by Julia Kent
The table goes to a hush.
“You worked two, sometimes three jobs while the girls were young so I could stay at home. I watched you make broken cars work with nothing but your hands, your wonderful brain, some duct tape and magic. I’ve seen you fall asleep at dance recitals from being awake for twenty hours straight, and I’ve watched you sit patiently through your third nail polish color at a princess tea party surrounded by Carol, Shannon and Amy.”
Dad’s mouth hardens. Mom’s trembles.
“I’ve been able to whisper my darkest fears to you in the inky night when I think you’re asleep and it’s safe to be scared, and your warm hand always reaches out to grab mine.”
I am openly crying. I think James has something caught in his eye, because he’s rubbing it pretty hard. Declan grabs my hand and squeezes it, tight.
“You have been to so many soccer games and school plays and concerts and recitals—and the ones you missed really hurt you. I’ve watched you coach a T-ball game and hop in the car to go work an extra shift, then come right back in the morning to help with church youth group. You lend money to people who need it, have gotten really screwed a few times over the years—and you still always want to give people another chance.”
Mom’s makeup is in streaks down her face right now, and she’s holding Dad’s hands. His eyes are so wide a ring of white is around his irises, and he looks like he’s barely holding it together.
“I don’t know what your definition of success is,” she says, looking over Dad’s shoulder to James, then Declan, “but by my standards, Jason is a god-damned emotional billionaire.” She tugs on his hand. He takes one step toward her, and she looks back at Dad. “And I’m taking you to our nice hotel room, where I’m going to spend as long as it takes with you until you really feel your success all the way in the marrow of your bones.” She turns away from us and they take a few steps, Dad pocketing his chips first.
I swear she adds, “You fool.”
Dad doesn’t look back at us, but as they reach the main doors, the bright desert sun shining behind them and making the wide rectangle of the door’s threshold feel like a blinding imprint, I see him clasp her to him tightly, their kiss like something out of a 1940s glamour movie.
Even I say, “awwwwww,” and I’m supposed to be grossed out by them.
James lets out a sigh, like he’s nostalgic, then winces. Declan and I give him the side-eye, but I think for completely different reasons.
Mom turns back to us and shouts:
“If it wasn’t clear, when I said ‘spend as long as it takes,’ I meant I’m taking Jason back to the hotel room and we’re going to have sex until he can’t remember that the word failure exists.”
All the men over fifty in the casino sigh, including James. Again.
Dad gives us a thumbs-up and they leave, Mom’s hand splayed across my father’s ass.
“Your mother,” James says with a sigh, the words hanging loose like one of Tyler’s baby teeth, not quite ready to let go.
“My mother what?” I ask as Rheumy moves to the seat next to me and offers his half-consumed beer. When I decline, he pats his shirt pocket and mouths the word maryjane.
Or maybe he says, Marry me? It’s hard to tell. The guy has three teeth left, and either phrase is likely.
“Your mother is one of a kind,” James declares.
“I’ll drink to that,” Declan says.
Old Rheumy offers up his beer. Declan declines.
“Maryjane?” he offers, pulling out a fat joint the size of my ring finger.
At least that mystery’s been cleared up.
“No, thanks,” Declan demurs, helping me stand. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
“It’s free and clean,” Rheumy swears. “Got me a medical card in California and this is some prime weed.”
“I’m sure it is,” James assures him. “But, um...”
I jump in for the rescue, leaning over and tapping Rheumy on the arm. “The Illuminati are watching them. If the feds ever take them into custody and they have weed in their piss test, they’re toast.”
Rheumy’s eyes go wide. “No shit?”
“No kidding.”
“I knew it was all real,” he mutters, shaking his head slowly, giving Declan and James a sad, sympathetic look.
I nod toward the door and the three of us escape.
“What the hell was that about?” Declan says with a low whistle.
“That was a young woman thinking on her feet,” James replies, his face pensive as he walks fast toward the waiting limo, Geordi at the door. “You Jacoby women are a formidable force.”
“We have our moments,” I say, holding my head high, my sophistication infinite.
Until I trip over the outstretched leg of a beggar carrying a sign that says “WILL EAT PUSSY FOR CASINO CHIPS” and fall right into his lap.
“My prayers have been answered!” the guy hisses in my ear. “It’s raining women!”
Geordi rushes over to pull the guy away, while Dec and James extract me quickly, not looking back. My knee’s ripped to shreds, blood blooming like a rose through the torn pantyhose, and I feel like my elbow banged into a steel door. They funnel me into the back of the limo and shut the door, locks activated instantly.
“Your knee,” Declan says, reaching for a bucket of ice. James hands him a perfectly pressed handkerchief and in seconds, I have an ice pack on my bloody joint, leg stretched over Declan’s lap, James in front of us, frowning out the window.
I shouldn’t look back. Declan even tries to shield me from the tinted window. I can’t help myself. I know I shouldn’t.
But I do.
When I fell, my scarf must have unraveled and landed on the beggar. He’s currently, uh, using it as a sex toy.
Let’s leave the description right there.
Because what happens in Vegas—stays in Vegas.
