Epilogue
PARKER
Seven Months Later…
I hate weddings.
And love.
And tuxedos.
Okay, fine, I love weddings and love, I’m just cranky about romance at the moment. And I look incredible in a tux, but fuck , couldn’t they have had this renewal ceremony indoors in the air conditioning instead of out in Maison Monteleone’s courtyard?
I get that this is where they met, yada yada . But we’re only two days into June, and it’s already as hot as my big, saggy balls after a five-mile run.
I’m probably tremendously fertile and will make super-talented, good-looking babies someday, but my balls really are too much. They’re flat out swampy at the moment, right along with the rest of me.
Sweat pools at the base of my spine, soaking through my dress shirt and into the tux jacket that feels like a torture device in this Louisiana heat. Even with fans set up to stir the air, the humidity is intense.
But of course, Blue isn’t sweating. Not a fucking drop. He’s probably meditating the perspiration away or some shit. Or just willing himself not to sweat with the force of his Yoda vibes.
“Why aren’t you sweating?” I mutter. “Are you an alien?”
“Stop fidgeting,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I whisper, tugging at my bow tie. “I’m suffocating. There’s a difference.”
I’m also suffering.
Because right there, across the aisle, the woman I’ve been dying to share air with again since October is completely ignoring me.
Probably because I’m sweaty and gross. But I can’t help it!
I’ve always been a sweater. Allegedly, my mother took me to the doctor when I was just four months old because she was so worried about how sweaty my feet were, especially considering I didn’t even wear shoes at the time.
But I have talcum powder and very good deodorant.
Even for my balls.
Ball deodorant is a thing these days. I will still smell fresh as a fucking daisy by the time this drip fest is over, a thing I could calmly explain to Makena if she would speak to me.
Or look at me.
I narrow my eyes across the aisle, willing her to glance my way, to see that I’m still hot and kissable even when drenched in sweat, but she’s locked in on the happy couple .
I follow her gaze to see Grammercy beaming down at Elly like she hung the moon and discovered the cure for cancer, all while giving him the best blow job of his life. Beautiful, sure, but so over the fucking top it’s enough to make a chronically single man set things on fire.
And isn’t a vow renewal a little much, considering they’ve only been married eight months?
But since their actual wedding was just them, a judge, and “Fate,” according to Grammercy, they wanted to celebrate with everyone.
Hence, a hundred of their closest friends packed into this courtyard, sweating through formal wear, while Elly and Grammercy stare at each other like there’s no one else in the room.
“Eloise Thibodeaux Graves,” Grammercy says, his voice carrying easily through the hushed crowd.
“How to tell you what you mean to me? I worked for hours on these vows, but couldn’t find the perfect thing to tell you know how grateful I am to have you as my best friend, my partner, and my girl.
Not in English anyway, so I’ll just say, c’est toi, toujours toi, la vérité de ma vie, et la gardienne de mon c?ur. ”
Fuck. French.
He always has to whip out the French and make the rest of us seem like idiot cavemen with no game.
“He said she’s the truth of his life and?—”
“And the keeper of his heart,” I whisper, cutting Blue off. “Yeah, I know.” I sniff hard and clench my jaw before adding through clenched teeth, “He won’t be happy until we’re all crying like fucking babies.”
Elly’s crying already, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks as she squeezes his hands.
“And your name is tattooed on mine. I think it always has been. Thank you for loving me the way I’ve always dreamed of being loved.
Thank you for being a man I’m so proud to call mine, a father who loves with his whole chest, and for making me smile every day.
” A grin stutters across her gorgeous face, made even prettier by the love and tears shining in her eyes.
“I can’t wait to love and laugh and raise our family together and grow old with you.
I will relish every day I get to be yours, and I already know…
No matter how long we have, baby… Even a hundred years wouldn’t be enough. ”
Oh. My. God.
It’s like they’re trying to twist tiny knives of beauty deep into our hearts.
I have to look away, blinking fast, and that’s when it happens.
My gaze drifts past Makena to find her big blue eyes locked on me like she couldn’t look away if she tried.
The air punches out of my lungs. It’s been over seven months since that kiss at The Brass Monkey, seven months of her avoiding me like I’m a highly contagious disease, and now she’s looking at me like she feels the ache in my chest.
The longing. The need to reach out and touch someone—and God, I hope it’s me.
