Chapter 12 Isaiah’s Wedding
Isaiah's Wedding
Jonah
“Damn, I look good,” I say, inspecting every inch of myself in the mirror. I once heard a fitted suit, or tuxedo in this case, does to a man what lingerie does to a woman, and they were right. I’d fuck me.
Gosh, I have to stop saying swear words even in my head. I’m always being chastised for swearing in front of my niece and nephews. I have to get better about that.
But maybe I can make an exception because I look fine as hell. Hair pulled back into a respectable bun, clean-shaven, and... dog hair on the back of my pants. Shoot.
I search for the sticky roller, which has to be around here somewhere.
God, I wish everything was in a specified place.
It’s been more than a month since I moved in, and I still haven’t unpacked everything.
There are entire rooms in my home that are still empty.
There are boxes that I rifle through every morning for socks and T-shirts.
But at least I have a bed frame and a nightstand.
The nightstand!
I locate the sticky roller in the top drawer, where I also find an empty and expired bottle of ADHD medication and a box of condoms. I remove the offending white dog hair from my pants as I consider using those condoms tonight.
So what if Renée told me nothing would happen between us?
I don’t believe it for a second. I think she’s going to see me in this tuxedo, standing tall with my brothers, and she’s going to experience Good Time Jonah for the first time.
She already knows what I’m capable of if she just lifts her skirt for me; all I have to do now is show her my charming, devilishly handsome, and irresistibly touchable side.
I look like I could play in the next 007 movie!
I wonder how much an Aston Martin DB5 costs...
I toss the sticky roller back in the drawer and fluff the pillows on my freshly washed and made bed. I rarely make my bed, but I make it look like I have my life together when there’s a chance my very attractive older professor will be in it later.
In the center of my bed is a black and gold-trimmed box I can’t help but peek into one last time.
It’s the lingerie set Renée told me not to buy her.
I may have called up Paula at the boutique and asked for Renée’s exact measurements so I could get the right size.
It goes against her express wishes, so the least I could do is make sure the skimpy little garments she’s going to ride me in fit perfectly.
When the driver I hired sends me a text that he’s twenty minutes away, a surge of excitement courses through me like white water rapids. It’s happening. My brother is about to get married, and I’m taking the sexiest woman as my date to his wedding.
I’m striding across my yard on cloud nine, thinking about Renée wearing the dress I bought her, imagining what her hair will look like, what she’ll smell like, and if she’ll like my cologne.
When I step onto her front porch, I realize I’ve never seen inside her home and I’m giddy in anticipation. With a deep breath, I knock and step back before straightening my jacket and bow tie.
When there’s no answer after thirty seconds, I knock again.
Before I knock a third time, Renée answers wearing.
.. a robe. Her shiny red hair cascades over one shoulder in large, classic Hollywood curls.
I’ve never seen her wear makeup quite like this.
She painted her pouty, inviting lips the perfect shade of red, and I suddenly want to see evidence of that on my white shirt collar.
Her freckles are still on display, but her eyes are sucking me in like a black hole.
She clearly had a successful trip to the salon appointment I made for her earlier. Even in a bathrobe, she’s a vision.
A tantalizing idea pops up, and I smile. “Did you need some help getting dressed?”
Barefoot, she abruptly steps onto the porch and shuts the door behind her. “Jonah, I’m really sorry, but I can’t go tonight.”
Her words hit me like a cold bucket of water over the head. “Why not? What’s wrong?”
“Delta got really sick today,” she sighs. “She’s been throwing up and has a fever. My sister was supposed to watch them, but she just started throwing up herself ten minutes ago.”
My mind reels with ways to fix this, but I come up with nothing.
Everyone I know is going to be at this wedding, and I’ve been imagining this evening with her since she reluctantly agreed to be my date.
This was my big shot with her. This was the moment I was going to prove to my dad and Dane that I could pull her.
That our age gap and differences in our life stages didn’t matter.
I was going to twirl this woman on the dance floor and make her forget about the outside world for a while.
“I’m so sorry, Jonah, but I can’t go.” She sighs. “I don’t have anyone else to watch the girls, not this last-minute. In fact, you should probably take a step back because I’m sure I’ve caught whatever they have.”
