34. Scarlett
— ? —
Scarlett
The barn isn’t finished.
That’s what I think as I walk down the makeshift aisle between folding chairs, my hand in Lucy’s arm, my eyes on the man waiting at the end.
The walls are up but the roof is still open in places, letting in the November sky.
The doors from Salt Fork hang on their hinges, beautiful and weathered.
And overhead, running the length of the building, the ridge beam with my mother’s name burned into the end grain.
Everyone I know is here. Every hand from Lone Elm, scrubbed clean and wearing their Sunday best. Prue Ashby in the second row, dabbing at her eyes. Ray Austin in the third, looking smug. Ellis at the end of a row, nodding at me as I pass.
And Roselle. In the third row, on the groom’s side, with empty hands and nothing to arrange. She catches my eye as I pass, and something passes between us, acknowledgment. A truce.
It’s enough.
Beck is waiting under the beam. He’s wearing a suit that is dark gray, no tie, top button undone, and he’s shaking. I can see it from here, the way his hands are trembling at his sides, the way he’s blinking too fast.
“Too late,” Ray Austin yells from his seat. “Already crying!”
The crowd laughs. Beck laughs too, swiping at his eyes.
“Shut up, Ray.”
“Make me, Cooper.”
I reach the end of the aisle. Lucy kisses my cheek and puts my hand in Beck’s, and then it’s just us, in a barn I designed and he built.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“You look-” His voice breaks. “God, Scarlett. You look-”
“Don’t cry,” I say. “You’ll make me cry.”
“Too late.”
We’re both laughing now, tears streaming down our faces. The officiant clears his throat.
“Shall we begin?”
The ceremony is short. We wrote our own vows, because Beck insisted, because he said he had things he needed to say out loud, in front of everyone.
“I see you,” he says, holding both my hands.
“That’s my vow. I see you, not the wife I thought I wanted, not the woman I tried to make you into, but you.
The real you. The one who builds things with her own hands.
The one who fights for what she believes in.
The one who left me when I deserved to be left, and came back when I earned it. ”
I’m crying. I can’t stop.
“I’m going to keep seeing you,” he continues. “Every day. Through the hard parts and the easy parts and all the parts in between. I’m going to see you, and I’m going to love what I see. For the rest of my life.”
It’s my turn. I take a breath.
“I believe you,” I say. “That’s my vow. I spent two years not believing, not trusting that you meant what you said, not trusting that I was enough.
But I believe you now. I believe you when you say you love me.
I believe you when you say you see me. And I’m going to keep believing you, even when it’s hard, even when I’m scared.
Because you earned it. You finally earned it. ”
The officiant pronounces us married. Beck kisses me like we’re the only two people in the world, and the crowd cheers, and somewhere Ray Austin is yelling about how it’s about damn time.
The reception is chaos. Brisket, beer and a band that plays too loud. Everyone wants to congratulate us, shake our hands, tell us how happy they are. Josie runs around in her flower girl dress, high on sugar and attention.
But finally, finally, the guests start leaving. Tripp takes Josie back to the manor with Lucy. The band packs up. The caterers clear away the last of the food.
And then it’s just us. In the half-built barn. Under the beam with my mother’s name.
“Hello, wife,” Beck says.
“Hello, husband.”
He’s loosened his collar, rolled up his sleeves. His hair is messy from dancing, and there’s a smear of brisket sauce on his shirt that I don’t tell him about.
“Dance with me,” he says.
“There’s no music.”
“I don’t care.”
He pulls me into his arms and we sway, slow and simple, to nothing but the sound of our own breathing. The string lights are still on, casting everything in a warm glow.
“Twenty-six buttons,” he says.
“What?”
“Your dress.” His hands slide down my back, counting. “Twenty-six buttons. I’ve been staring at them all night.”
“Have you?”
“I’ve been thinking about undoing every single one.” His mouth finds my ear. “Slowly. One at a time. While you stand there and let me.”
