EPILOGUE
Sergei
“You can’t show up to your own wedding shower looking like Umbrella Security Service about to go into the Hive!”
I always remove my weapon when I leave work, so I do not agree with this assessment.
All I know is that Dallas is adamant that I not be wearing the same clothes I leave in.
But it doesn’t make sense; she and Brett planned this party at Volk and many of the guests will be the same people who work in the building.
But even so, I assured her I would be changed by the time I return for the party.
Contrary to what Dallas would say, I do actually own a few pieces of formal attire.
By the time I finally walk out the door, the event company hired by Dallas is pulling into the parking lot, followed by four white vans, no doubt filled to the brim with décor, food, and supplies.
Being told that my only responsibility is to show up in acceptable attire, I head across the parking lot to meet Lutz and Barrera at their vehicles.
“Two hours,” Lutz announces. “Just enough time for one last board down the mountain.”
I pause at the back of my Tundra. “Why last?”
He pushes off his Bronco with a shrug. “I mean, at least until January, with your packed schedule this month.”
“Nah.” Barrera squints at me. “He’s got a few more left—like the Volk Christmas party, the bachelor party, the rehearsal, before the wedding, after the wedding…”
Both of them are well aware that I think the frequency of parties during the month of December is excessive. And my upcoming nuptials only highlights that fact.
“If I am even allowed,” I grumble. “Your wife says otherwise.” I jerk open the Tundra door and toss my backpack into the passenger seat. “Am I following you to your house?”
“No,” Barrera replies. “My house is full of candy, monogrammed cups, photo frames, and more of those mini Squish-fuckers in custom printed boxes stacked all over the place. There is a gift box for everyone and everything.”
This fact does not shock me. Dallas is the one who planned and coordinated nearly every wedding event prior to this one—mostly for the women.
It’s also clear that the bride attends far more events than the groom.
Not that I’m complaining. Everything Barrera just listed sounds like torture, except for the wedding itself.
But the wedding is just a formality, a celebratory announcement. I’ve already committed myself and the rest of my life to Barrett many times over.
“We’re going to your house,” Lutz informs me. “Barrett’s at my house with Brett and they’ll come here together after my dad and Mary arrive to stay with Ev and Jens. They’re already getting hyped for baby number three.”
Fortunately, the sky is clear this afternoon and there’s no sign of a storm on the horizon like last year around this time.
But that’s not the only thing that has changed since then.
Stepping through the front door, my house smells of vanilla and nutmeg and looks like a Christmas market set up shop in my living room.
Normally, it would be too much for my senses, but I don’t mind.
After finally meeting Barrett last year, I decided to give holidays another chance.
Now, there is garland and candles and lanterns and a ceramic snow-covered town with little houses and shops with tiny LED lights in the windows.
Not to mention the tree. There is a nine-foot pine in my living room adorned with ornaments and warm white twinkle lights.
And I am on the top.
I don’t know when she took the picture, but somehow a photo of me and my back tattoo ended up in a little silver frame propped up by the top branches.
“Why shouldn’t it be there?” Barrett asked incredulously. “It’s customary for an angel to go on top of a Christmas tree. But this is also a New Year tree, and you literally have an angel on your back, so what’s the problem?”
I did not have an argument prepared, much less a good one.
“Why are there so many parties before a wedding?” I ask, drying my damp hair with a towel. “The wedding is supposed to be the party, no?”
Lutz appears in the bathroom door, buttoning his shirt. “I don’t have much advice. Brett capped our guest list at 30 because the deck at Barstow Lodge could only fit that many. But from what I hear, Barrett’s family is huge and they love weddings and holidays.”
He is right. There are so many people in Barrett’s family that I often wonder how she remembers all their names.
“It’ll probably be more like mine,” Barrera interjects as he rakes some product through his onyx hair.
“My family’s huge, too. And loud. And they like parties.
Prepare to talk to people all night, possibly yell because they won’t be able to hear you over their own yapping, and then stay up way past your bedtime because your grandma’s making you take shots with her. ”
I knit my brow at his reflection. “Your abuelita?”
