Page 73 of Forever Then

MJ finds a picturesque spot near the surf where he deems the light is best for his video camera.

Reagan barks out a few orders and within minutes our respective families are split into two sides, an aisle taking shape down the middle.

Miguel and Rosie pluck out a classical melody on their guitars as Connor takes his position at the front and gives me a thumbs up.

With a small cluster of white roses and ranunculus in hand, I loop my arm through my dad’s and let him lead me to the unadorned, makeshift altar of sand and surf.

People often say there’s the family you’re born into and the family you choose. But I think the purest mark of family are the people that choose you .

Twenty-five years ago, a man, a woman, and their six-year-old son flew across the country to bring me home because they’d already chosen me, sight unseen. Their home became my home. The home where they raised me and loved me as though it was their blood flowing through my veins.

The two teenagers who brought me into this world may not have had a say in where I ended up, but they’ve chosen me every day since by weaving me into the tapestry of the family they went on to build so that, if I ever found them, I would find a home with them too.

One family gave me life and the other helped me live it.

Sometimes the choices we make in love, come with great risk. Will they love me back? Will it work? Will the obstacles ahead break us? Will I ever be worthy of this person?

The man in front of me—the man vowing to love me for better or worse, until death do us part—he chose me in the face of all those questions. And this day, we start a new family. The family we’ve chosen in each other.

“By the powers vested in me by the world wide web, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Drew declares, a wicked gleam in his expression, all too proud to call himself an ordained minister. “You may now kiss the bride.” He leans in. “No tongue, Vining. Nobody wants to see that.”

I roll my eyes, grab a fistful of Connor’s shirt and yank him closer. His hands cup my face and he wastes no time bringing his lips to mine with a smile.

Perhaps the kiss goes on for three or four seconds longer than a public kiss should, but that’s how it always is with him. Touches linger, electricity constantly sizzles beneath the surface, mouths taste and explore in case we don’t get another chance to do it again for a while.

Our wedding kiss is no different.

And there’s definitely some tongue .

Connor

Pack for four nights . That was all I gave Gretchen to go by. The rest is a surprise.

After the ceremony and a bunch of sunset family pictures on the beach, Gretchen and I loaded up and turned my dad’s Jeep pointed north.

As expected, the moment I bypass the bridge that would take us back to the mainland and continue northbound, my wife turns that knowing look on me.

My wife.

“Don’t look at me like that, Fish,” I warn.

She bats her lashes. “Like what?”

“Like that.” I sweep a hand over her face, but I can’t help but take all of her in.

That white shimmery dress that looks like it was sewed on to her, the way it molds to her narrow hips, delicate shoulder straps so thin they’re barely there.

And I can’t see it now, but the way it scoops low in the back, right above where I know the perfect little dimples rest above the curve of her backside, has me weak in the knees.

Her hair is mussed and wind-blown, but it only makes her sexier.

“It makes me want to pull this car over.”

“But you won’t,” she says.

“I won’t because I’m not taking my wife on our wedding night in the backseat of my dad’s Jeep.”

“Hmmm…or it’s because you’re trying to beat high tide.”

Of course this secret couldn’t keep.

I sigh. “That too.”

Gretchen bounces giddily in her seat, a playful shimmy popping her shoulders.

“How’d it feel to call me your wife, husband?”

“Mmm, say that again.” I come to a stop at a red light.

She leans across the console and whispers, “Husband.”

I grab her chin and pull her closer. “Wife.” Our lips meet and the collective sigh between us turns the kiss ravenous in an instant. I forget time and space as I tangle my hand in her hair. She moans, her hand finding my bare chest through the open collar of my shirt .

A horn blasts from behind us.

I mutter a curse and press my foot on the gas as we skitter apart.

It’s been hours since sunset by the time we make it to the end of the paved road.

“Temper your expectations, baby. It’s dark out. We probably won’t see any horses until tomorrow,” I say as we cross the cattle guard onto the long stretch of beach that will take us to our final destination.

When I reached out to Gene with my plans to take Gretchen to Carova for our honeymoon, I didn’t even have to ask. He all but threw the keys at me and said his house was our house for as many days as we wanted it.

The tires finally hit the sand and I roll down the windows to give Gretchen the immersive experience—a thirty minute drive along a dark beach, waves crashing to the shore only a few feet beyond the passenger door.

The tide has already begun its slow rise toward the dunes. We made it here just in time.

The Mullins’ home sits on a beach front lot.

As I turn inland, I accelerate over the dunes to gain traction under the jeep tires and the property comes into view as we crest the top of the sandy mound.

The house is illuminated by the exterior lights I turned on when I made the secret trip up here yesterday to set the thermostat to Gretchen’s seventy-two degrees and stock the fridge.

Once inside, I set our bags in the master bedroom while Gretchen runs straight for the sliding door at the back of the house that opens to the second-floor deck.

After I kick off my shoes, I follow her outside and across the private boardwalk leading to the open-air deck that sits atop the sand dunes.

Gene owns the two empty lots in either direction making this property one of the most secluded beach front homes in Carova.

No streetlights. No city noise. Nothing but the glow of the moon reflecting off the water and the sound of the waves as they swell in and out at the base of the beach stairs ten feet below. No neighbors within sight in any direction .

I wrap my arms around her and settle her back against my chest. “Pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

She hums her approval, arms crossing over mine around her waist.

I plant a soft kiss on her shoulder as a scuffling sound comes from beyond the deck.

We perk up, breaths held in our chests. Neither of us make a move, but we scan the darkness beyond the railing for any sign of the source.

When another chuffing sound breaks over the sound of the water, Gretchen steps out of my arms and walks softly to the far corner of the deck to investigate.

I make it two steps in her direction when we both spot them.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

A chestnut brown mare on the heels of her foal crests the top of the dune. Their lower halves mostly hidden by the dune grass, the two horses freeze amidst the waving fronds as if taking in the view.

The foal nudges his mom with his snout, a request to go down to the water. The mare replies with a chortle and a stomp of her hoof, prompting the foal to lay down—a tantrum or acquiescence to bedtime, who can be sure.

“Amazing.” Gretchen’s words, heavy with awe and affection, pull my gaze back to her.

My wife. Palms braced on the wooden railing, her dress falls over her body like a silken nightgown.

Her exposed back glistens in the light of the moon shining down upon the scene like a spotlight over the water, the twinkling stars overhead limitless in number.

Black hair barely distinguishable from the night sky floats on the breeze in tandem with the dune grass beyond.

This woman who captured my heart as a teenager has owned it outright for the past seven years. She is my heart. My whole heart beating outside my chest.

Her eyes on the wild horses, my eyes on her, the word comes as easy as it always has. “Beautiful.”

THE END