Page 38

The Wedding

Song : Die A Happy Man - Thomas Rhett

“Wake up, cowboy. It’s wedding day.” He groaned and threw an arm over his face.

“Do I get coffee before vows, or am I just expected to love, honor, and hydrate myself?”

“Both. But first, we’ve got to hit Sephora. A woman does not walk down the aisle without professional contouring.” Jon cracked one eye open.

“Do I need makeup too, or am I already devastatingly handsome?” I gave him a once-over.

“You’re exactly devastating enough for a 10 a.m. mall stroll. Come on, lover boy.”

The Strip was still quiet by Vegas standards—just a light buzz of leftover partiers, sunburned tourists, and one guy dressed like an avatar character who shouted “Happy Monday!” as we walked toward the valet.

The January air was cool but dry, and sunlight bounced off every mirrored surface like the whole city had been highlighted for TikTok.

We took the truck to Fashion Show Mall and, as promised, Jon disappeared like a dad into a Bass Pro Shop while I headed toward the glowing promise of Sephora.

Inside, the lights were blinding, the music just loud enough to trigger a minor personality change, and every surface was glistening like a freshly iced cake .

My makeup artist’s name was Callie, and she was exactly the kind of girl who knew how to turn cheekbones into weapons. She gasped when she saw my “Bride to Be” sash.

“Oh my God, we’re doing bridal glam? Say less.” As she painted my face into a glowy, soft-focus dream, I texted Jon:

Me: “Still alive?”

Jon: “Bought a tactical flashlight and a Cinnabon. Thriving.”

Me: “Do NOT eat anything that will stain your teeth.”

Jon: “The Cinnabon is white. Ish.”

Me: “Lord help us.”

By the time I emerged, I looked like a woman ready to ruin someone’s life in a perfume commercial. Jon whistled when he saw me.

“You look like you’re about to walk into a soap opera and slap someone.” I grinned.

“That’s the vibe.”

Back at Harrah’s, I took charge of my hair—no glam squad required.

I curled, pinned, and twisted until my dark hair was up in a perfect bridal updo, dotted with pearl pins that sparkled in the light from the gold-framed bathroom mirror.

I was almost done when I made the fatal mistake of checking my phone. Patricia had posted again.

Patricia_purelight:

“The sad thing about rushed Vegas weddings is you never know if it’s love or just a last-ditch tax write-off. Wishing peace and clarity to all delusional brides today.”

#TraumaSurvivor #PrayForDelilah #CursedLove

“Oh my god,” I muttered.

“She’s posting like we’re in a spiritual cage match.” Jon leaned in from the other room.

“That her again?”

“She just implied I’m marrying you for financial reasons.”

“Babe,” Jon called out, “if this is a tax write-off, it’s the sexiest damn one in IRS history.”

My mom arrived just as I threw my phone across the bed like it was cursed. She wore a flowing lavender dress that shimmered slightly when she walked and carried a small velvet box.

“Ready, baby?” she asked, eyes already misting.

I nodded. She helped me step into the wedding dress—strapless, with pearl beading so delicate it looked like it had been sewn by angels on commission.

When she laced it up and clasped the pearl necklace around my neck, she whispered, “Something borrowed.” I blinked back tears.

“Something about to cry her makeup off.” My dad knocked on the door, dressed in a sleek black suit that somehow managed to say both “I’m a proud father” and “I will bury the groom in the desert if necessary.”

Jon was already downstairs waiting by the truck, looking like every ranch girl’s fantasy in his Wranglers, Ariat boots, that beautiful blue-and-white patterned shirt I picked out at Boot Barn, and—because of course—a silver-and-brown bolo tie and cowboy hat with a dark blue suit jacket.

He saw me and just whispered, “Damn,” like a reverent prayer.

We all piled into the truck and drove downtown to the Love Story Wedding Chapel, which was nestled between a tattoo parlor and a pawn shop like a pearl in a very gritty oyster.

Inside, it was pure kitschy heaven—pink velvet chairs, twinkle lights, and a floral arch that somehow managed to be both adorable and fire-code suspicious.

My dad walked me down the aisle to the gentle sounds of a prerecorded harp.

My mom beamed from the front row. Jon stood at the altar like he was seeing sunshine for the first time.

The officiant was a lovely old lady with blue eyeshadow and a voice like sweet tea.

As she read the vows, Jon and I held hands so tightly our knuckles went white.

Halfway through, my vision blurred from tears—and not just from emotion.

“Uh-oh,” Jon whispered.

“The mushroom gummy’s kicking in.” I barely choked back a laugh.

“Not now, Jonathan.” Too late. His pupils were the size of dimes, and I was suddenly very aware of how sparkly the lights were.

But we got through it—sniffling, giggling, clutching each other as if our lives depended on it—and when she said, “You may kiss the bride,” we did so like teenagers at prom.

Afterward, we took photos out front: me in my gown, him in his boots, us against a backdrop of LED roses and discount elation. The photographer was an old man with a limp who kept yelling, “Now look at each other like you’re about to get matching tattoos!”

We drove back to Harrah’s in a daze, like we’d just left a carnival ride. In our suite, we cut the cake—white icing over rich red velvet and amaretto layers, with “Jonathan & Delilah” piped in black and red icing and the king and queen card topper that made my heart hurt with happiness.

Jon popped the champagne, spilling half of it on the mini-bar, and we toasted to chaos, love, and the general madness of being alive together. Then came another Patricia post.

Patricia_purelight:

“Some people need glitter and cheap cake to feel real. But true love doesn’t need a hashtag. I’ll wait for the right one.”

#SoulTiesNotSlotMachines

#SpiritualWarfare #JonDeservedBetter

“Jon,” I said.

“She tagged you in this one.” He squinted at the screen.

“Is ‘Slot Machines’ a metaphor for your ass?”

I stared. “Jon.”

“I’m just saying—it’s curvy and bad with money.”

After my parents left our suite (and made us promise not to take any more mushroom gummies), Jon and I decided to walk the LINQ Promenade in our wedding attire.

The sidewalk sparkled under fairy lights, and every third person yelled “Congratulations!” or offered us free drinks.

At one point, a group of drunk women handed me a plastic tiara and said I was “the spiritual vibe of 2025.” We danced outside a karaoke bar, got mobbed by tourists who thought we were street performers and ate dinner—again—at Yard House, where they gave us another slice of cake and a round of free shots.

It took Jon fifteen minutes and two jokes about “undoing Fort Knox” to get me out of my dress when we finally returned to the suite.

We collapsed into the shower, steam curling around us like a warm fog, kissing and laughing and trying not to drown in each other’s joy.

Later, in bed, with his arm draped over my waist and reruns of Blue Bloods playing in the background, Jon whispered, “You’re my favorite bad decision.” I kissed his shoulder.

“I’m your wife now, cowboy.”

Everything I’d ever been through—every bad relationship, every tear, every crooked smile I used to hide behind closed lips, all the pain I’d packed away like old boxes in a closet—none of it mattered anymore.

Not with Jon. Somehow, with him, all the jagged memories softened.

The noise of the past faded until it was nothing but a distant hum behind the sound of his laughter, his footsteps beside mine, and the way he said my name like it was something sacred.

And right there, in that glittering city full of flashing lights and strangers and chaos, I had an epiphany.

Home wasn’t a place. It was a person. And mine had brown eyes, Ariat boots, and the kind of love that rewrote everything that came before.

And with that, I went to sleep as Mrs. Lassiter.