Page 132 of Catcher's Lock
My new husband looks like a wet dream in his tailored Tom Ford tux. I have Jeremy, of all people, to thank for that one. Josha’s little brother, who graduated last year with some fancy tech degree and is already making high six figures, pitched an absolute fit when we tried to buy off-the-rack. He ended up flying us out to the Bay Area for a shopping trip and dragging Josha to his personal tailor. I didn’t even know that was a thing anymore outside of the movies.
Ellis is primarily responsible for my own ensemble. I tried to insist I wasn’t gonna wear white, but then he put me in a silky-sheer pullover that shows off my ink and a pair of sinfully tight leather pants that would make Ziggy Stardust proud. The latter hang so low I had to take my manscaping to a whole new level, but they let me ride Bonnie to the ceremony, and since Josha almost fell off the riser when I walked down the aisle onmy mom’s arm, I think I made the right call.
We ended up with ringsandtattoos. He let me design our ink, which we had done a week ago. His is a circlet of stars for hisStar-Lord. Mine is a cartoon rocket that he calls “ridiculously phallic.”
In other words, he loves it.
He tried to convince me we should have a sober wedding, but I insisted that no one else should be subjected to my new mother-in-law without access to alcohol. Although…Diana has been a lot friendlier since she became a grandmother. Currently, she’s sitting at one of the round tables with both of Hannah’s twins asleep in her lap, watching my mom and Cheyenne argue about whether the cake had ganache or buttercream frosting—spoiler: it was buttercream—and wearing a bemused expression.
Despite my insistence that our guests be provided booze, Josha joined me in toasting with sparkling cider. He told me there was no way he was going to be anything but wide awake and lucid for our wedding night, and like hell was I gonna argue with that. He still drinks occasionally when we go out, and I love when he lets his guard down around me and sheds his father’s specter, but I have to admit it makes things easier to be living in a sober house.
I’ve had a couple of slipups. The first was only a month after we moved to Fort Collins, when I punched the bouncer at a local bar for giving my boyfriend his number. Apparently, some habits die harder than others, though I’ve given up a lot of mine.
The fight with the bouncer turned into a fight with Josha and then into a bottle of tequila and a night on the couch. I climbed back on the wagon the next day, but six months later, I ended up in rehab again after thinking I could handle night shifts at the club where I was dancing.
When I got out, I took a job teaching at a pole studio near thecampus where Josha works and signed up for kickboxing classes at the gym next door. Turns out, I do better when I have healthy physical outlets for my excess energy.
I also enrolled in those courses at the college and eventually picked up a gig coaching stunts and choreography for a community theater. I won’t lie and say I don’t still have hard days, but I stick to my meetings and call my sponsor, and coming home to Josha every night gives me a reason to keep doing the work.
Josha and I fight like any regular couple, but we make up better than anyone else in the world. After all, he loves it when I make him crazy—in all the best ways—and I need him to keep me sane.
Tonight, I’m freshly married, three years sober, and my life couldn’t be better.
Hals is dancing with Hannah’s three-year-old daughter, and Jeremy and Milla—who’ve done nothing but give each other shit since they were seven—have disappeared into the gardens with a bottle of champagne.
Echo and Byrd are here, fresh from their own extended honeymoon, and Echo has informed both me and Josha multiple times that husband sex is even better than fiancé sex. Considering Byrd hasn’t left his side or removed the possessive hand from Echo’s lower back since they arrived, I’m inclined to believe the twinky bastard.
Not that I was worried. If Josha and I are ever going to get tired of tearing each other’s clothes off at every opportunity, it hasn’t happened yet.
I’m sitting on a garland-wrapped bench in the corner, watching the people who love us celebrate our union, when my new husband finds me.
“Are you ready to get out of here?” he asks. “I want to giveyou your wedding present.”
“Is my present that you’re wearingyourpresent? Because I already installed the app.”
“Put that away,” he says when I reach for my phone. “Our entire families are here, including all four parents. You think I’m giving you control of my prostate when Hals is hugging me every fifteen minutes all teary-eyed? I’m not insane.”
I usually drive when we take the Triumph—not because she’s mine, but because Bonnie between my thighs and Josha at my back is my favorite sandwich. Since he refuses to tell me where we’re going, however, I hand over the keys. And I can’t deny that he’s sexy as fuck straddling the engine in the tux with his jacket unbuttoned and his collar loosened to expose the hollow between his collarbones.
“You’re drooling,” he observes, handing me my helmet before pulling on his own.
“We call that lube.” Flashing him a reckless grin, I climb on behind him, and we peel off into the night.
Forty minutes later, we pull up to a wooded lot, and goosebumps break over my body as I dismount the bike.
It’s smaller than the old Big Top tent, with only one king pole in the center, and it looks like something out of a fairy tale, lit up and nestled among the trees. As we walk closer, I realize that the darker stripes aren’t black, like I first thought, but midnight blue bordered with rows of white stars.
“Josha,” I breathe, catching his hand in mine. “What did you do?”
“It wasn’t all me,” he confesses. “Hals helped with the financing.But it’s yours. Ours. To build a new future for our childhood dreams.”
I drag him inside. The interior is bare of stage and set, stripped to its raw bones. But someone—probably my glorious husband—has rigged the truss with string lights to illuminate the space. Instead of the traditional striped pattern, the inner walls and ceiling are covered with swirling galaxies, comets, and crescent moons—all glittering silver against the blue. I run my fingers along the tied-back door flap, tracing the outline of a fuckingrocketship.
“Where did you find this?” I ask, turning to take it all in.
“There’s a company in Missouri, of all places. They do custom orders.”
“How’d you get it set up behind my back?”
