Page 63 of More With You

“Ain’t she poetic?” Mr. T cackles, slowing as we sweep by the snaking curve of the bayou, where mangroves and piers vie for space along the waterfront.

“I’m not sure I need poetry, right now,” I say, fixing my gaze on the beautiful scenery. There’s nothing like the bayou at sunset, nor the entire visible stretch of the Gulf set ablaze by the dying sun.

Ms. T sighs. “You don’t want to marry him, you don’t have to. Maybe I’ve read me one too many romance novels, but all you can do is what your heart is tellin’ you to. It calls, and you’ve got to listen, one way or the other. Mr. T don’t mind turnin’ right around and headin’ back to the shop if this ain’t your happy endin’, sweetheart. I know you ain’t got no mama here, to weep at your vows or hold up your train while you do your runaway bride thing, but I’m here, and so far as I’m concerned, you’re family. You just tell me which one it’s gonna be—me sobbin’ into my hankie, or you makin’ a break for it?”

I rest my head against the windowpane, feeling every bump and thrum and pothole as we sail along toward the shallow bluff at the very end of this road. There’s nowhere else to go, unless you want to take your car for a swim or make a U-turn. Ben and I both agreed on the spot, because I’m not into chapels and churches, but he wanted something grounded in the heavens. So, we picked a consecrated place, where we could have the best of both worlds. A cemetery might not seem very romantic to most people, but I’ve always found them to be the epitome of romance.

Ms. T is throwing out the big questions tonight, and I need to hurry up and find my answers. I’m supposed to be getting married in… twenty minutes. The thing is, I know it’s Ben. I’ve never craved love or marriage (at least, I’ve never admitted to a longing for love), and never sought a relationship with longevity until I met him. I wouldn’t put a pin to my bubble of solitude for anyone, but I let him put that sharp point to mine and cheered when it burst. He’s… everything, and if I was ever going to have a husband, he’d be the only option.

Is it the reason we’re doing this that isn’t sitting right? I don’t care about winning the DuCates over. I don’t care if I’m not invited to their annual parties and that sort of thing. I don’t even care if they ever refer to me as their daughter-in-law. Still, getting married after such a short amount of time, because I’ve been kicked out of my house and essentially blacklisted from any job in town, seems jarring. I’ve been a charity case for most of my life, and I guess I’m worried that that’s what this is—a handout from Ben.

“Well, honey?” Ms. T prompts.

“I love him,” I whisper, hoping it’s enough.

She smiles. “I can tell, sweetheart.”

“I love Grace, too.” I press my hand to my chest, my heart feeling too full. “I never thought I had a maternal bone in my body, but… I want to wrap that girl in cotton and make sure the world doesn’t hurt her in any way. Is that crazy?”

Ms. T looks like she’s already on the verge of blubbing. “Not crazy, honey. It’s… beautiful.” Her voice is raw with emotion. “This is gonna sound so silly, but ever since you came to this town, I didn’t know if you were gonna be okay. Every day, I’d check my phone, waitin’ for the text to tell me that you were movin’ on. Dreaded it. Didn’t I, sugar?”

Mr. T nods. “She did, Miss Summer. You’d see the tension wring out of her when you said you were comin’ by the shop.”

“Is that why you texted so often?” I’ve never had many friends, so I don’t know what constitutes a normal amount of texts.

Ms. T sighs. “You caught me! Guilty as charged.” She laughs softly. Sadly. “I saw some of myself in you, truth be told. If I hadn’t married Mr. T, I’d have been runnin’ wild all over this country, never stayin’ long enough to let the loneliness bother me. Thing is, I could see it was startin’ to, in you. I could see your thirst for roots—layin’ them down somewhere. Here. Then, Ben came along, and… my good Lord, it was like watchin’ one of my books in real time. I saw you shed all those layers you’d been haulin’ around for so long. I saw the dullness in your eyes turn into a sparkle. I saw a dear friend—the dearest, in truth—come to life, right in front of me. That’s when I knew you were gonna be okay, not because you need him or you’re not capable on your own, but because you found someone and someplace worth stickin’ around for.”

“You’re going to ruin all your hard work,” I wheeze, swallowing the urge to cry. I knew Ms. T always had my back, but I guess I never realized how closely she was watching, or how many lines she was reading between when it came to the face that I’d gotten so used to showing the world. A performance of Summer Larson, but rarely the real me.