“No, my other grandma. The one from SoCal.” He smooths the front of his black button-down. “But mí abuelita is coming to visit for a couple weeks next summer. Luca said she’s talking like she wants a summer house here.”
I did feel badly about enticing Barrera to leave the Midwest after his grandmother moved there to be closer to him and his brothers. That is, until I found out that she loves the mountains but never had the opportunity to live close to any.
“I think she has ulterior motives, though,” he continues. “Like if she can stay here for months at a time, we’ll start popping out great-grandchildren.”
“She’s welcome to ours in the meantime,” Lutz gives himself one last look in the mirror. “By the time you build her a house here, we’ll have a fourth with number five on the way.”
He is not exaggerating. Brett has been pregnant almost continuously since I met her.
Barrera shoots him a side-eye. “Dal wanted to stage an intervention with you this time around.”
“She can try,” Lutz scoffs.
“Col, you can’t build an effective army with your brood alone. It’s just not efficient,” Barrera argues with a glint in his eye. “Besides, who do you have left to fight?”
“Take it up with Brett,” he replies. “I promised her I’d keep her pregnant, and I plan to hold up my end of the deal.”
I pause while adjusting my collar. “Why would she request that?”
“Pregnancy hormones treat her well,” Lutz smirks.
“Brett gives birth, she recovers, I put another baby in her, she turns back into a feral beast for another nine months, and then I adjust Candace and Moira’s rates.
” He shrugs. “Who am I to argue with the woman who has multiple bestsellers and a streaming deal?”
“Babies are probably a lot more fun when their parents aren’t being tortured with sleep deprivation,” Barrera points out.
I imagine he’s right. Barrett is the one who found the Lutzes’ day and night nannies through an intense vetting process—with my help, of course.
After Barrett’s idea to take care of Ev overnight during her first visit, Brett finally saw reason and let Barrett find reputable people like Candace and Moira and covered their first two months of pay.
Candace cares for the babies overnight until they can sleep for a reasonable duration while Moira cares for them during the first half of the day so Brett can write.
All I know is that I consider myself fortunate to have never experienced such hell as interrupted sleep.
I finish pulling my hair into my usual tight knot at the back of my head and smooth my shirt at my shoulders.
Barrett would prefer my hair always stay loose, but I can’t do that.
There are clear delineations in my daily life, and this wedding shower has already muddled them enough.
At home, I am more relaxed, but at work, my hair remains securely contained no matter what.
This wedding shower has been designated the “friends and coworkers” shower, but it’s being held at Volk—my company—which puts it squarely in “work” territory.
“I will wear nice clothes for you, but my hair will stay put until we return home,” I told her, while enjoying her look of frustration and defeat.
However, my compromises include tailored grey pants, a black button-down, and black boots that are much cleaner and shinier than my everyday ones.
Then again, everything has to be tailored to me.
But, beyond tonight, there’s only one other occasion where I would agree to wear any kind of formalwear.
Our wedding is in less than a month—on New Year’s Eve, of course.
I complain to Lutz and Barrera about the crowds and the endless parties that all seem to be called something different, but I would marry Barrett in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve while wearing a tuxedo if she asked.
She’s the only person I’ve ever wanted to share a home with, and walking into my vacant house at a time when she would normally be there is a stark reminder of that.
By the time we arrive back at Volk, the parking lot is filling up again.
I breathe easier when I see Brett’s 4Runner on the way in, but I’m not prepared for what awaits inside.
The building is more or less a warehouse with offices built into the back of it, large enough to drive trucks through the bays on the sides.
But now you would never know any of that.
I step through the doors flanked by hunter green velvet curtains tied back with balsam branches and golden globe ornaments.
Using decorative walls and flowy sheer drapes and whatever magic Dallas has decided to pull out of her shimmery purple tote bag tonight, the front of the building is transformed into an elegant holiday themed party scattered with tufted velvet sofas and black tables.
In the middle, against the back wall, is a green and gold bar framed with garland and oversized ornaments.
On the wall behind it, illuminated in warm white lights, are our names written in cursive and separated by an ampersand.