Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Her eyes overflow slow. She squeezes my fingers. I keep going.
“I promise to tell the truth even when it costs us an easy afternoon. I promise to keep the bike gassed and the porch light on. I promise to show up hungry for your burned dinners and remain stubborn against your ghosts. I’ll carry the heavy when you need, and I’ll hand it back when you’re strong enough to lift. I will be your family on the days you forget you have one. This is the only ride I want. I’ll take every mile you’ll give me.”
I stop because if I say one more word I’ll embarrass myself and Doll will never let me live it down. Tonka nods to her.
She breathes once, then twice. She doesn’t need paper either.
“Tommy,” she starts, “I thought my life ended twice. Once when I was a too young to sort myself and once when I was a grown woman who should’ve known better. Both times you were the one who carried me out of the fire, who kept showing up with soup and soft words and a back big enough to carry the weight of my world. You came for me. And then, when I ran, you waited with love that had patience.”
She glances at the ring, then back at me. “I can’t promise to never be afraid. I do promise to tell you when I am. I can’t promise the world won’t try to take what we build. I do promise I’ll fight like hell with you to keep it. I’ll be your peace when you think you don’t deserve any. I’ll be your loud when you go quiet. I chose you then. I choose you now. I’ll keep choosing you until we’re old and rude and someone has to tell us to get off the porch.”
Everyone laughs and then gets quiet again.
Tonka looks out over the heads we love and the tree and the sky we borrow. “By the power vested in me by nothing but this family and a county clerk who doesn’t ask too many questions—kiss your wife.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
It’s not the movie kind. It’s better. It’s a press and a breath and the kind of relief that makes your knees threaten betrayal. The crowd celebrates like they invented joy.
Somebody turns the music up and the whole place shifts from ceremony to celebration in one beat. There’s barbecue on paper plates, lemonade in Mason jars, old stories aired like quilts across the yard. I dance with my mother. Jami dances with Jenni. I dance with Jami—slow, barefoot, forehead to forehead, the baby between us like the gift she is.
At sunset, Pretty Boy taps the arbor and the lights wake up all at once. The yard glows. Faces look carved out of honey. For a second I see all the rides we’ve taken stacked on top of each other like pages. The brutal ones, the beautiful ones, the ones where we thought we wouldn’t make it through. But we did. We made it.
Later, when the noise goes warm and soft, Tripp finds me with two plates and a look. “You okay, married man?”
“Whole,” I tell him the truth, surprising myself with how fast I know it.
He nods. “You look it.”
“Thank you,” I express my gratitude.