Tied (27 page)

“Yet you’ll still never be as damaged as I was by what I heard from your fucking room in Vegas.”

The peroxide didn’t work. Sometimes, late at night, I can still hear them.

I’m considering therapy. Or hypnosis.

She just grins slyly. “That was a great morning.”

“What was a great morning?” Steven asks, as he brings my sister a cocktail.

She looks at Steven the way a twelve-year-old looks at a Justin Bieber poster. “Every morning with you.”

He kisses her lips.

I catch Mackenzie’s eye from across the room, wink, and tilt my head toward her parents. She beams back at me, and I know things at home have been back on track with Lexi and Steven. Then Mackenzie mouths,
So gross
.

I just nod.

After the food, music is the second most important ingredient for a successful wedding reception. We hired a twelve-piece band, and a DJ for the songs that just sound stupid when someone other than the original artist covers them. The wedding singer—a voluptuous redhead with stellar pipes—introduces us as Mr. and Mrs. Drew Evans for the first time, and as our guests stand and applaud, I lead Kate to the dance floor for the customary first dance.

It’s the wedding singer’s partner—a salt-and-pepper-haired guy with a smooth voice—who sings it. Kate, being more musically inclined than I’ll ever be, chose the song—but I got final approval.

“I Cross My Heart” by George Strait.

The lyrics, the tone, it’s perfect for us.

And just like in the church, while we waltz around the dance floor and I hold her close against me, the thousand eyes watching us fade from our awareness. It’s just me and her—and this moment.

I look into my wife’s shining brown eyes, and I sing the lyrics to her that mean the most:

You will always be the miracle that makes my life complete.

Kate sings the next line back to me:

And as long as there’s a breath in me, I’ll make yours just as sweet.

It’s a sickeningly tender, crazy-in-love, never-happens-in-real-life kind of moment that I would’ve made fun of if I saw it in a movie or on TV.

But because it’s real—because it’s us—it’s fucking impeccable.

Afterward, Kate dances with my father to “The Way You Look Tonight” by Frank Sinatra. The old man’s a great dancer, and he makes Kate smile and laugh. At one point she gets choked up from whatever words he’s whispering to her, and I make a mental note to ask her later on what he said.

Then my mother and I take the floor—Kenny Rogers, “Through the Years.” Her eyes fill with tears as she looks at me.

“Don’t cry, Mom.”

She laughs self-depreciatingly. “I can’t help it. You’re my little boy and I’m so happy for you, Drew.”

Mothers are the first woman a man will ever love—at least the good ones are. They show you how a lady should and shouldn’t be treated, and they set the standard for every woman that comes after them. I really lucked out in that department.

My mother continues, “She’s your match in every way. You chose so well.”

I glance at Kate, who stands beside her mother and George—so goddamn lovely, it makes my heart ache.

“Yeah, I really did, didn’t I?” I kiss my mother’s cheek. “Thank
you, Mom. If it wasn’t for you—I never would’ve been able to win over a woman like Kate.”

My mother hugs me as we finish the dance. No more words are needed.

After that, the party really gets started. The lights are turned down low, accenting the tall, candlelit centerpieces, overflowing with white blossoms. We drink, we laugh, we devour amazing culinary delights. Once Kate and I have managed to chat with every one of our guests and thank them for joining us on our “special day,” a couple approaches us.

Billy Warren and his stripper-heeled, tiny-black-dress-wearing wife.

Yep, they’re still married—six whole days now. That’s a hell of a lot longer than I was betting on. I shake Warren’s hand. “Good to see you.” I turn to his dark-haired companion. “And with clothes on. Even better.”

I told Kate all about the hangover-shower meet-and-greet. She thought it was hysterical.

Warren smiles. “You mind if I borrow your wife for a dance?”

Because he called her my wife, I don’t mind at all. “As long as you give her back.”

Kate kisses my cheek and heads off with Hopeless.

His blushing bride goes to the bar. I stand alone, watching the swaying couples on the dance floor. Until Matthew comes up, arms crossed, standing next to me, taking it all in.

He nods toward Kate and Warren. “You okay with that?”

“Strangely enough, I really am.”

We’re silent for a beat. Maybe it’s just the significance of the day, but I’m feeling pretty fucking sentimental. “Have I ever thanked you for being my best friend?”

Matthew smiles. “No thanks are needed. It’s a mutually beneficial thing we’ve got going on.”

“Yeah, but . . . thank you for pulling my ass out of the fire—and for kicking it when needed. Or at least . . . getting Alexandra to do your dirty work for you. I don’t know what I’d do without you, man.”

“I feel the same way.” Then he spreads his arms wide. “Let’s hug it out, bitch.”