Heat pools low in my belly. “That sounds like it might take a while.”
“I’m not in any hurry.”
He turns me around gently, my back to his chest. I feel his fingers at the nape of my neck, finding the first button.
“One,” he says, and slips it free.
His lips brush the skin he’s exposed. I shiver.
“Two.”
Another button, another kiss. His mouth traces down my spine, following his fingers as they work.
“Three. Four. Five.”
“Oh, Beck-”
“Shh. I’m counting.”
By button ten, I’m trembling. By button fifteen, I’m gripping the back of a folding chair to stay upright. By button twenty, my dress is hanging open and his hands are sliding inside, finding bare skin.
“Twenty-one.” His palms flatten against my stomach. “Twenty-two.” They slide higher. “Twenty-three.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
“That’s the plan.” He cups my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra. “Twenty-four.”
I moan. He laughs against my shoulder, dark and satisfied.
“Twenty-five.” The dress slips lower. “Twenty-six.”
The dress falls. I’m standing in my barn, in my bra and underwear, with my husband’s hands on me and string lights casting shadows on the walls.
“Turn around,” he says.
I turn. He’s looking at me like I’m something sacred, something precious. His hands are trembling again, but not from nerves this time.
“You’re my wife,” he says.
“I’m your wife.”
“I’m going to make love to you now.” He reaches for the clasp of my bra. “In the barn you designed. And I’m going to take my time, because we have all night, and because I want to remember every second.”
He kisses me. Deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine. His hands unhook my bra, push down my underwear, until I’m naked in front of him and he’s still fully dressed.
“That’s not fair,” I say.
“I’ll catch up.”
He lifts me onto one of the folding chairs, the seat is cold against my bare skin, and I gasp, and then he’s kneeling between my thighs, spreading them wide.
“I love you,” he says, looking up at me. “I’m going to keep saying it.”
“Good.”
He lowers his mouth to me.
It’s different this time, slower. He licks into me like he has all the time in the world, like he could do this for hours. I’m already sensitive from wanting him all night, and it doesn’t take long before I’m writhing in the chair, my hands in his hair.
“Beck, please-”
“Not yet.”
He backs off, lets me come down, then starts again. Over and over, bringing me to the edge and retreating, until I’m shaking and desperate and ready to beg.
“Please,” I say. “I need you inside me. Please.”
He stands up and unbuttons his shirt. Unbuckles his belt.
“On the table,” he says.
“What?”
“The drafting table. Over there.” He nods toward it, a big wooden table where I spread out blueprints, covered now with a drop cloth. “I’ve been thinking about bending you over it since we started building.”
I walk to the table on shaky legs. He follows, shedding the rest of his clothes, and when I turn around he’s naked and hard and looking at me like he wants to devour me.
“Bend over,” he says.
I bend over. The drop cloth is rough against my breasts, my cheek. I hear him move behind me, feel his hands on my hips, and then-
He pushes inside.
I cry out. He’s so deep like this, filling me up, and he doesn’t give me time to adjust. He just starts moving, hard and fast, one hand on my hip and the other tangled in my hair.
“Look up,” he says, thrusting deep. “Look at the beam.”
I lift my head.
“Your name on the door,” he says. “Your mother’s name on the beam. Your land under this floor.” His hand tightens in my hair. “None of this is mine, Scarlett. I just get to live in it.”
“Beck-”
“Say you’ll keep me.”
“I’ll keep you.” I’m gasping, barely able to think. “I’ll keep you, I’ll keep you-”
“And I’m yours.” He pulls my hair, arching my back, changing the angle. “Every part of me. Every secret, every flaw, every broken piece. Yours.”
I come so hard I see stars. He follows me over with a groan that echoes off the unfinished walls, and we collapse against the table, breathing hard, covered in sweat.
“I love you,” he says against my shoulder. “I’m going to keep saying it.”
“I know.” I turn in his arms, kiss him softly. “I know, Beck. I know.”