“So you play football?” I ask, curious about the nickname.
“No, silly!” He laughs, like the answer should be obvious.
I frown. “Why 'First Down'?”
“Hold that thought,” He says, holding up a hand. “I gotta go check on my lady. She’s been lost without me for at least five minutes!”
“Go get your lady, mate,” I say, smiling as the rambunctious bloke runs off towards his lady.
“He has Down syndrome,” Aspen explains softly, her eyes following him with affection. “When he was younger, people tried to use it to make him feel small. So he took the diagnosis, made it his own, and turned it into a brand. He’s a stand-up comedian now. He figured if people were going to stare, he might as well give them a punchline.”
“I like him,” I say, and I mean it. “He’s got heart.”
“And he’s pretty damn funny, too,” she adds.
We move where the “honey” side of the family wealth is on full display. The setup is stunning. A long, heavy-timbered harvest table sits right on the grass, draped in a cream runner and overflowing with a cornucopia of autumn’s best. It’s catered, clearly—no one family makes a turkey that looks that much likea centerpiece. But they’ve dressed the space down with touches that make it feel lived-in.
Chunky, oversized knit blankets are draped over the backs of every chair, ready for when the ocean breeze turns biting. Copper lanterns and white pillar candles are scattered across the grass and tables, their flickering light competing with the golden hour sun dipping toward the horizon.
After dinner, I watch Aspen weave through a crowd of family and old friends, her smile bright, though I catch her several times stopping herself before she can rest a hand on her belly. We agreed to keep our secret tucked away for a little longer, though she’s already negotiated a loophole and now apparently, “keeping it a secret” doesn't apply to her Stand-Ins.
As the sun begins to dip and the golden hour turns the Atlantic to liquid brass, the “party” side of the reunion kicks into high gear. This is the moment for my final surprise. I’ve spent weeks coordinating the logistics with her father and Morris, and to my surprise, even Clarissa stepped up to help pull it off.
I step over to the DJ booth and take the mic. The smooth jazz fades out, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of Tiwa Savage. The familiar beat ofSomebody’s Sonfills the Vineyard air, startling the guests into silence.
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” I say, my eyes locked on Aspen, who looks stunned and more than a little embarrassed. “I know our journey started in a bit of a rush. A 'condensed' version of a romance on a show calledSightUnseen. But in my culture, we don't skip the steps that matter. We don't just take a wife. We find her.”
I descend from the booth as the rhythmic heartbeat thump of the Igbo drums begins to pulse through the salt air. The crowd settles, the ocean breeze catching the flickering candlelight as I look out at the faces of the people who shaped the woman I love.
“In my culture,” I begin, my voice firm but softened by the sight of her, “we believe that a marriage isn't just a contract. It's a journey. Usually, there is a ritual where a bride carries wine through a crowd to find her husband. But since Aspen and I have spent our entire relationship doing things in reverse, I think it’s only right that I’m the one who comes looking for her tonight.”
I let the music swell for a moment, my gaze locking onto hers. “Tonight, we’re honoring the IgbaNkwu Nwanyi—the Wine Carrying ceremony. I’m going to navigate every obstacle and every distraction this family can throw at me, because I want everyone here to know one thing: I will always be the man who finds her.”
I look toward my father-in-law, who stands tall at the edge of the lawn, a regal authority in his posture as he prepares to play his part. This is the beginning of theIgba Nkwu Nwanyi, but we’re doing it with a Vineyard twist.
In the traditional Igbo ceremony, the bride’s father gives her a cup of palm wine, and she has to weave through a crowded room, ignoring the “suitors” who try to distract her, until she finds her husband and offers him a sip to seal the union.
The family has already begun the play-acting, forming a gauntlet of playful obstacles to distract her. My father-in-law holds a ceremonial cup, his eyes twinkling with a challenge I haven’t seen before. To get to her, I have to navigate the “negotiations” with her uncles, answer the witty riddles from her cousins, and prove to this entire assembly that I know exactly who she is beneath the expectations of her last name.
It’s a multi-stage journey of patience and intent. Each stop I make, each distraction I push past, is a nod to the culture I’m bringing into this family, and a promise to hers. I move through the crowd, my heart hammering a rhythm that matches the highlife beat, scanning the faces of the women pretending to be the one I’m looking for.
But there’s only one. I see her standing near the cliffs, the wind whipping her hair across her face, watching me with a look of pure, startled wonder. I’m going to navigate every hurdle they throw at me until I finally find her. The only woman I ever intend to look for again.
Chapter Forty-One
Grand-Mères, GOATS + a Prime Time Debut
Aspen
One year later.
The sunlight in our new home is different from the penthouse. It’s warmer, filtered through the oak trees in the backyard and bouncing off the soft, cream-colored walls of the nursery. Our son is exactly one month old today, and the house is a beautiful, chaotic symphony of drifting lullabies and the faint scent of lavender baby lotion. The kind Marlow swears by.
My mother is currently perched in the large rocking chair, cradling Uzo with a warmth that only grandmothers can give.
“Penny, I’m serious,” she says, her eyes never leaving the tuft of dark hair on Uzo’s head. “We need to set some ground rules before he starts talking. I am not going to be 'Grandma Bertha.' It makes me sound like I’m almost eighty years old and living in a rocking chair on someone's porch. I’m thinking something a little more modern. Maybe just 'GG' or something.”
I huff a laugh, adjusting the nursing pillow on the sofa. “He’s four weeks old, Mom. I think we have some time before he starts labeling people.”
