Forever Promised (53 page)
Authors: Amy Lane
Of course, Crick had been looking at him that way since he was nine years old, a little boy standing on the outside of the practice ring, watching Deacon put a horse through his paces, and for a breath Deacon was there, in that moment, seeing the liquid brown eyes of the boy he would grow to love.
In another breath, he was in that moment under this very tree, when he and Crick had first loved each other.
In another breath, he was in a hotel room in Georgia, when Crick left.
One more heartbeat, and he was here on a spring day, praying Crick would live.
One more, and he and Crick were here, saying vows like the ones he was about to recite.
And again, and again. Breath after heartbeat, summer, fall, winter, spring—and it all came back to this, this place, this moment. It came to beginnings and endings, of promises you made and promises you kept and promises that got broken in spite of your best intentions. It came to fixing what shattered, making do with what wouldn’t fix, and building again and hoping, hoping for this moment, when everything was as shiny and perfect as a baby’s first cry.
It’s why they all gathered here, weddings, funerals, the introduction of their son—it was the promise and the heartbreak of the place Deacon’s family called home. It was the legacy of a community, a simple swimming hole, a place made sacred by love.
Promise Rock.
A fear of crowds was nothing to a promise made here. Deacon, of all people, should know that.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and nodded to the gathering, catching the eye of people he knew and loved.
“I promised,” he started, and his throat clogged. He looked at Crick’s little sister, her heart-shaped face shining with joy, and had to start again. “I promised Benny a traditional wedding,” he said. “Because nothing about the lot of us has anything to do with tradition. So we’re going to start with the old words, and then we’re going to throw in the new, and then we’re going to end where all things begin: with a kiss. Is everybody ready?”
He heard some laughter, and a gentle murmur from his friends and from his family. Jon gave him the thumbs-up from his seat, where his wife and son were trying to crawl in his lap, and Parry reached out and grabbed his hand from her place by her mother.
“You ready, Parry Angel?”
“Say the words, Deacon.”
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together….”
A
MY
L
ANE
is a mother of four and a compulsive knitter who writes because she can’t silence the voices in her head. She adores cats, Chi-who-whats, knitting socks, and hawt menz, and she dislikes moths, cat boxes, and knuckle-headed macspazzmatrons. She is rarely found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever, or sometimes for no reason at all. She writes in the shower, while at the gym, while taxiing children to soccer/dance/gymnastics/ band oh my! and has learned from necessity to type like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested, crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved Mate to keep her tethered to reality—which he does, while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty-plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.
Website: www.greenshill.com
Blog: www.writerslane.blogspot.com
E-mail: [email protected]
Facebook: www.facebook.com/amy.lane.167
Twitter: @amymaclane
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http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
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