30. Mal #2
June clears her throat, voice thick. “By the power vested in me by the internet and a surprisingly easy certification process, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Again, still, whatever you want to call it. Kiss her already.”
I cup Gracie’s face in my hands and kiss her, and the crowd erupts.
The reception is a beautiful mess.
Tables are set up between the oak trees, loaded with food from every kitchen in Cedar Hollow.
Someone brought a speaker and playlist of country songs I don’t recognize but Gracie clearly does, because she sways in her chair and mouths the words.
Waffles has finally lost his flower crown and stands by the fence, glaring at everyone equally.
“Speech time,” June announces, tapping a fork against her glass. “Denny, you’re up.”
Denny stands, looking only slightly nauseated. He’s got a beer in one hand and notes crumpled in the other.
“So,” he starts, “my boss’s husband is an idiot.”
“Great start,” I mutter.
“He’s an idiot,” Denny continues, “but he’s a talented idiot, and somewhere along the way that talent made him famous, and the fame made him stupid.”
Mom makes a distressed noise. Dad pats her shoulder.
“I wasn’t there the night it all fell apart in the city. But I was here when Gracie came home. I saw what he’d done to her, written all over her face, and I hated him for it. Figured he’d be a footnote - the famous husband who broke her heart and never showed his face again.”
The crowd is quiet now. Gracie’s hand finds mine under the table.
“But idiots can surprise you.” Denny lifts his beer. “Sometimes they learn. Mal came home. He shut his mouth and opened his eyes and actually saw what he’d almost thrown away. And then he fought for it. Every day. Even when the donkey chased him.”
Laughter.
“To Mal and Gracie,” Denny says. “May you keep fighting for each other. May the donkey eventually stop hating him. And may those twins inherit their mother’s common sense.”
“Hear, hear,” the crowd choruses.
Denny sits down, looking relieved. I lean over and clap him on the shoulder.
“Not bad.”
“I practiced in the mirror for a week.”
“It showed,” I tell him, and this time the shove I give him nearly knocks him off his chair.
“Shut up.”
Gracie pushes her chair back, and I help her stand for the cake cutting. She’s been on her feet too long. I can tell by the way she shifts her weight, but she refuses to sit.
“I’m fine,” she says when I hover.
“You’re eight months pregnant with twins.”
“And you’re being overprotective.” She waddles toward the cake table, and I follow like a nervous shadow.
The cake is three tiers of buttercream, topped with two tiny fondant donkeys that June insisted on. Gracie laughs when she sees them.
“Perfect,” she says.
We cut the cake. Gracie smears frosting on my nose, and I pretend to be offended, and the photographer June hired catches it all. Mom’s crying again. Dad’s given up on comfort and just holds her hand.
Then Gracie freezes.
“Gracie?” I set down my cake plate. “What’s wrong?”
She’s staring at the ground. At her feet. At the puddle spreading beneath the hem of her white dress.
“Um,” she says.
“Is that-”
“That’s my water.” She looks up at me, eyes wide. “Mal, that’s my water. I’m - it’s-”
“That’s not the caterer,” I say, my brain catching up a beat too late. “That’s a contraction.”
“I’M HAVING THE BABIES.” She grabs my arm. “It’s too early, it’s three weeks early, it’s-”
“It’s fine.” I don’t know if it’s fine. I have no idea if it’s fine. But I wrap an arm around her and start steering her toward the truck. “Twins come early. This is normal. We’re fine.”
“I’m in labor at my own wedding.”
“Vow renewal.”
“I’M IN LABOR AT MY OWN VOW RENEWAL.”
The crowd has figured out what’s happening. June’s shouting orders-“Get the bag! The bag by the door! SOMEONE MOVE THE DONKEY, HE’S BLOCKING THE GATE”, and Mom’s crying harder, which I didn’t think was possible, and Dad’s actually smiling like this is the best possible ending.
I get Gracie to the truck. Help her into the passenger seat. Her dress is ruined, and she’s laughing and crying at the same time.
“Our kids have terrible timing,” she gasps.
“They’re dramatic. They get it from you.”
“I’m not-” She breaks off with a groan, hand flying to her belly. “Oh god. That was a contraction. That was definitely a contraction.”
I gun the engine, spraying gravel as I pull onto the main road. The hospital is twenty minutes away. We have time, probably, hopefully.
“Breathe,” I tell her. “Like the classes. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
“Don’t you dare coach me, Malcolm Koch. You did this to me.”
“Technically, we did this together.”
“I’m never letting you touch me again.”
“You said that last time.” I take the turn onto the highway too fast, then find her hand across the console. She grips it hard enough to bruise, and I let her, because it’s the least I owe her. “Okay. Okay. Breathe with me. We’ve got this. You’ve got this.”
“Mal.” Her voice goes small between the waves, scared and shining all at once. “We’re about to have our babies.”
“I know.” I press her knuckles to my mouth, ring and all, and put my foot down. “Ready or not, Tate. Here they come.”