Page 42

Three years later

I ’m an old man.

To say I’ve been around or seen it all is only the tip of the damn iceberg. Hell, there’s some stuff I’ve damn near invented at this point. But this family . . . it’s my legacy. And I love every new member of it.

Eighty years is a long time to be on earth.

I’ve lived most of those years hard, sometimes wild.

My wife, Rose, sometimes calls me Kitten.

My son teases me about it because I guess it sounds sexy or something.

But I know the real reason she calls me that.

It’s because of the nine lives I’ve got.

I know I’ve burned through eight of them, though, so this last one—I’m going to take extra good care of it.

I’ve been so blessed. I’ve loved two women, deeply.

My first wife would tell you I loved more than two, but all that dating between my marriages wasn’t love.

It was a stupid man getting older and trying to stop time by surrounding himself with beautiful young women.

I hope every single one of them found someone a lot better than me after we parted ways. I’m sure they did. It isn’t hard.

How I convinced Rose to stay by my side beats me.

She knew all the ugly parts of the Buck Johnson story—the bad ticker, and the obsession with a game and this town.

She still decided to give this thing with me a try.

Thirty-five years later and here we are, going strong. Seems our love story is inspiring.

I guess that’s why Peyton and her husband want me to do this minister thing for Wyatt’s mom and that fella she’s marrying. He seems like a real good guy. Retired firefighter who worked with her late husband. He seems honorable, and that’s important.

To get ordained so I could oversee her mother-in-law’s wedding, Peyton hooked me up on some website to fill out a questionnaire.

But the minute she left, I had Rose drive me down to the town clerk’s office, and she set me up with the paperwork.

Notarized it right there and everything. No clickety-clicking necessary.

“We’re almost ready, Grampa. Can I take you down the aisle?”

Peyton’s gentle touch is her superpower. I cover her hand as it rests on my arm and glance up at her for a moment to admire how she looks when the desert sunlight kisses her hair.

“You’re so much of your mom, you know that? All the pretty parts. Now, that temper? That’s your dad.”

She laughs with me, leaning down to kiss my cheek before guiding my wheelchair to the end of the brick pathway that cuts through the middle of the town square. It’s a nice setting to make some vows.

Peyton wheels me up the small ramp to the platform in front of the rows of white chairs while guests filter to their seats, the soft hum of a violin playing behind me.

My granddaughter gives my hand a squeeze, then skips down the ramp to join the other bridesmaids who are gathering in the back.

Her mother-in-law made her the matron of honor.

And I guess Wyatt has the honor of giving his mother away.

Seems to me they’re doing this whole thing pretty damn right, especially for a second time.

I clear my throat and flip through the cards in my hand, my speech peppered with my famous jokes.

Hey, they knew what they were getting. The music shifts, and soon, my great-grandson Warner meanders down the aisle, his little sister, Serena, tugging on his arm and asking him to stop every few steps.

She’s gone and flipped her dress up over her head by the time they make it halfway down the aisle, so Peyton rushes in and scoops her up, leading her and Warner to the first row, where Nolan and my son are waiting to keep those two tethered for the next twenty minutes.

Peyton rushes to the back rows again in time to re-walk the aisle along with Jeff, the groom.

I don’t know the next two couples who join the party, but I’m sure by the end of the night, we’ll all be friends.

When Wyatt and his mom step into view, I find myself getting caught up in .

. . what is it Peyton says? The feels? I get teary is all, something about this whole day reminding me of my wedding to Rose.

And the times when both of my boys made this trip to promise their hearts to great women.

My other granddaughter will be doing this one day, but she swears her wedding will be in London.

She spent a year there for college, so it’s her entire world right now.

The world is big, though, just like life.

And by the time she’s ready, she may decide she wants something else entirely.

I just know I’m gonna do my damnedest to be here to see it.

Wyatt kisses his mom’s cheek and brings her hand to Jeff’s. The big fella wipes away a few tears of his own, so I chuckle and swat at his thigh, teasingly. We share a smile as I hand him a handkerchief.

“And we’re off to the races,” I begin.

Our guests laugh and take their seats.

I begin with the traditional stuff, sharing my perspective on love as the town elder. But it’s when I talk about second chances that everyone gets quiet.

“You both had great loves. It’s so easy at the beginning to imagine that the road is going to go one way, but that’s not how adventures work.

Love and life aren’t simply a trip. They’re a journey.

And we must be willing to ebb and flow, to bend with the curves and hit the brakes or go full throttle when the road calls for that.

When life slowed down, both of you hit your brakes at the same time, and it brought you to an intersection.

You had a choice. Wave the other through or turn and follow them home.

