Page 93 of Chasing the Other Woman

“I’m not crying,” she mutters.

“You’re loudly not crying,” Tom says.

A soft laugh moves through the room. Petra points the damp napkin at her son. Tom, who's amused by the adults in the room more than anything, adjusts the phone he's holding tightly to his chest in order to record the ceremony.

The Funnel Cloud is dressed up tonight, though dressed up is maybe generous. Flowers in old beer bottles line the bar, and white ribbon is tied around the backs of chairs. Someone has strung lights across the ceiling.

The floor still sticks in one spot near the pool table, and the old neon sign over the bar still buzzes. Through the open front door, the cool night air carries the wet pavement and distant ozone of the storm that moved through town an hour ago, leaving the parking lot shining under the security lights. It’s perfect.

Brooks’s thumb moves once over my knuckles. I look up at him, and there he is. My husband. Again and still. His dark hair is just a little bit long, the way I like it. Nice shirt tucked into jeans. Boots polished because, apparently, this is him being formal. His eyes stay on mine like there isn't anywhere else in the room worth looking.

The first time we got married, he tried to give me a fairy tale. A pretty venue, white chairs, and flowers that cost more than our first chase truck. Music swelling at the right moments. A cake too expensive to cut without feeling vaguely criminal. I loved it because he’d loved giving it to me.

Somewhere in the middle of planning, when the guest list grew out of control, I leaned over one night and said, “We should’ve just done this at The Funnel Cloud. Petra could’ve officiated, Hershel could’ve yelled at people to sit down, and we could’ve served wings and called it good.”

Brooks laughed, kissed my shoulder, and told me I deserved a fairy tale.

Now Petra stands in front of us with mascara losing its battle and a license from the internet that's questionable at best.

“By the very real power vested in me,” she says, voice wobbling, “and because I know way too much about both of you to let either one of you lie in public, we’re here because Sam and Brooks have decided to choose each other again.”

Brooks hands tighten on mine.

Petra looks at me, then at him. “You two broke. Everybody here knows it. Nobody in this room is pretending otherwise.”

No one shifts. No one looks away. That should feel humiliating. Once, it would have. Tonight, it feels like standing in a room where everybody has seen the damage and stayed anyway.

Petra clears her throat. “But you also did the harder thing. You told the truth. You changed. You came back different.” Her eyes shine when she looks at Brooks. “A little less idiotic than before."

Hershel says, “Amen,” from somewhere behind me.

Brooks lets out a small breath that almost becomes a laugh.

Petra nods toward him. “Brooks.”

He turns fully to me, and the room goes quiet.

“I spent a long time thinking love meant keeping you safe,” he says. His voice is steady, but his grip on my hands tightens for half a second before he eases it again. “And I was wrong.”

My throat starts to ache.

“I can’t promise you I won’t be scared,” he says. “I can’t promise nothing bad will ever happen. I can’t promise I’ll always know what to do.” His eyes search mine. “But I promise I’ll talk to you when I’m afraid. I promise I’ll trust you beside me. I promise I won’t make decisions for both of us because I'm stubborn and think I know what's best.” His jaw works. “And I promise to love all of you, Sammy Girl. Not just the version of you that makes me feel safest. Not the pieces I know how to protect. All of you.”

Someone sniffles. It may be Petra again. It may be me.

Brooks brushes his thumb over my ring finger. “I don’t want a life where I keep you behind me,” he says softly. “I want the one where you’re beside me.”

My breath catches. Petra looks at me.

I have my vows folded in my pocket. Three drafts of them, actually, because giving your husband vows in a bar is still enough to make a woman shake in front of a mirror. I don’t take them out.

“I married a man years ago who I thought could do anything,” I say.

Brooks’s mouth tightens slightly.

“I was young. Very impressed by trucks, weather radar, and men who look too damn good in tight denim.” A quiet laugh moves through the room. “And then life happened. The kind no one mentions in wedding vows because they never dream it can happen to them."

Brooks’s eyes shine.