Ms. T howls in protest. “Don’t you dare! I’ll do all the sobbin’ for the two of us!” Tears fall down onto her plump cheeks, not budging her heavy blush or expertly powdered face at all. There’s magic in what she does when she “puts her face on”; I swear.

“Does this mean we’re carryin’ on?” Mr. T asks, smiling at the two of us. His wife and the stray that she decided to welcome into her arms.

I close my eyes and nod. “We are, Mr. T.”

“Glad to hear it.” Even he’s starting to sound choked up. We’re going to get to the cemetery, and Ben will think someone’s died on the way.

Winding down the window to let in the syrupy breeze, I inhale deeply and open my eyes again, as we enter the bright, quaint new world of bungalows and white picket fences, with garden-proud lawns of glistening green and ornamental lampposts that will look like something out of a fantasy novel when night sets in and they burst into glowing life. Far behind, I hear the drone of traffic crossing the bridge, trawling slowly past the catfish restaurants and bait shops and over the water. Nevertheless, the sound is hushed by the jungle of trees and bushes that almost form an arch across the road, until it could just be the thrum of nocturnal insects, preparing for the mosquito-feasting they’ll enjoy when darkness falls.

It doesn’t take long to reach the entrance to the cemetery, where the groundkeeper tips his battered cap at us as we pass. I can just make out the embroidery of “Lucky’s” above the peak, arcing over a cartoon crawfish. Evidently, there have been some favors called in to get this ready so quickly, though getting the marriage license from town hall had taken twenty minutes and thirty dollars. That was six hours ago. Honestly, I suppose I’d already made my mind up then, or I would never have gone with Ben to get it. Maybe, we should’ve gotten married there and then, too, so there was no time for me to play tug-of-war with my brain.

Mr. T drives on, turning the radio off in solemn respect to the sleeping souls beneath the ground. A calm quiet settles over the car like a thick blanket in a Wisconsin winter, soothing and familiar. I smile at recently-left bouquets, still in vivid bloom, and wonder if someone will come along to replace the withered flowers that have dried out in the sunlight. There are graves without any flowers at all, but it doesn’t make me feel sad. I used to think that’s how I’d end up, unvisited and forgotten, but I don’t think that’s my fate anymore. I have people who care. People who’ll remember. People who’ll put up a photo of me and tell stories about me, when my time is up.

I’m not going to be like you, Mom. I’m not bitter or vengeful. If anything, I’m hopeful, and if she’s watching, somehow, maybe she’ll realize that I’m going to be okay, too.

“You walk out of that door, you’ll amount to nothing. Don’t you dare come crawling back. I won’t have you. No one will.” Those were the last words my mom ever said to me, and I never did go back. I’m not smug about proving her wrong, I’m just… relieved. I broke the cycle. I didn’t let the shadow of her twist me up inside, distorting me past the point of no return, leaving me so shriveled and rotten that I couldn’t lay down the roots I’m about to plant in the bayou’s soil.

That’s when I see him, standing on the open expanse of bluff with his back to me. He’s gazing out at the coppery water, his hand shielding his eyes. He’s wearing the formal version of his usual uniform: navy blue suit pants and a crisp white shirt. Give me every magazine, fashion show, movie, TV series in existence, and you still won’t find a more handsome man than him. Especially in this moment, waiting for me.

The preacher is next to him, in black robes that billow in the bayou breeze, a Bible pressed between his palms. And, sitting on the grass, plucking up wild flowers, is Grace, wearing a pretty, yellow summer dress. It’s all perfect, down to the simple arbor that’s far enough away from the graves to stop the wedding from dipping into macabre territory. A towering cypress stands guard over the proceedings, while yaupon holly hangs heavy with red berries, and swamp chestnut oaks provide a barrier against the salty wind. But there’s a small gap between them that reveals the mystical majesty of the bayou itself: the water kissing the land.

No pomp and circumstance, no frills, no expensive venue with exorbitant floral arrangements, picky eaters, and a diplomatic nightmare of a guest list. It’s just me and him. Me, him, and her. Me, him, her, and my best friend in the world, joined by the man she loves as much now as she did when they first got together. If that’s not a good sign for my and Ben’s future, I don’t know what is. I hope that, when we’re both older and grayer, I’ll be wisecracking and making lewd comments about bouncing a quarter off his perky ass, like Ms. T.

“Last chance,” Mr. T says, with a reassuring smile.

I smile back. “I don’t need one.”

“That’s our girl.” He winks at Ms. T, who’s still trying to get ahold of herself.

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