Before I can mouth “Can I have the first dance?” Grammercy speaks again, and she jerks her gaze back to the front.
Fuck, Grammercy!
I mean, yeah, it’s your wedding, but you’re technically already married and the happiest man I know. Would it kill you to throw the rest of us a bone once and a while?
“And this is for you, Meems.” He drops to one knee in front of Mimi, who’s standing beside Elly in a puffy purple dress that makes her look like an adorable, lavender cupcake.
She’s always got the cute kid schtick on lock, but the way her eyes widen as Grammercy pulls a small box from his pocket is enough to send an “aww” through the crowd.
“Marian Mimi Meems Rebecca Becky Thibodeaux,” Grammercy says, the way he talks to this kid making it clear they’re already besties for life. “Can I tell you a secret?”
She nods, her eyes wide.
“The adoption papers came through a few days ago,” he says, his eyes glassy.
Mimi’s bow tie lips open in a silent “O.” She glances at her mama, asking, “Does this mean…”
Elly nods, clearly fighting tears again as she says, “Yep. It means you get to be a Graves now, too.”
“And Gee is my daddy?” Mimi asks. “For real?”
Grammercy nods. “For real and for keeps. And I got you a necklace to celebrate. So you’ll always remember how much you’re loved, bébé .”
The crowd makes another collective sound—part sigh, part sob, part prayer to make the beauty stop before we all expire from the purity of it all.
“It’s a nutria!” Mimi says, laughing as she looks at the charm in the box.
“Princess Nutria,” Grammercy corrects. “Inspired by your drawings. The jewelry maker made it special just for you.”
“Oh, man, it’s so good, Gee. You’re really good at this wedding stuff,” Mimi says, shaking her head with a sweet earnestness that has soft laughter echoing off the stone surrounding the courtyard .
“Well, I love you and your mama a whole lot, baby girl,” he says.
Mimi holds his gaze for a beat, nodding before she whispers, “I love you, too, Daddy.”
And that’s it.
Man overboard!
Tears ahoy.
Fuck, that motherfucker and his gorgeous fucking heart and that little girl with her scrappy-smart-cute kid energy and Elly bending to gather them both in her arms for a family hug while the rest of us weep like Sam when he said goodbye to Frodo at the end of The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
We weep because it’s glorious.
We weep because we know there can be no truer way than this.
We weep because we wish the world could be a finer, gentler place where love like this was the rule, not the exception.
We weep because the most beautiful babysitter a man ever had won’t let him pleasure her into half a dozen orgasms, feed her ice cream in the bath, make her laugh until she snorts water out of her nose, and show her that we’re fucking perfect for each other.
But maybe…
Just maybe, I’m wrong about that.
Because fifteen minutes later, when we’re finally allowed to adjourn to the air-conditioned ballroom for dancing, drinks, and eventual cake, I’ve barely shucked my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and downed half an icy beer when Makena is suddenly there.
Right in front of me.
Looking sexy as fuck in a peach bridesmaid dress with a hint of runny mascara still under her eyes and a determined expression on her face.
“What do you want, woman?” I murmur, soft and low, jumping right back into that conversation she bailed on seven months ago.
“Dance with me.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor. The band’s playing “White Wedding,” a weird choice in light of all the romance in the air, but the dirty, chaotic energy suits us just fine.
Makena and I dance like lunatics. Intense. Wild. Holding nothing back, making every person who bops by us laugh, and several people whip out their phones to record our “routine.”
But it’s not a routine, it’s just my particular flavor of crazy meeting her particular flavor and making something weirdly and wonderfully beautiful.
It’s entertaining. And fun. And exactly the cathartic rush of energy I needed to banish all the heavy “musings on love in a hopeless world” shit weighing me down after the ceremony.
It seems to be exactly what she needs, too. Because when “White Wedding” gives way to “Rock the Kasbah,” we keep the party going.
We dance until we’re sweaty again, and they finally play a slow song, and then she’s in my arms, her head on my chest, making my soul ache again as the plaintive strains of “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner fill the ballroom.
I want to know what love is, too.
And I really want her to show me.
We dance and dance, breaking only to toast the bride and groom, stuff cake in our mouths, and suck down a vodka and cranberry with a splash of lemon that’s nowhere near as good as a Trash Panda, before we get back on the dance floor.