EPILOGUE
Special K
The thing that’s hitting me hardest today—in the midst of all the celebration and music and joy—is that I’m feeling it.
Literally.
Groomsman Kevin MacLaine is present. I’m part of it. I’m standing right up here with my boutonniere and my brothers because I want to. This is where I belong.
The vibe is sweet and warm. Phoebe looks absolutely stunning in her dress. And Evander is a starstruck mess in his pleated paisley mulberry silk cummerbund, which I find hilarious.
I’m not gonna lie—I’m tearing up watching Phoebe’s mom and dad walk her down the aisle, her dad using a cane for the occasion.
Gil Travis has been ravaged by illness. The sturdy rancher I’ve known all my life is just skin and bone now. But as he places his only daughter’s hand in Evander’s sweaty palm, there isn’t a dry eyeball in the house, counting mine.
Gil Travis is showing up for his daughter because that’s what it’s all about.
This is the fourth fucking wedding I’ve had to attend in the last year. And if I was the same man who went to all those previous weddings, I know what I’d be doing right about now.
I’d be curled in a ball in the corner of the Travis Ranch barn. I’d be hiding my eyes from the flowers and silky bows and whatever else kind of shit they used to decorate this place, cussing and complaining about how pointless it all is, a waste of a perfectly nice June afternoon.
That man didn’t believe in love.
I’m not that man anymore, the sad sack who had to be threatened with bodily harm to show up for the most important day in his brothers’ lives.
I’m no longer the asshole who rolled his eyes at Cal and Victoria standing on the dock together at sunset, hating how “romantic” the guests thought the ceremony was while I swatted at mosquitos and wondered what kind of beer they had back at the party tent.
I’m not the miserable bastard who bitched and moaned about being tired and hungry at Finn and Emma’s blowout, where delicious food was piled to the rafters and senior citizens danced into the wee hours.
And I’m not the idiot who, at Summer and Declan’s backyard “second wedding,” complained when my friend asked me to give her away and serve as ring bearer.
“Why would you want that?” I asked Summer.
“Because I love you, dipshit,” she said.
I didn’t get it, and I didn’t like it, but I did it just to get it over with.
That last wedding was only a couple of months ago. Today, at Evander and Phoebe’s traditional affair, I’m a different man.
Because I’m here with Boots.
I look out now to see her seated in the second row with Aunt Phyllis. She smiles at me and wiggles her fingers and one eyebrow, and I’m done for.
I’m so in love with Frankie that I can’t believe my life is real. This love between us has survived everything the world’s thrown at us.
It’s unstoppable.
I wake up every morning—Pussy on one side and the world’s best pussy on the other—sure that I’m dreaming.
And the craziest part is this: the strong, funny, and wickedly smart Frances Rachel Lyles, originally of Pine Haven, Oregon, loves me back enough to let me in. She’s okay that I know her.
The former hot headliner at the Lynx Gentleman’s Club of Las Vegas—daughter of the late Lou Lyles and granddaughter of Stan Lyles—now displays a gargantuan diamond ring on her left hand.
She tells me every day how happy she is.
How she’s never been filled with such hope for the future.
How much she treasures me and my family.
We’re taking a trip to Oregon this summer to reconnect with her grandfather. We’re even talking about having kids--a bunch of them.
Yeah, I’m a changed man. I’m an engaged man, and if that isn’t the wildest sentence I’ve ever put together, I don’t know what is.
It’s a damn mystery how this all came to be. But I’m profoundly grateful for the day I wandered up on Washoe Ridge in search of a few missing head of cattle, only to fall head over heels in love with a wood chopper in go-go boots.
I smile back at her, and my heart jumps in my chest. I can’t help myself.
She’s mine and I’m hers and no matter what it took for us to get here, it was worth it.
I drag my eyes away from Boots long enough to witness Evander and Phoebe exchange their vows. Evander wrote eight versions of his promises to Phoebe—I know because he made me read all eight—yet here he is, stumbling over every syllable while Phoebe squeezes his hand in encouragement.
The MacLaine brothers are so pussy-whipped that it’s not even funny.
And I count myself among the proud.
The few.
The whipped.