I have to look away from her to focus on solving this problem. The warped wood beneath my leather dress shoes provides a blank canvas for my mind to work.
Renée must sense I have no answer to this, the same as her. “I’m sorry. We can return the dress.”
My head jerks up at her ludicrous words. “No. Please don’t return it. It’s yours.” Before I can say anything else, the sound of tires pulling into her driveway has me spinning around to find the hired blacked-out Escalade coming to a stop.
“You hired a car service?” she asks.
I face her once again and pull at the back of my neck. “Yeah.”
For a too-long moment, we stand there, unable to fix this. The clock has run out. There will be no overtime. I lost.
“Go on,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s your brother’s big day. Go make sure he has the best wedding ever.”
I’m not entirely sure how our conversation ends or how I got into the SUV because my thoughts are shrouded in a fog.
For my family and friends, I put on a brave face. I smile brightly for every camera shot the wedding party takes. I joke with my brothers and teammates, but inside, I’m bummed.
Renée would have loved being here. I saw the way her face lit up when she found out the wedding would be at the Horticulture Center.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows surround us, as well as endless plants and twinkling lights.
There’s a floral scent I can’t place, and I wish she were here to tell me what it is.
At the altar, I stand in a mix of Isaiah and Dell’s groomsmen while Robyn—more beautiful than I’ve ever seen—and her bridesmaids stand on the other side.
I teased my brother for years that she was my dream girl, just to ruffle him up so he’d admit that he loved her.
In the end, it wasn’t me who got him to admit his feelings—it was the big blond personal trainer standing between them.
The wedding has only just begun, and all three are fighting back tears, which causes me to well up. I can’t help it. I’m so happy for them.
I want what they have someday.
The officiant asks Angie to read a passage a few minutes into the ceremony. Our family isn’t particularly religious, but maybe Dell’s family requested a Bible passage. I cock an eyebrow as my sister takes the microphone. I do not remember this from the rehearsal.
She clears her throat. "Our mother, Zofia, left each of us Johannsen children a journal where she documented our first years of life. I thought this entry was perfect for today.” Angie swallows, and she glances at Isaiah before he gives her a nod.
“Hello my little noodle,” she reads. “Today, you are ten months old. You’ve just learned to stand—wobbly, proud, and completely undeterred by gravity.
You looked so pleased with yourself when you fell on your butt that I laughed until I snorted.
Isaiah, you are brave, joyful, stubborn, and absolutely certain the world should be explored.
“I don’t know who you will become, but I already know your heart. It’s gentle and bright and far too big for your little body. You reach for people the way most babies reach for toys—with curiosity, with trust, and with both hands.
“Wherever life takes you, my little noodle, stay that way. Laugh when you fall. Stand tall when you can. And know that from the very beginning, you were a joy to love.”
When Angie closes the journal, I realize I haven’t thought about my mother in a long time.
I was only three when she died, and I barely remember her.
I’ve relied on pictures and the memories Angie would share with me when we were alone.
We never spoke about her growing up because Dad had such a hard time with her passing.
At any mention of her, he’d disappear into his workshop.
When we all became friends with Rafael and Joaquín, their moms adopted us in a way.
I clung to their family like it was my own, desperate for more motherly attention.
Ana and Christina fed us, taught us Spanish, and we celebrated every Día de los Muertos with them.
We never told my dad, but all of us Johanssen kids looked forward to that day more than any other.
Angie had found a picture of our mom in a photo album and brought it to their house where it stayed, in a new frame, amongst all the deceased relatives of their families.
It was the one time a year we openly talked about our mom. Angie fed us scraps when she could throughout the years, but we feasted on Día de los Muertos.
I think about Renée’s daughters and how lucky they are to have her. I’m sure they miss their dad, though. Maybe they’re in the same boat I was as a kid—missing a whole parent. At least they have their mom, who seems much more involved in their lives than my father was for me.
The next thing I know, rings are exchanged and kisses seal life-long vows. Music swells as we walk down the aisle. Soon after, a glass of good whiskey rests in my palm.