30. Jesse
— ? —
Jesse
The hayfield looks different when it’s mowed for a wedding.
I spent this morning cutting a path through the back pasture, creating an aisle that runs from the barn to the old oak tree. The grass is golden in the October light, chairs borrowed from churches and community centers lining both sides.
“You nervous?” Rafael asks.
“Terrified.”
“Good. Means you’re paying attention.”
He’s standing next to me under the oak, playing best man because Cal’s got a different job today. The guests are filling in, Ridley on one side, Marigold on the other, two towns coming together.
Ruth’s in the front row with Hattie on her hip. One year old last week, wearing a white dress already covered in grass stains, babbling at Butterbean, who’s lying at Ruth’s feet in a bandana because nobody could stop Rosie from putting it on her.
“That pig looks ridiculous,” Rafael says.
“That pig looks festive.”
“The pig looks like she’s plotting murder.”
“Butterbean always looks like she’s plotting murder. That’s her default expression.”
“Fair point.”
Rosie appears at the end of the aisle in a purple dress with sparkles and a tutu she insisted was “essential for flower girl duties.”
“Here we go,” Rafael murmurs.
Rosie starts down the aisle. Her petal-throwing technique involves maximum velocity and minimal aim; at least one guest gets pelted directly in the face. She looks deeply satisfied.
“She’s a menace,” I say.
“She’s committed.”
Rosie deposits the last petals on Butterbean’s head and takes her place next to Ruth with the air of someone who’s completed a sacred duty.
The music starts. Live guitar, Tucker playing something I wrote on a tailgate the day we met.
And then Lo appears.
She’s wearing her grandmother’s ring and my old roping shirt over her dress. The faded blue one with the tear in the sleeve, the one I left on her chair the morning after the letter came.
Cal’s walking her down the aisle. His arm is steady, his face soft with something that might be pride.
Lo’s looking at me. Just at me.
“We’re gathered here today,” Peter says, “to witness the renewal of vows between Jesse and Lorilee Cooper. They asked me to keep this short, which is good, because I’m not great at public speaking.”
“You’re doing fine,” Lo says.
“I’m sweating through my shirt. But thank you.” He glances at his paper. “They’ve asked me to tell you this isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about choosing the future.”
Hattie makes a loud noise from Ruth’s lap.
“She agrees,” Peter says. “Jesse, you wanted to say your vows through a song.”
Tucker hands me the guitar.
“This song is as old as our story,” I say. “Most of you have heard how it started by now. What you may not know is that its first critic is standing right here, and she still says honey isn’t a color.”
“It’s not a color,” Lo says.
“It’s absolutely a color. I’ve been saying this since we met.”
“And you’ve been wrong the whole time.”
“The song disagrees.”
“The song is biased.”
“The song is romantic, not biased.”
Peter clears his throat. “Are you two going to do this the whole time?”
“Probably,” Lo says.
“Definitely,” I say.
“Great. Continue.”
I settle the guitar strap over my shoulder. “I’ve been working on the last verse since the day we met. Never could figure out how to end it. I think I finally know.”
I start to play.
“I sat down where I shouldn’t, on a stranger’s tailgate throne.
She could’ve told me off or told me gone, but she left me alone.
And her eyes are the color of honey, golden-warm in the light.
And I swear if she’d let me, I’d spend every day of my life making sure she knows she’s the reason I breathe, she’s the reason I sing, she’s my heart, she’s my home, she’s my everything. ”
Lo’s crying. She’s trying not to, but the tears are running down her face.
“Honey eyes, honey eyes, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Honey eyes, honey eyes, you’re every dream I’ve ever dreamed.”
I play through the verses I wrote in pieces over the years. Building toward the ending.
“I’ll never write another song, not one that isn’t yours. You’re the melody, the harmony, the music and the words.”
And then the new part. The verse I finished last week.
“I used to think that loving meant I’d know what’s best for you. I’d make the plans, I’d call the shots, I’d tell you what to do. But honey eyes, you taught me this: love asks before it moves. So here I am, not telling you - just asking. That’s the truth.”
Lo laughs through her tears.
The last chord fades. Silence.
Then Rosie claps, and everyone follows.
“Your turn,” Peter says to Lo.
She wipes her face. “I wrote three sentences. Because if I try to say more, I’m going to lose it completely.”
“Take your time.”
“First sentence.” She looks at me. “I love you, and I trust you, and I choose you - today and every day after.”
My throat tightens.
“Second sentence.” She’s almost smiling. “If you ever stop asking before you decide, I will sell all your guitars and buy a tractor.”
“Noted.”
“That’s a promise.”
“I accept those terms.”
“Third sentence.” Her voice goes soft. “You’re not allowed to sing that song to anybody else. Ever. That’s mine.”
“It’s always been yours.”
“Now it’s official. Witnessed and everything.”
“Legally binding?”
“Morally binding. Which is worse.”
Peter looks between us. “By the power vested in me by the internet, I pronounce you still married. Kiss your wife.”
I do.
***
The reception is at the lake beach.
Bonfire, hay bales, string lights. The same spot where I made the worst mistake of my life at the homecoming.
Tonight, Lo’s beside me.
Hattie’s asleep on my chest, worn out from excitement. Lo’s got her head on my shoulder.
“This is different,” she says.
“Different how?”
“Last time I was here, you were on that hay bale with Sloane. Singing our song.”
“I was an idiot.”
“You were.” No anger. Just fact. “But now you’re here. With me. With Hattie.”
“Different.”
“Better.”
Bree appears with cider. “Drink. You haven’t had anything in hours.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been mooning at your wife. That’s not busy, that’s embarrassing.” She sets the cups down. “Molly wants to know about a first dance.”
“At a renewal?”
“She says it’s traditional.”
“She says a lot of things.”
“She also says she’ll start a conga line if you don’t give her something.”
Lo looks at me. I look at Hattie.
“Maybe later,” I say.
“I’ll tell her.” Bree disappears.
Ruth settles onto the hay bale beside us.
“Beautiful ceremony.”
“Thank you.”
“That last verse was new.”
“I’ve been working on it.”
“It showed.” She touches Hattie’s head. “She’s going to hear that song her whole life.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Good idea.” Ruth smiles at Lo. “You did good, picking this one.”
“Especially when he made it hard,” Lo says. “That’s when the picking mattered most.”
“That’s very wise.”
“That’s very exhausted. Ask me again when I’ve slept more than four hours.”
“Four hours is generous for a one-year-old.”
“Four hours is aspirational. Two is realistic.”
“Welcome to motherhood.”
“I’ve been welcomed. Repeatedly. Usually at three in the morning.”
Cal appears at the edge of the firelight and holds out a guitar.
“One more?”
I take it by the neck out of habit. Lo’s cheek rests against my shoulder. Hattie’s fist closes on my shirt, and I feel the small tug all the way through me.
I hand the guitar back.
“Not tonight. I’m off.”