Page 94 of Chasing the Other Woman

“I know you now,” I tell him. “Not the perfect man I thought I married. Not the frightened man who hurt me because he didn’t know what to do with all that fear.” His hands go still in mine. “You’re the man who made terrible mistakes, owned them, and changed when changing cost you something. You gave me back my choices and then waited to see if one of them would still be you.”

His breath leaves him.

I squeeze his hands. “It is,” I say. “It’s you.”

Petra makes a small sound and presses the napkin under both eyes. Brooks looks like he wants to kiss me already, but Petra lifts one finger.

"Still my bar, Carlisle. You wait til I say go."

“Yes, ma’am,” Brooks says, rough and obedient.

Petra inhales, gathers herself, and smiles at us. “Then by the power vested in me, and with every single person in this bar as a witness, I now pronounce you still married, better informed, and hopefully less stupid.”

Hershel claps once. “Best ceremony I’ve ever been to.”

Brooks laughs as he pulls me in.

The kiss is soft at first, careful only because people are watching. Then his palm slides to my cheek, and I forget the bar, the lights, the applause, and Petra blowing her nose loudly into her napkin. For a few seconds, there is only Brooks. Warm. Solid. Mine because I choose him, and because he chooses me back.

The Funnel Cloud turns into exactly the kind of reception I would have planned if anyone had trusted me the first time. There are wings, brisket sliders, and a sheet cake with white frosting and blue icing that reads STILL THUNDERSTRUCK, which was Hershel’s contribution and somehow made me cry harder than any floral arrangement ever could have.

Tom stands by the table, methodically testing the stability of the legs before Brooks sets down the drink tray. Petra threatens to make Hershel mop if he complains one more time about the lack of Black Sabbath on the jukebox. The team crowds around us in waves. They hug me, slap Brooks on the back, and tell old stories from past chase seasons that get louder with every beer.

For once, I don’t feel like I’m standing outside my own life. I move through the bar with Brooks’s hand finding mine whenever we pass close enough. Not holding on. Not steering. Just touching because he can. Because I let him.

The first notes of Randy Travis’s “Forever and Ever, Amen” spill from the speakers sometime after Petra dims the lights and Hershel says that while Randy is fine, maybe Whitesnake would be better. Brooks looks across the room, and I already know.

He walks toward me, one hand extended. “Dance with me?”

I put my hand in his before he can say another word. “You don't need to ask.”

His grin breaks slow and crooked. “Yes, ma’am.”

We step into the small open space between the tables, and people move back without being asked.

The first time we danced to this song as husband and wife, I thought my life was opening in front of me, bright and certain. Later, when Brooks played it for me again, there were tears and hurt and all the things we still didn’t know how to hold. Tonight, he pulls me close, and there is room to breathe. No Luci. No Tony. No lingering doubt sitting between us like an uninvited guest.

Brooks sings quietly along near my ear, still a little off-key.

I laugh against his shoulder. “You haven’t improved.”

“Good,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to shock you.”

His hand rests at the small of my back. Mine settles over his heart. I look around The Funnel Cloud, taking in the old bar, the people, the lights, Petra leaning over the counter to snap another photo, Tom watching the mirrored disco ball turn against the ceiling, and Hershel nodding along to the rhythm despite himself.

This is the thing I've always wanted. This is what I missed when it was gone. Not the fairy tales or sponsors or the money that came from all of it. This.

The song moves toward its end, and my pulse kicks once, hard. Brooks feels the change. He leans back enough to see my face. “Sam?”

I wet my lips. I’ve carried the secret through the ceremony, through Petra’s tears, and through cake and laughter and Brooks’s hands finding mine over and over like he still can’t quite believe he gets to. Now the words sit under my tongue, heavy and real.

“I need to tell you something,” I say.

His expression sharpens, but he doesn't tense around me. “Okay.”

I take his hand from my back and press it low against my stomach. For a second, he only looks down. Then his eyes lift to mine.

“I’m pregnant,” I whisper.