Page 25 of Unplanned
Quincy has outdone herself.
The scenery at the overlook needs no decoration, but somehow, she’s done it.
I wait for my wife at the edge of the boardwalk, the part that extends beyond the cliff’s edge. Quincy has outfitted the space with a modern, geometric bridal arch made of rich wood, decorated with subtle summer blooms. The arch comes to a sharp point at the top, framing the mountain scenery behind me, giving the illusion of looking through cathedral windows. I can’t believe she talked the park rangers into letting her do this for us today.
It was here that Becca and I shared our first secret kiss all those years ago.
Today, nothing is in secret.
About forty of our closest friends and family members are gathered to watch.
In the front row are James and his girlfriend, Layla; Becca’s brother, Michael, his wife, Jane, and their four pre-teen children, all sharing the duty of watching over Valentina during the ceremony. The nurses were right about her hair. She’d been born blonde, but since then, it’s turned a soft chestnut brown, from my side of the family. Her big eyes watch me from where she sits on her cousin’s lap, waving her sippy cup as she points to me and shrieks, “Daaaa!”
The pre-teens and adults nearby try to keep her quiet by distracting her with toys, and I want to tell them this is not that kind of wedding. Babies, kids, they make noise and are messy and chaotic. That’s life.
Mary Patricia Payne-Wright, my mother-in-law, leans over and clucks her tongue playfully at Valentina, drawing her attention away from me.
Just as the sun meets the horizon behind me, I see my wife stepping out of the bridal tent.
I suck in a breath. Becca is a goddess. I want to say Aphrodite, or Athena, or any of the other characters I remember from reading those kids’ books from the library so many years ago, but this honestly doesn’t cover it. Nothing in mythology that I can think of even comes close.
When her dad approaches me with Becca on his arm, he gives me a nod and then, unexpectedly, a quick hug. It’s more than a “bro” hug. One of those hugs that says, “I’m in my feelings, but let’s be grown-ass men about it and make it quick.”
It means more to me than any combination of words that man has ever said out loud to me.
Becca seems as surprised as I do.
She hands off her waterfall bouquet of wildflowers and greenery to Quincy and takes my hand.
“You look so good,” she whispers as she joins me under the arch.
“Beat me to it,” I whisper back. “You look like a statue.”
It doesn’t come out how I meant it, but Becca gets it.
She smiles and mouths, “Thank you,” as Rowdy Fraser begins the ceremony.
Upon seeing her mom under the arch, Valentina squeals and pulls away from her minders. A chuckle rises up from the crowd. Becca smiles and waves for her nephews to let Valentina join us under the arch.
I don’t want the little one wrinkling my wife’s dress, so I hold her against my side with one arm, while my opposite hand holds Becca’s as we say our vows.
We keep it simple. Honest.
It’s all perfectly…us.
Becca
With Valentina sleeping over with her cousins, Nico drives us home after a reception at the community center that runs late into the night.
But when he makes a turn that takes us away from the apartment complex, I suspect I’m about to see my surprise. I’d gifted him with a scrapbook that I’d painstakingly assembled of all our adventures over the years. And I still haven’t seen the gift that Nico’s been hinting at for months.
We drive over the railroad tracks to the other side of town. My heart skips a beat, remembering Nico’s old neighborhood,where everything went wrong for him in the beginning. It’s where we used to ride our bikes, hide in the woods, and get into all sorts of mischief. Today, several of the lots have been razed. One house is boarded up. But another one has recently been sold, and another one has been fixed up.
And the one that I remember the most clearly, a small, two-bedroom white house with a chain link fence surrounding the backyard, has a fresh coat of paint and new grass and shrubs.
“That’s your old house!” I exclaim, pointing.
He parks in the driveway, and I notice all the new touches. Solar lights along a little walkway. A stone border. Freshly painted railing and a door that’s not peeling paint. “What’s happening? Why are we stopping?”
