Page 85 of Someone to Hold
“Crying isn’t a bad thing,” I continue, because I want to clarify that point. Luke’s been doing less of it recently, which seems like a win, but still. I don’t want him growing up like I did, believing that showing emotion—anger notwithstanding—makes a man weak.
I broke my arm when I was nine years old, falling off the roof of the barn I’d climbed when my frisbee landed up there. It hurt like hell, and you can bet I bawled my eyes out. It wasn’t until I got home from the hospital, arm in a cast, that my dad hauled me out back to tell me tears were for girls and pussies, then demanded to know if I was either of those.
Christ, at that point, I thought he was talking about a cat. But I didn’t want to be a girl or a pussy. His tone made his opinion on both clear, and told me everything I needed to know about expressing emotions.
Tears weren’t something Calhoun men did.
Linda wasn’t as harsh as my dad, but Teddy spent his childhood under his mother’s thumb, an only child raised by a single mom who indulged his every whim while never letting him forget her sacrifice. Sometimes it felt like I got the better deal with a run-of-the-mill asshole dad we could never make happy. At least he was consistent.
Teddy’s childhood was like walking through a live minefield, not knowing when he was going to set something off. He was the golden boy who could both do no wrong and never live up to Linda’s exacting expectations.
But I want Luke to know emotions–and expressing them–are okay. It’s what real men do.
His shoulders, which had inched their way up to his ears, relax at my words.
“I don’t think I’m going to cry,” Laurel says, stabbing the toe of her boot into the dusty ground.
“You don’t have to. But know it’s okay if you do.”
“Do you three want to watch the ceremony with me?” Molly asks.
I glance up, and my heart kicks into high gear once again at the sight of her in the doorway at the far end of the barn. I wonder how long she’s been standing there, and how much of this conversation she overheard.
“I do,” Luke calls and runs forward.
“How about you, sweetie?” she asks, inclining her head toward Laurel.
“Yeah,” Laurel agrees, then glances up at me. “You’re coming too, right?”
“I sure am.”
Then she puts her little hand in mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And hell, I might need those tissue packets because damn if I don’t feel the backs of my eyes burning.
We gather at the edge of the field where the ceremony takes place. Just as I expected, the groom looks bowled over when his bride appears at the end of the aisle. She joins him under the arch that I built and Molly decorated with flowers and greenery. With the mountains in the background, I can’t imagine a more picturesque setting for two people to begin their lives together.
“It’s gorgeous, Mols,” I say softly. “You’ve created something special here.”
Her eyes are a little misty when she looks at me. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
And just like that, I know what I need to do. I see my future as clear as if I’m the groom watching my bride walk toward me.
Sure, being trampled by a bull is terrifying, but thinking about opening myself up to love takes it to a whole other level. And yet, there’s also the thrill that comes from the possibility of finally feeling like I belong. Maybe Molly isn’t the only one who has something in common with the mermaid princess.
I choke back a laugh at the thought. Dad would havebackhanded little kid Chase for expressing that type of emotion. But he’s not my problem anymore, and I’ve let his screwed-up values and expectations rule my life for way too long.
When the ceremony ends, we watch the guests move under the tent. The dinner, a down-home buffet of barbecue and all the fixings, goes off without a hitch. The kids snag giant platefuls of meat and macaroni and cheese, and I see several of the guests approach Molly to compliment her on the centerpieces and the whole flower farm aesthetic.
She’s in her element, and I thank God that she’s still dealing with that walking boot and unable to drive, because this version of her is so different from the exhausted, uncertain woman in her wet T-shirt that first morning. This Molly can handle anything. She doesn’t need some half-broken former bull rider, but I’m not giving her up without a fight.
Luke and Laurel join some other kids on the dance floor as the DJ starts spinning wedding reception classics.
I shake my head when Molly gestures me out for “YMCA.”
I might be stupid head over heels for the woman, but I have some dignity. I do make my way toward her when the first strains of a slow song begin and several couples take the floor.
She arches a brow when I hold out my hand. “I thought love songs were for saps,” she says.
I shrug. “A sap isn’t the worst thing I can think of being called.”