Chapter Twenty
When you don’t have a thousand guests, when you’re not bringing in forty-one bagpipers, and you don’t use a floral designer who has more flowers than the garden at Versailles in your wedding, the actual ceremony is so simple.
And the emotions are still the same.
All the big resorts in Vegas have their own private wedding chapel on-site. In the movies and on television, you see people going to some twenty-four-hour quickie wedding place, getting married by an Elvis impersonator. Those places exist, but what you don’t hear about are the more sedate, calm chapels where couples can just tie the knot in peace, then go up an elevator and screw like bunnies afterward.
As husband and wife.
Or wife and wife, or husband and husband.
Early this morning we made the trek to the Regional Justice Center in downtown Las Vegas, and they issued us a shiny Nevada license. Once we’re married here in the resort chapel, the officials will file the license and in a few weeks we’ll get a copy.
It’ll be legal in a few minutes.
I’ll finally be Mrs. McCormick in the eyes of the law.
A leisurely walk through the convention center section of the resort reveals the chapel, tucked away behind bright white doors, a little oasis of peace in the go-go-go atmosphere of the casino and malls.
The chapel is simple and stately, with pews that look like we could fit as many as fifty guests. Dark, polished oak contrasts with bright white trim and a soaring ceiling, support beams cutting through visually, the altar like the bow of a boat, the windows facing the elaborate gardens in the courtyard.
Tasteful flower arrangements dot the end of each pew and cover the altar, which isn’t religious. It’s ornamental, meant to be a symbol, a holding place for the wedding party.
The color scheme is generic yet complementary, sedate and yet welcoming.
It’s simple.
It’s quiet.
And there are no tauntaun cats acting as flower girl.
We have the license. Declan’s arranged for an officiate. Andrew and Amanda have agreed to be witne
sses.
At 3:13 p.m., too many days after our original wedding date, we assemble, rings and hearts and all, and get ready to make what is true in our souls a legal record as well.
“Are you sure this is fine?” Declan asks for the third time, giving me pause. He generally asks a question once and takes the answer at face value.
“I said ‘yes’ twice. Why do you keep asking?”
“Because you look like you’re about to throw up, cry, and punch someone at the same time.”
“That’s just my Resting Bitch Face look.”
His eyes soften, compassion radiating out to me. “Shannon.” The way he says my name makes me melt. “You don’t have a Resting Bitch Face face.”
I try.
“You just look like you’re nauseated.”
I try again.
“You look like a Vermeer painting.”
I give up.
“You don’t look so calm, cool, collected, and like you have the pulse of a corpse yourself, mister.”
“I knew I picked you for your complimentary nature.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I’m right, though—he is nervous. What’s going on? As I start to ask, Amanda and Andrew arrive. Andrew’s wearing a lovely Armani suit without a tie, and Amanda’s dressed in Dior with high heels that carry the signature Louboutin red sole.
Las Vegas loves when people are in the red.
“Ready?” Amanda asks, giving me an extra-long hug.
“More than ready. You’re sure Mom and Dad don’t know?”
“Your mom was offered the opportunity to emcee a male strip-a-thon at the trade show convention for the adult sex toys.”
“What?”
“Which happens to be right now.” Amanda waggles her eyebrows. “I made a few calls.”
“What kind of people do you know that you can call to accomplish that?” I ask.
Andrew frowns and looks at Amanda. “Yeah. What kind of people do you know?”
“You’re the one who paid me to mystery shop the O spa,” she says, patting his cheek.
He sighs heavily, turns to me, gives me a hug that smells like limes and cardamom and soap, and a big, dazzling smile. Andrew looks around the room and declares, “Not a shred of tartan in sight!” then grabs Declan for a manly hug.
We all laugh.
Nervously.
James appears, a bit winded, his eyes settling on Amanda as he walks across the room, regal in his fine, dark wool suit, his hair a shock of grey against the collar.
“I have Marie firmly in hand,” he assures her.
“What did you do?” Declan’s voice is filled with a delicious mirth.
“I tried to offer her a position as the emcee for a ‘battle’ between two different male dance revues,” James explains.
Strippers, I mouth to Amanda, who giggles.
“But she said she and Jason are renewing their wedding vows.”
Declan, me and Amanda stare at him, mute.
“What? Where?” I peep.
“They didn’t say. She told me they want to be alone, and they’d be back later today.”
Any worries about not inviting Mom just went out the window. A wellspring of emotion rises in me, because it was one thing when I wanted to choose whether she attended.
It’s quite another to have that choice removed.
Amanda and I share raised eyebrows. “She’s up to something,” we whisper to each other.
James looks at Amanda with concern. “Your mother is in her room with Spritzy, resting. She said something about a flare?”
Amanda’s expression changes, matching James’. “I’ll check on her later.” She pulls back slightly, processing James’ tight worry. “Thanks.”
He nods and looks at Declan.
“May I have a word?” James asks, pulling him aside. Dec’s been nervous, touching something in his inside breast pocket, little sighs and toe taps unusual for him. Maybe it’s nerves, but there’s something else. The two huddle, heads together, one dark, one the color of ashes in a fireplace. In twenty years, Declan will be more ash than coal. In twenty years, I’ll be thicker and greying, with skin that wrinkles and fine lines from smiling so much that my love folds in on itself. So will Declan, his face marked by time spent being thoroughly, utterly, madly adored.
