Chapter 16

16

Heidi

Roman is looking at me.

Why is Roman looking at me?

Why is he smirking at me?

Why is he leaning in close to me?

Is he about to kiss me?

Absolutely not.

“You said you thought you’d never walk down the aisle,” he says, and my eyes widen in shock. “There’s an aisle right here.”

I’m fully aware that everyone is watching me, watching us , and so I roll my eyes, try to play it cool. “I mean down the aisle… toward the man of my dreams.”

He pulls back, straightening his spine, then points a thumb at himself, that smirk never leaving him. “I’m right here.”

This is insane. Ridiculous. Outlandish.

“Wedding,” someone whispers, and that whisper turns into a chant. “Wedding! Wedding!” Until everyone’s saying it, stomping their feet in between bursts of laughter. “Wedding! Wedding! Wedding! Wedd?—”

“Fine,” I yell and immediately wish I could take it back.

The cheers that follow have me shaking my head.

“We’ll get out of your hair,” Jake’s dad says.

“We’ll walk you to your car,” Jake replies.

Micky turns to me, eyes narrowed, finger stabbing through the air. “Don’t you dare start without us.”

“Veil,” I ask, palm up between us.

Micky smiles, removing the veil and handing it to me. “It was always yours.”

I have no idea what that means, but I plop the veil on my head anyway.

“Hot,” Roman declares, shoving his hands in his pockets as he rocks on his heels.

My head tilts to the side as I try to get a read on him. “Is this your thing?” I ask. “Meet a girl, marry her?”

He chuckles, but doesn’t respond.

“I bet you’re a one and done kind of guy, huh? Mister One-Night Stand?”

He pushes forward, leans in real close. “It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?”

I bite back a burst of laughter, then look over at my friends. They’re all huddled around the two cakes while Logan, Cam and Dylan argue about which one looks the best. I turn to Roman, grab his arm, and roll up his sleeve, inspecting the aforementioned tattoos. It’s too dark to see them intricately, but I can make out a cross, a bird, and a ribbon flowing through them. “Where’d you get them done? Prison?” I joke.

“No, but I met the guy who does them there,” he deadpans.

I look up, expecting the same smirk from earlier. It’s no longer there. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “No jokes.”

I focus on his arm again, twist it to get a better look. There’s an unopened envelope with the initials AB on the corner. I’m not even going to question who AB is. Instead, I ask, “What were you in prison for?”

“The usual,” he replies, all nonchalant.

I’ve met people who have been in prison before, but I never really cared enough to know why, or how, they got there. I care about Roman, though, and I don’t know what that means yet. “Elaborate?”

“Possession with intent to sell.”

Hmm. “Are you still involved with that?”

“I wouldn’t be working two jobs, six days a week, if I was.”

“Valid point.” I trace the ribbon with a single finger. “Did you do it for kicks or out of necessity?”

“The latter.”

I glance up at him. He watches me back. “So, you met your tattoo artist in prison?”

“Yep.” He takes his arm back, pulling the sleeve back down. “He was my cellmate. He’s this forty-five-year-old short, stocky Filipino dude named Juan. Amazing artist, but didn’t know what to do with his talent, so I told him he should look into tattooing. He got out before me, but when I was released, he was out in the parking lot waiting for me.”

I didn’t ask for all this information, but I like the fact that he’s willing to supply it. And I like it even more that he doesn’t hide who he is or was.

“ He brought me back to his house, introduced me to his wife and kids, and showed me the tattoo gear he’d bought. He hadn’t used it yet, so I let him practice on me. I don’t even know half the shit that’s on my body.”

I’m smiling, and I don’t really know why. “I like Juan,” I tell him.

He laughs at that. “Everyone likes Juan. It’s kind of impossible not to.”

“So, I take it you still keep in touch.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I spent the day with him and his family and half the neighborhood.” He motions behind me, to Jake and Micky walking up the dock, hand in hand. “You ready to be Mrs. Baker?”

I grin up at him. “You just saved me from flipping through my old yearbooks, Roman Baker.”

He rolls his eyes, then blesses me with that smirk again. “Let’s do the damn thing.”

“What song do you want?” Amanda asks.

I freeze a moment, thinking, and giggle to myself as I make my way over to her and whisper my song choice in her ear.

Her grin matches mine. “You got it.”

After walking the length of the dock, I turn and face the altar, then wait. Once the first few chords of “What Makes You beautiful” by One Direction start, I don’t just walk down the aisle. I fucking strut, stopping to dance and sing, aka scream , the lyrics with my girls. It is, by far, the most joy I’ve felt in the longest time, and I realize now, a little too late, that regardless of the physical distance—or the emotional one I’ve created between us—these people are still my friends for a reason.

I came here tonight because I didn’t want to be home alone on Christmas.

But that house, the home I grew up in—it isn’t my home.

The people here are.

When the song finishes, I walk toward Roman, who’s watched me the entire time with a giant grin on his face. When I get close enough, he offers me his hands, and for a long moment, we just stand there, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, our smiles growing with each passing second.

And, because Logan is Logan and his main priority is finding out who won the best cake contest, his officiant speech goes a little like this:

Logan: “Roman, say I do.”

Roman: “I do.”

Logan: “Heids, same shit.”

Me: “I do.”

Logan: “Now kiss.”

Full disclosure: I didn’t think about the whole kissing thing when I agreed to this, but the moment Roman steps toward me, I freeze. And when his hand cradles my neck, his thumb under my chin, lifting my face up to his, I stop breathing. And when his mouth meets mine, I…

I black out.

Maybe.

Just a little bit.

I know that his touch is warm, and that his lips are soft, and that his tongue tastes like mint…

But… I don’t know how long we kissed for, and I don’t know what he sees when he pulls away and finally opens his eyes.

What I do know is that happened just now, I want it to happen again.

And again.

And again.

“Welp,” Lucy announces. “I got a stiff clitty!”

Me, too, Luce.

Me. Fucking. Too.