Epilogue
The wind whips at loose hair in that annoying way, sending strands into your mouth no matter which way you turn.
This will be Trystan’s doing. Another chance to show his hand on an occasion where his presence is demanded but only absence remains.
It was like when Bri and I were gawking at an ultrasound monitor and the technician pointed out two blinking blobs.
Twins. I expected him to step out from behind the curtain and grin at me while shrieking, “Surprise, motherfucker. You don’t think you can handle one baby? Here’s two!”
Not that you can tell, my radiant bride is pregnant with twins as she walks toward me, her abdomen just beginning to swell with the lives we created not by contract, but connection.
Bri’s friend Jaspar has adopted the wedding coordinator role, and fusses with a boutonniere and the bride’s veil before allowing them to continue.
Glyndon has his arm wrapped around his eldest daughter’s, his face a picture of concentration while Molly and Maeve mouth instructions to him in rapid-fire order.
It’s a straight line to the celebrant; how many directions are needed?
Left foot, right foot, repeat. And they do, all the way to where I stand with Frazer, Terry, and Kynan, who sensibly has his hair tied back with an elastic band.
Smug fucker only had the one though and wouldn’t part with it for my unruly locks.
“All that money and you can’t afford a hair tie?
” His question was pointed but delivered with a smirk.
In the end, it doesn’t matter if I finish the ceremony looking windswept and interesting.
My hair is longer; my beard is longer, and I don't get hung up on perceived perfection anymore. Bri loves me for me. She kisses the fine lines at the corners of my eyes, knowing that they are there because she’s the one person who can always make me smile.
She kisses the beginning of silver hairs at my temple knowing that she put them there.
I kiss the swells of her breasts and rounded belly knowing that I put life in there for her to nurture, created from love.
They will both, whether boys or girls, perceived perfection or otherwise, always know that they are loved and cherished by both parents every day.
They won’t know poverty, nor will they attend overpriced, elite schools and be molded into robotic proforma sheep.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the celebrant beams. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Broe!”
Yes, that’s right. I took Sabrina’s name willingly.
Both of us figured the Mercer name was too toxic.
I’m looking forward to a new beginning of sorts, a phoenix rising tied to a surname synonymous with love and togetherness, not lies, betrayal, and greed.
From my side, Fraze stands as one of my groomsmen and one of only three male guests of mine.
Terry and George are the others. Nic sits next to Marin at the end of the aisle, often rising to chase down Ramsey when he darts off after birds or reassures a nervous Ava she’s doing a fantastic job with the petals.
It’s the wind that has other ideas. Caitlin and Pen assist my gorgeous bride, who wears Marin’s engagement ring, but a new wedding band.
Marin gave the ring and her blessing right after the funeral of her husband, and my father.
The funeral I did not attend and have no regrets about skipping.
If he couldn’t be there for me and love me in life, why should I mourn him in death?
According to all reports, it differed vastly from his birthday event, where Billy Joel performed on piano.
The private service had a handful of old business associates among the mourners and even fewer family members.
I’ve moved on. Evolved, if you will. I’ve followed Bri’s urging and am doing what makes me happy.
We have a modest four-bedroom house for when we’re not sailing, close enough to Trenton for the extended Broes, and enough of a drive to Nic’s gallery or home to make a day of it.
I trade currency pairs when I’m not hauling sails or loving my wife with parts of me I never knew existed.
Whole, encompassing love that she multiplies every time we’re together.
While we are being congratulated and Nic darts past to grab her son before he ends up in the water with the swans, I notice staff exiting the beachside restaurant we booked out for our reception.
There are the usual waitstaff in white shirts and black pants toting trays of champagne, beer, no doubt whiskey, and sparkling apple juice for my bride.
As they descend the stairs and move across the lawn to the waiting guests, they pass a man in dark jeans and a shirt leaning against the railing.
He’s partially obscured by the sprawling vines, content to let the staff move while he steps back into the shadows.
As the guests move across the lawn toward the drinks, I lose sight of him when Bri pulls me in for a kiss.
Kisses I’ll never get tired of. Caitlin taps away at her phone before Eamon, now walking, reaches his chubby fingers out to her for balance.
“What is it?” Bri asks.
“Huh? Nothing,” I say, pecking her cheek again. “I thought I saw someone…” My voice fades.
“I felt like he was here today. Perhaps the wind?” she laughs.
Smiling, I guide my wife through the doors so she can rest on the couch. Even in flat shoes, her feet have been hurting.
“Ah, Mrs. Broe,” the manager begins. “A gentleman stopped by and dropped this off for both of you.” He steps forward with a gift to place on the makeshift gift table, even though the invitation stipulated no gifts.
It’s a bottle of Henri Jayer Echezeaux Grand Cru with a small, folded card I flip open as Bri’s eyes bulge. The wine. It couldn’t be. No…
Keep scooping that sand. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. And on the twins too, overachievers!
All my love, T x
The manager looks from Sabrina’s wide-eyed stare to me and back again.
“Did he say anything else?” she asks, bewildered.
“No, only that he couldn’t stay. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. Something about a waiting chopper?”
Motherfucker.