And I get to watch it all happen in real time, day by day.
What an honor.
Mild surprise covers Declan’s face, shifting into a look of deeper contemplation as whatever James says hits him emotionally. People who don’t know him like I do wouldn’t catch the difference, but I do, antenna picking up signals and musing about their significance.
James says something more, his arm going around Dec’s shoulder, their eyes catching in an intense look. Declan’s face changes, eyes widening, throat working hard as he struggles to control his emotions.
A hug follows. A long one, full of promise and love, with James closing his eyes and holding on to Declan like he’s savoring every second of this connection with his son.
The first in many years.
As they pull out of the hug, their faces are close, a sign of camaraderie and the tearing down of walls erected when Declan was just graduating high school. Maybe this crazy mess does have a purpose in the end. Perhaps my mother’s maniacal obsession with offering the perfect wedding has yielded a perfect result.
James walks down the long path between the pews, Andrew giving Declan a puzzled look, the officiant beginning to herd us for the ceremony. I watch Declan, knowing that some major emotional event just took place before my eyes, and that he’s still experiencing it in the moment.
Being given the gift of time with this man is a cosmic blessing.
As James reaches the main doors leading to the large walkway outside near the ballrooms, Declan suddenly shouts, “Dad! Wait!” Holding one finger up to James, Dec turns to me and says in a rush, “Can he stay? Please?”
Please? Did Declan really just say that?
“Of course he can,” I whisper, my eyes full of tears, my empathy off the charts for whatever just passed between them. I can feel Declan’s full heart.
Declan waves to James, then leans over to me and whispers, “He told me that if Mom could have handpicked someone for me, she would have chosen you. And he asked me to forgive him for—” Dec’s chest begins to shake. The rest of him is stoic, but the body leaks emotion. It has to come out somehow, somewhere.
If you’re lucky, it pours out in words and deeds.
Otherwise, it’s on a mission, and like water flowing downhill, uses the laws of physics without mercy.
“What do you need, son?” James asks. Andrew’s watching every second, his eyes blinking rapidly, and there’s hope in him. I can tell he’s holding his breath, so I breathe for him. I breathe and I breathe, as I hear Declan say one word that carries the antidote to more than a decade of pain:
“Stay.”
“Stay? For the ceremony?” James looks at me and I nod.
“Yes. Please. I want you here,” Declan confesses.
James’ eyes shine under the glow of the lights, and if he were a slightly different man, he’d let those tears spill over. Even his body leaks.
But it does not overflow.
“Of course, Declan. Of course.” He beams. Andrew starts breathing again.
And I’d like to think that somewhere, Elena McCormick is watching all of this. Sadly, the laws of physics apply to her, too. She’s here in spirit, but not body.
James reaches for my left hand, Elena’s ring shining in the sunlight that pours through the windows. “She’s here.” The look he gives me is stark and stripped to bone. Did he read my mind?
Or maybe he just read my heart.
James opens his arms wide. I have to take the first step, and the embrace is sweet and fatherly, open and informal.
As he lets me go, he whispers, “Take good care of him.”
“I will.”
“I know.” He kisses my cheek and st
eps back, motioning for Declan to stand next to me, as it should be.
And so the ceremony begins with me in tears. I don’t hear most of the words, my eyes reading each person’s intentions, my body and mouth moving as needed to act or speak based on nonverbal observation, a mimicry of expectations based on anticipation. I don’t need to hear the introductory words, the platitudes, the codification of sentences designed to lend stability to a tradition that stretches back millennia.
This I know: he is mine. I am his. For better, for worse, for billionaire, for Turdmobile.
For Toilet Girl and Hot Guy, there’s only one choice:
Forever.
Andrew flanks Declan on his right, and Amanda’s to my left, holding a tissue discreetly. I don’t reach for it, instead letting my emotions pour out of me like that waterfall, not caring. This is my wedding. My ceremony. My show—mine and Declan’s—and if crying like this is what happens when I realize I have so much love in my life that it truly overflows, then so be it.
I cry because the excess of love should be shared and spread, dissolved and displayed, made public so that it can be taken and absorbed where it is needed most.
“Do you—” The officiant says the words and Declan’s eyes become all that exists in the world, two green circles of life where my true self resides, my heart tucked under his, my stardust buried in his marrow, my spirit rejoicing at the touch of his hand against my finger. The ring he procured this morning at Tiffany fits just right, a simple band designed for a simple purpose:
A claim.
We claim each other. As he says I do and I say I do, we do. We are. We kiss, we hug, we rejoice, and we laugh.
Oh, how we laugh. I’ll hear the echo of that warm, rich baritone in my last moments in this lifetime, as my consciousness fades into whatever comes next, and I will smile wherever I am, for this lifetime is ours.
“I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Declan McCormick,” the officiant says, a genuine smile turning his face to hills and richness, the flat, polite look of a man whose business it is to pin down love on paper gone, swept away by the force of our bliss.