I laugh, and we do just that, slapping each other on the back.

Until Delores comes tearing up to us, holding the knife that we’re soon supposed to cut the cake with.

“You son of a bitch!”

Something tells me she’s not talking to Matthew.

“I’m gonna stab you in your scrotum!”

This sounds serious.

As Matthew restrains his wife, I ask calmly, “Is there a reason you have the sudden urge to sexually mutilate me?”

She tells her husband, “Helga just called. Documents were delivered to the house that she had to sign for. Legal documents—he changed our son’s name, Matthew!”

Damn it. Those weren’t supposed to arrive until Kate and I were on our honeymoon—far away, in the middle of the Mediterranean for three wonderful, naked weeks.

Matthew looks over his shoulder at me. “Seriously?”

I throw my arms up in the air. “You’ll thank me one day. And so will Michael.”

Delores lifts the knife.

“If I didn’t love you two and your son, I wouldn’t bother.” I let that sink in a minute. “And you’re one to talk—what about that text you sent Billy from the bachelorette party? If I wasn’t so evolved, that could’ve really fucked things up for me and Kate. And . . . it hurt my feelings.”

Did it really? No. But you play the cards you’re dealt.

My admission calms Dee a little. I have a feeling she and Matthew have already discussed it. “That was a joke, Drew. If I really hated you . . . I wouldn’t put any effort into torturing you. I’d just ignore you completely.”

Matthew interjects, “We’ll change his name back. It was a screwed-up attempt at a nice gesture, but we’ll change it back.”

I doubt they will. And if they do . . . I’ll just have to be stealthier in my next attempt.

Kate comes over, looking only half-concerned. But she still stands in front of me protectively.

“Dee-Dee? Remember we said no bloodshed on the wedding day—it’s bad luck.”

Dee sighs and tosses the knife on the table. “I need a drink.”

Matthew nods. “I’ll join you.”

After they’re gone, Kate turns around to me. “The papers arrived early, didn’t they?”

“They did.”

She shakes her head. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

I wrap my arms around her because she’s gorgeous when she’s right. “I should’ve listened to you.”

She smiles up at me. “Maybe we should have kept ‘obey’ in the vows.”

She does have a point.

We dance. Slow and sweet, dirty and sweaty. At one point, while I’m grinding against Kate’s ass, James barrels onto the dance floor with Sister Beatrice Dugan hot on his heels. I pick him up, and the first nun I ever lusted after smiles with appreciation.

“Are you enjoying your celebration, Katherine?”

“I am, Sister, very much.”

“I’ll be praying for you both—for a long and fruitful union.”

I bounce James and he squeals. “All our prayers have been answered, Sister B—save yours for someone who really needs them.”

She clicks her tongue. “All newlyweds need the Lord’s grace, Andrew.”

Disgruntled with not being the center of attention, James rectifies the situation. “Poosy!” he yells, laughing manically. “Poosy!”

I freeze, and Kate’s eyes slide closed.

Sister B smirks. “And this darling seems to have his father’s disposition.”

Kate opens her eyes. “Very much so, yes.”

Sister B pats Kate’s arm with sympathy. “Then I’ll be praying doubly hard.” She addresses our son. “Would you like a soda pop, young James?”

His eyes widen and he nods quickly. I put him down, and, holding Sister B’s hand, he toddles off.

The music changes to a slower song—“All of Me” by John Legend. Without a word, Kate raises her arms to my shoulders, I rest my hands on her lower back, and we sway in time to the beat.

That’s when I notice another couple dancing off to my
right—not anywhere as close as Kate and I are—but still, for a second I’m shocked.

Because it’s Mackenzie and Johnny Fucking Fitzgerald.

Her one hand is on his shoulder, his at her waist, while their other arms are bent at the elbow, hands clasped in the classic ballroom posture.

I almost pity him. Because even though it’s not intentional? My girl was born to be a heartbreaker.

As I watch them silently, Johnny makes his move. Catching Mackenzie off guard, the little bastard presses his lips to hers and snatches a kiss. Her first, I’m guessing. It’s chaste and over as quickly as it started.

Johnny pulls back and looks hopeful. But Mackenzie . . . she seems confused . . . until she’s not. Then she rips her hand from his.

And punches him right in the gut.

“Ooof!” He folds at the waist, holding his stomach, and Mackenzie stomps off.

I help the kid off the dance floor. “You need to work on reading a chick’s signals or you’re gonna be getting hit a lot, Casanova.”

“Kenzie hits hard for a girl,” he rasps.

“She kicks harder. You got off lucky.” Once he’s in a chair, I pat his shoulder. “Better luck next time.”

Then I return to my wife’s waiting arms.