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“I promise to protect you and serve you and our family, whatever that looks like. I promise not to try to trade your tea for coffee any more than two more times. I promise to apologize when I screw up and always honor the strong woman you are.”
“Am I going to get to do anything here?” George asks.
“Almost,” Livy says to him.
Holding my eyes, though, she says, “Layton Ranger, I take you as my husband, to take all the times we have, no matter what they are, because at least I have you. I promise to love you well, cherish you, and honor you, though I can’t say I’ll obey.”
“That’s right,” Brighton mutters under her breath.
“I promise to push you only when it’s in your best interest, to not bring home too many dogs, and to laugh about spilled milk. I promise to apologize when I’m wrong, even though that’s rare, and to honor your kind heart.”
“Do you, Layton, take Livy to be your wife?”
“I thought that part was clear.” I pull a ring from my pocket, this one a duplicate of the first, only in platinum, and slide it onto her finger against the rose gold one. “I do.” I kiss her knuckle.
“Do you, Livy, take Layton to be your husband?”
“I do.” She pulls a wide platinum band from her thumb and slides it onto my ring finger, holding my hand in both of hers.
“I love you,” I whisper to her, and she whispers the same right back to me.
“Then by the power vested in me by the internet, I pronounce you—”
“Wait!” Sabine says. “Wait one moment.”
George harrumphs.
From the French doors, an older couple I’ve never met emerge onto the back patio. Livy squeezes my hand in hers.
“Go on, George,” she says calmly.
“I’m never accepting this gig again,” he starts, but finally—fucking finally—says the words I’ve been waiting to hear. “By the power vested in me by the internet, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride. Again.”
Cheers ring out as I lift my hands to Livy’s face and kiss her deeply, sealing a perfect wedding day.
* * *
Later that night, as serendipity would have it, Livy’s phone rings from a Boston area code. It’s not her parents. I met them this evening, but that’s a story for another time.
I answer, having waited for this moment. “Hello?”
“Livy Morgan, please?”
“Baby, someone’s calling for a Livy Morgan. But that’s not your last name, is it?”
“No, husband of mine, it is not. Tell whoever’s calling I’m not interested in whatever they’re selling.” She says it loud enough for Tommy to hear.
“My wife says she’s not interested.”
“Wife?”
“Wife.” I disconnect the call.
Yes. Finally.
My wife.
TELL ME A SECRET
