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10
HANK
The Roughs are absolute pros at throwing a wedding together on short notice.
Fig and I intend to stay true to what we promised one another in the old shoe store, and that means that temptation lurks around every corner. We kiss, we do hand stuff, but we have held off from going all the way.
And damn it’s hard.
Pun absolutely intended.
Anyway, the Roughs know what they're doing. Falling in love hard and falling in love fast is just something in the blood for them. Which works for me, because it would have been awfully painful to be so intensely in love with Fig if she’d needed to be romanced for months on end.
Which I still intend to do, mind you, it’s just that she’s been wildly in love with me from the start. The passion we have is so strong that I can’t imagine it ever fading.
The family borrows a big barn from Mama Rough’s family, the Rowdys. They get to work decorating it and making it look like a good and proper wedding venue, and they even arrange for organ music as if it’s a church. Lemon, professional interior designer, apparently lives for this, and has had her fingerprints all over all of her siblings' weddings.
“Fig getting married just completes my clean sweep,” she jokes.
A huge tent outside houses the massive catering line as well as a grand dance floor. Damn near a hundred people have rolled into town for it, the extended clan of the Roughs and Rowdys showing up, making my family’s presence of my mother and a few cousins seem quite meek in comparison.
It’s the big day and I’m standing at the altar, feeling nervous for some reason. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, but I guess I can’t shake the natural anxiety that comes with such an occasion.
I stand across from Lemon, who has also nabbed the matron of honor role. Very productive woman. Behind me is Reuben, serving as my best man.
Up at the top of the aisle, Papa Rough stands with his daughter, nods, and walks her to me.
She’s as beautiful as she ever is. She’s wearing her grandmother’s wedding dress, but she put her own touch on it. A few sequins and frills that respect her ancestor while making the gown all her own. A blend of tradition, free spirit, and individuality – all words that I’d use to describe Fig Rough.
That nervousness increases as she approaches, under that sheer veil. I realize it’s because everything is too perfect. Everything’s gone too well. I worry she’ll have second thoughts, or maybe something more soap opera-ish will happen. Like someone actually objecting to our marriage or Fig having an evil twin named Gif or something along those lines.
It’s silly. I wouldn’t have urged us into this so fast if I wasn’t so sure of how perfect we are for one another. And it all goes off without a hitch.
“I do,” I say as the preacher completes his spiel about sickness and health, all without taking my eyes off of Fig.
“I do,” she says as well, and we get the official pronouncement, and the command to kiss the bride.
I want to do so much more to her than that, but for now, I obey, never wanting to miss an opportunity to embrace her.
The cheering from the families is deafening, and it feels like a proper celebration. I’m proud to have gone through with this, although just going to the courthouse was oh so very tempting.
The reception is roaring. Good food, good cake. We dance the night away, and Fig drives me nearly insane with some very evocative moves where she’s literally grinding into my crotch. I yearn for her so fucking bad, but it’s considered rude for the bride and groom to leave their own party just after it starts.
We lean into one another, kissing and embracing as dusk turns to evening. I decide I’ve suffered enough.
“I’m beat,” I declare loudly. “What an exhausting day.”
“Huh?” Fig says. “You’re tired already?”
I shoot her a look that communicates my intentions so loud and clear.
“Oh, right. I’m totally exhausted too.” She’s not much of an actor.
“Go on. You’re not stopping the party,” Rye says as he spins Prairie in his arms on the dance floor.
“Yes, go home and ‘sleep,’” Bartlett’s wife Abby says, making the quotations around ‘sleep’ loud and clear with her tone.
I nod. “We will. Goodnight, family, and thank you for celebrating our love.”
They cheer, and some people raise champagne glasses to us.
Fig and I rush to my truck and climb in. We’re both so excited and giddy as I consider speeding home. We get there safely, rolling into the driveway. She gets out first, but I intercept her before we get to the door, sweeping her off her feet.
“You really intend on doing this the old-fashioned way, don’t you?” she says, giggling madly.
