Page 203 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“And do you, Tessa, take these men to be your husbands?”
“I do,” she says clearly.
“Then, by the power vested in me, and by the power of the State of Texas for the paperwork part,” the officiant winks, “Ipronounce you legally husbands and wife, and spiritually bound as a family. You may kiss your bride.”
I kiss her first. I crush my mouth to hers, sealing the promise I made on the roof. Owen spins her around and dips her next, kissing her until she’s laughing. Asher pulls her upright, cups her face, and kisses her with precise, devastating intensity.
The crowd cheers. Harper whistles loudly. Even Tessa’s dad is clapping, wiping his eyes.
We walk back up the aisle together. Not two people. Four.
A phalanx. A family.
The reception kicks off fast and loud. The sun sets over the lake, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange—Mosaic colors. The string lights click on above the dance floor. We dance, eat, and drink sparkling cider for Tessa.
I find myself standing at the edge of the patio, watching the scene. Owen is currently dancing with Tessa’s mom, charming her so thoroughly she’s blushing like a schoolgirl. Asher’s sitting at a table with Harper and Tessa’s dad, sketching something on a napkin—probably explaining the structural integrity of a backhoe. Tessa’s sitting in a plush chair, resting her feet.
I feel a presence beside me.
I turn. It’s my mother.
She’s holding a glass of wine. She hasn’t taken off her sunglasses, even though it’s dark.
“You did it,” she says. Her voice is unreadable.
“I did,” I say.
“The house is impressive,” she admits. She looks around the estate. “Better than the trailer.”
“Much better,” I say.
She takes a sip of wine. She looks out toward Tessa’s chair, her eyes lingering on the bump pressing against the silk of the dress.
“You weren’t lying about the twins.”
“I never lie,” I say proudly. “A boy and a girl.”
My mother pauses. She looks at me. A crack forms in the ice. The woman she used to be peeks through, before the bitterness took over.
“You look like your father,” she says.
I stiffen.
“But,” she continues, turning to face me fully. “You don’t act like him. Richard would have run away by now. Three men? Raising twins? He would have crumbled.”
She reaches out, hesitates, then pats my arm awkwardly.
“You did good, Ethan. You raised them well.”
Coming from her, it’s a surrender.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods, turns, and walks away toward the exit. She won’t stay for the cake. She won’t become a doting grandmother overnight. But the war is over.
I walk over to Tessa.
“Hey,” I say, kneeling beside her chair. “You okay?”
