Page 33 of Gin and Bear It

“I am.” Dad presses his lips into a thin line for a moment, then glances at me. “But a heads-up that you were dating each other would have been nice.”

“Sorry.” I hate disappointing my dad, and the double whammy of disappointment and lying is going to make me throw up the coffee I had.

“Especially because I don’t know you as well as I know Waylon. And what I do know of you comes from rumors of years ago or the radio.”

Ash’s smile turns brittle. “I’m not the same ass—uh, jerk—I was in high school, if that’s what you’re implying. And my band’s music is just a small part of who I am.”

Had Dad listened to his band’s music? When you listen to the lyrics, there’s so much there. A lot of heartbreak and haunted feelings and rage.

“I know you aren’t. But that’s the problem. I don’t know who you really are and you’re marrying my daughter.” Dad squares his shoulders. He’s tall and broad, like Jeremiah, but with a paunch from working as an accountant all day. His size is still enough to be intimidating to the right person.

Ash is not that person. He quirks an eyebrow at my dad and doesn’t shift backward.

“Do we have to do this here?” I ask.

“Better than inside.” Ash glances at some tourists, who aren’t even looking at us. He’s right—people who work here in Jepsen will be inside and they could overhear. I’m not sure if that would hurt or help our case.

“We need to bring it up before I can go be a witness to your marriage, JJ,” Dad says. “I can’t let his happen otherwise.”

“I’m a grown woman. You can’t stop me from getting married. You said that yourself when I told you about this,” I point out. I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. He had seemed so…well, not okay with it, but tolerant of it before. And now he’s pushing back?

“But I’m your father, and I have the right to have strong feelings about it.”

I bite my tongue so this argument doesn’t spiral. He knows I respect his opinion and want him to be happy. If he firmly said that I shouldn’t do this, there’s a chance I wouldn’t, at least in normal circumstances. But now I have to follow through with this plan, no matter what.

“Yes, you don’t know me right now. But you know your daughter,” Ash says. Despite his tense posture, his voice is soft and smooth. It dials the intensity between us all down several notches. “And you know that she’s incredibly smart and a good judge of character. She’s not going to make a decision like this without thinking about it or making a bunch of lists to get her thoughts out clearly.”

Dad’s shoulders relax, and so do mine. The compliments feel nice, even if he doesn’t completely mean them.

“So we’ll get to know each other over the next few months,” Ash says to Dad.

“And years,” I add.

Dad blows a breath out of his nose. “I suppose we will.”

“We should go in,” Ash says, glancing at his watch. It’s a classic silver link one, and it almost looks anachronistic against his tattoos. “It’s almost time for our appointment.”

I nod. Dad gestures for us to go first, and Ash leads us in. Inside of city hall beyond the area where tourists are allowed is much less grand than the outside, having been renovated at some point in the late seventies or eighties and rarely updated since then. It’s small, too, so we make our way to the marriage license office quickly. Dad holds up his phone and points to the seat, answering a call. Putting a little distance between us doesn’t help my nerves.

My stomach is churning so hard, and it feels like everyone is staring at us. Everyone is at least glancing our way. Both of our families are well-known enough in the community for someone to know who we are.

“We’re here to get married,” Ash says to the plump, older man at the desk. He squeezes my hand, even though mine is sweaty. “Today. I made an appointment online.”

“Oh, lovely! It’s a beautiful time of year for a wedding. I’m Bill.” The man beams and looks between the two of us. “Y’all can fill out your application over here and bring it back to me. Then we’ll get you married.”

The man hands us a form on a clipboard and sits back down. We take it over to the seats, where I start filling it out. My hand is still sweaty, and I have to brace my elbow against the armrest to steady it.

I start filling in my details, making my handwriting as legible as possible.

Ash drums his fingers on his knees in a quick rhythm. I finish putting my information down, and Ash takes the clipboard.

His handwriting is nicer than I assumed it’d be, and he writes out his full name in the spouse section.

“Your middle name is Beauregard?” I blurt. He is so not an Ashley Beauregard in any universe. One man’s name has never been less of a fit to what he looks like.

He sighs the way he probably has countless times in his life when people find out his middle name. “It’s like someone asked my mom how Southern she wanted her sons’ names to be, and she just said yes.”

I laugh, because he’s right. Waylon and Wes’s middle names are equally Southern.