I think it’s safe to say you both made the right choice to throw out the maps and follow your instincts—and each other. ”

I pause for the sniffles in the crowd, as well as the ones from the bride and groom.

“I didn’t expect to make so many people cry with that bit, but I guess I’ve gotten pretty good at speeches over the years.”

There’s a soft, collective chuckle among the crowd. I give everyone a moment to find their tissues, then begin with the vows. In all, the entire ceremony lasts maybe fifteen minutes, but it’s this next bit that kicks off the long part of the night—the party.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Jeff O’Neill.”

The whistles are piercing, but they’ve got nothing on the bagpipes that kick in as the newly wedded couple makes their way down the aisle under a shower of birdseed and bubbles.

Firefighters love that crap, but I don’t know—those things are loud .

Peyton and Nolan both insist it’s romantic, though, so what do I know?

It’s almost homecoming in Coolidge, so the downtown has been decorated for a while. We called in a few favors to have the lights in the park trees flicker on with the sunset, and they’re just now filling in the shadows.

“Do you want me to make you a plate?” Rose asks as she hugs me from behind. I tilt my head and kiss her cheek.

“Please. And maybe not one-hundred-percent strict to my diet?” I give her the puppy-dog eyes, but she’s iron-clad tough when it comes to me and the ticker.

She winks, and that means I may just get a little butter for my roll.

She’s probably right, but damn if that buffet with the fresh-cut prime rib doesn’t look amazing.

Once the music kicks in and people hit the dance floor that Reed constructed under the canopy of lights, I ease back and indulge in the single glass of wine I’m allowed to have.

I sip it slowly, appreciating the notes.

I used to think all that wine crap was a bunch of malarkey, but when a man can no longer have his usual beer or whiskey, he appreciates the little things that make up every sip of what he is allowed to have.

If I had it to do over, I may have invested in a vineyard instead of cars.

I raise my glass as Nolan makes a toast, and again when Wyatt speaks about his mom and his new stepfather.

I toast my wife quietly at our table, draining the last sip from my glass a second before my grandkids dart around our table, taking a few of the plates with them.

We’re in the grass, so the dishes bounce on the ground, and the plates are mostly cleaned, but Peyton rushes over to catch up with her kids anyway.

She’s trying her best to keep those two calm and quiet, but it’s a special day, past their bedtimes, and they’ve had cake. She’s doomed.

But I have a secret weapon.

“ Psst! Peyt, come here,” I say, waving my granddaughter over.

She marches my way with a kid tucked under each arm, and I lean toward Rose, asking her to get the bag from under our table.

“What’s this?” Peyton gestures toward the bright yellow gift bag.

I shrug and hand it to Warner, who dives into it like it’s Christmas morning, tossing tissue paper in every direction. He pulls out a football, then a box with a throwing target inside.

“Gramps, you didn’t have to do that,” she says.

“Kid needs to go up a size. That little kid ball isn’t cutting it. Plus, maybe he can teach his sister how to throw?” I quirk a brow, and my great-grandson nods excitedly.

Warner’s barely four, but he’s got quite the arm. What can I say? I have to nurture these things.

“What’s this?” Wyatt asks as he steps up.

“I brought a little distraction. Weddings are a hard thing for kids to make it through unscathed,” I explain.

Wyatt’s eyes light up, and he takes the plastic target in his hands. He rips through the box and snaps it together easily, and my granddaughter gets a moment to sit down and breathe as he leads his kids away from the dance floor and the tables so they can burn some energy for a little while.

The three of us watch as Wyatt instructs Warner on where to put his hand on the ball. It’s a little big yet, but he’ll grow into it. And when he manages to unleash a tight spiral that almost makes it through the plastic circle, we all clap.

“This is how it begins,” Reed says as he joins us, taking a seat next to his daughter.

Within minutes, the entire family is together watching Wyatt chase down pass after pass as his son switches from wanting to be quarterback to kicker and back again.

Serena spends the entire time chasing them both, and when she gets knocked over amid the roughhousing, she simply dusts off her dress and gets right back up.

“I heard that’s what you all do,” Jeff says.

“What’s that?” I ask.

He meets my gaze and chuckles.

“You make damn good football players.”

“Ah, yes. We do,” I respond with a nod.

I settle in and watch a few more passes, each one getting a little closer, the spiral tighter. And when one bounces off the ground and somehow finds its way into Serena’s hands, she rushes to the other side of the park with Wyatt and her brother trailing behind her.

Yeah. We make football players around here, all right. But we make fighters, too. And that’s how the Johnsons and the Lennoxes and the Stones always win. Because this life will knock you on your ass, but if you’re ready, it’s worth all the trouble.

THE END