The ceremony proper is over and my official duties are done for the time being. Eventually, I’ll have to stand in front of all these people and give a toast to the bride and groom. Yes, the MacLaine mime-in-residence has been asked to give a toast, and fuck my marking words, it’s gonna be lit.
But I take advantage of the lull to do something I’ve been dying to do for over an hour now.
I see Frankie talking with Dad and Phyllis. She’s so beautiful in that sky-blue patterned dress that I’m sweating in my monkey suit. Her hair is pulled back in some sort of soft bun at the nape of her seductive neck. She’s wearing the delicate gold necklace I got her when she was in the hospital.
It’s safe to say that from this angle, there’s nothing about the dress itself that draws the eye and shouts, “SEX!” I admit it took me a minute to see it.
Frankie had so much fun going shopping with Victoria and Phoebe to select her wedding guest dress. It was the first all-day outing she attempted since returning home from the hospital, and she came home exhausted but giddy.
Honestly, the way she talked about the dress, I expected something eye-popping. That’s why I was confused when I saw it on a hanger in the walk-in closet. I had to stare at it for a minute.
The fabric would match her eyes, and sure, it looked pretty in a one-shouldered, long, slit-skirt kind of way. But other than that, I didn’t see what the excitement was about. It looked kind of shapeless, honestly.
And then she put it on, and I forgot my fucking name.
“May I cut in?” I ask, grabbing Frankie’s hand without waiting for an answer.
“Your dad was just sharing his favorite dry rub recipe,” Frankie says as I pull her away.
“It’ll have to wait, Dad. I need Frankie for a second.”
“But I was getting to the smoked paprika, son.”
“I’ll have her back in a jiffy.” We jog hand-in-hand out of the barn and into the June afternoon. We weave through the guests enjoying cocktails outside while the caterers set up for dinner.
“Where are we going?” Frankie asks laughing.
“Somewhere private.”
“Good luck with that. Hey, wait. My heels are getting muddy.”
“Hop on, Boots.”
She giggles as she jumps on my back. Thanks to the thigh-high slit in her dress she can wrap her long legs around my waist. I feel her slender arms slip around my shoulders and her lips brush against the back of my neck.
“You clean up real good, cowboy,” she whispers in my ear. “You looked mighty handsome standing up there.”
“Aww shucks,” I say, scanning my surroundings. I don’t know the Travis Ranch well, but after attending all those summer carnivals here, I can find my way around well enough. And I think I remember a nice little grove of Aspen up the hill here.
I’m right.
I carry Frankie up the path and set her down on an old stone wall near a rippling creek. Sunlight filters down through the leaves and dances on her pale hair. The view from here is spectacular.
Because all I see is her.
“You seem very pensive today, MacLaine.”
“You know me—the strong, silent type.”
She looks up as a small smile quirks the corners of her lips. It’s been about a month since the night in Tahoe. She’s had no medical complications and she’s regaining her strength.
The swelling on her face is gone and only the barest hint of bruising is noticeable around her brow bone and jaw. She was self-conscious today, worried about concealing the small patches of yellow with makeup.
I told her she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Ever will see. And it’s the truth.
I lean down to drop a soft kiss on her lips. As always, she returns the sentiment. My Frankie is gorgeous, warm, loving, and all in.
She’s all in it with me.
When I end the kiss and brush my fingertips down her face, she frowns a little.
“Are you always like this at weddings, Special K?”
“Like what? Am I grumpy or something?” I drag my finger down her chest and into her cleavage. I trace the swell of her breasts and my breath hitches.
“Grumpy? No...oh. Okay, now. This is interesting. You’re a sucker for weddings, aren’t you?”
I smile to myself. “Sure.”
“I think you’re a hopeless romantic.”
I trace my finger up her arm and along her collarbones. “Not hopeless, but if I am a romantic, it’s all your fault.”
“What did I ever do to you?” she asks laughing.
I raise my eyes to Frankie’s. I start fiddling absentmindedly with her diamond ring. She tips her head to the side, waiting for me to answer.
“You chose to love me, Boots. That’s what you did. Your love brought me back to life. And I plan to spend the rest of my days reminding you that you chose wisely.”
“Absolutely my best decision ever,” she says, reaching up, grabbing my hair, and pulling me in for a kiss.
THE End