wildflower Weddings office—which I do a few times a week—Marge and Queenie come to blows over holding him.
“You’re hoggin’ him again, Marge!”
“I just got him. Back off! ”
Of course the only reason I’m able to bring Tucker into the office at all is because finally—shockingly—Wildflower Weddings is no longer housed in a chaotic dumpster fire. The office is clean, dare I even say organized , and it’s all thanks to my man Tucker. When I told Queenie I didn’t feel safe bringing a newborn into the office with the current state of things, it finally lit a fire in her.
“Oh ho, no ma’am. You’re not keepin’ my grandbaby from me! Someone throw away that stack of boxes! And why the hell do we still have toy airplanes hanging from the ceiling? One fell on my head yesterday!”
While I was still recovering at home, reveling in Tucker’s newborn days, Queenie enlisted David, Lindsey, Marge, Cassie, and Sawyer, and the six of them spent an entire weekend clearing the place out, ripping out old decor, replacing the stained carpet, and making it absolutely, one hundred percent babyproof.
Now when future brides walk into our office, they’re greeted by four neatly arranged desks, a fully stocked coffee station near the front couch, and a black and white portrait gallery of past clients. There’s a special designated spot just for Tucker and Cassie’s youngest replete with a playpen and more toys than any two kids could ever need, and most importantly of all, the front door now reads Wildflower Weddings.
While we still occasionally hit bumps in the road—Queenie will forget to send a batch of invoices or Marge will rudely hang up on someone just trying to book a consultation—I’m happy to be here working with our ragtag team. I get to do what I love, and I have all the flexibility and built-in childcare I could ask for. Eventually, I have plans to expand the business, especially concerning our online presence. (Marge volunteered to be our social media manager recently. Her first Instagram post was a picture of her foot she didn’t realize she’d uploaded. It got three likes and a comment from a user named @Dman809932 requesting her OnlyFans username.)
But for now, I like things exactly as they are. We have all the time in the world to expand. In the meantime, we have more brides on the schedule than ever, and this one lady in particular is a real piece of work: me .
I no longer want the Waldorf at sunset, and I have no plans to follow in Matthew’s footsteps and run off to Vegas. Sawyer and I agree we want a relaxed ceremony in late spring at the vineyard surrounded by family and friends. His grandfather will officiate, Tucker will be the ring bearer, and at the reception Queenie will give a rousing toast that brings everyone to tears. Kendra and Marge will share matron of honor duties, and though Kendra thinks a tasteful weekend in Aspen could be fun for the bachelorette party, Marge has commandeered planning privileges. Apparently, we’re going to Cabo in a few months.
I can imagine it now: Kendra, Lindsey, Queenie, Cassie, Marge, and me three sheets to the wind lounging under a canopy of palm trees, trying to decide if we want to rally and make it to dinner or just order room service back at the villa. Over a long weekend, we’ll get a little sunburned, laugh our asses off, cry FaceTiming Tucker and Sawyer, and undoubtedly at some point, Marge will wind up finding her panties in her purse again , having no recollection of how they got there.
Honestly, I can’t wait.