“It’s not her fault, and none of this is a surprise. We knew we were going to get the gears about setting a date from both sides, and that your mother would be pushing hard for a wedding in Toronto.”
I inhale the familiar scent of Jonah—spearmint gum and woodsy soap—as I think about Roy’s words. “What do you want to do, Jonah?”
His chest heaves with his sigh. “I’ll do whatever you want—”
“What the hell!” I pull away to stare him down, my annoyance flaring. “You’re never afraid to tell me how it is or how you think it should be, but for some reason, you have no opinion about our wedding? How is that possible?”
His jaw tenses. “Fine. You want to know what I think? I think we should get married now. Today. Or in three days, if that’s when we can get a license. Hell, I was ready to sign those papers the day I put this on your finger.” He reaches for my left hand, his thumb grazing my engagement ring. “Everyone who matters to me is already here, or will be, in a few hours. I don’t want to spend the next year of my life stressing over some big party so a bunch of fucking people I’ve never talked to before and will probably never talk to again can tell me congratulations and hand me an envelope of cash. I don’t want to listen to what other people want us to do. I don’t want to get married in Toronto, or Oslo. I want to get married right here, right now. In Alaska, where I met you, where I fell in love with you, where I’m building a life with you.”
He exhales deeply, as if relieved that he could finally pull the cork on that bottle and let it all out. When he speaks again, it’s in a much slower, calmer tone. “But I get that I’m not the only one in this relationship and that weddings are a big deal for a lot of women, so if you want the big day and the big dress and the hundreds of people, then I’m okay with that, too.”
“I don’t.” The moment I say it, I know it’s true. I thought I did want all that, or that I might want it. But I’d much rather spend the next year living my life with Jonah than planning a single day.
Jonah’s eyebrows arch. “You don’t?”
“I mean, I want something nice and special. Not the community center, with recycled Christmas dinner decorations,” I clarify. “And I want to wear a dress, but it doesn’t have to be something I custom-ordered six months in advance. I want to be able to look back on our wedding day in fifty years from now as one of the best days of my life, but I don’t need the big dog-and-pony show.” I smile at Roy’s words. “All I need is you. And the people who are around us right now.”
Jonah’s breath hitches. He reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair beneath my knit cap. “So, what are you sayin’, exactly?”
I struggle against the goofy grin that threatens to emerge as my excitement bubbles. “Roy did say I could pull a wedding out of my ass in a week and make it not suck.”
Jonah frowns. “You talked to Roy about this?”
“I wanted an impartial opinion.”
He barks with laughter. “Well, yeah, Roy definitely doesn’t give a fuck about us getting married.” He leans in to press his forehead against mine. “Then, we’re doin’ this? For real?”
I smile, even as nervous flutters stir in my stomach. “For real. If you’re sure.”
“We wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” He lets out a slow, shaky breath. “Guess we should drive to Wasilla and get that marriage license, then.”
“Yeah. After we drop off the eggs. And gravely disappoint my mother. And my best friend.” A twinge of sadness pricks my chest. My mother won’t be the only one disappointed; I’m about to devastate my best friend. “And I guess I’ll call Muriel and tell her the good news?”
“She’s still up at the house.”
“What? You left her in there with them?”
“She said she was leaving, but she hasn’t yet.” Jonah’s brow furrows. “They should be fine. Simon’s there.”
I groan and, collecting his hands, tug him toward the door.
Chapter Eight
I’m not sure what I expected to walk into, but Muriel, my mother, and Astrid sharing a laugh at the counter was certainly not it. The wedding magazines have been closed and stacked in a tidy pile, the broken coffee mug cleaned up as if it’d never happened.
Simon is still puttering at the stove.
And Björn is at the sink, quietly washing dishes.
“What the fuck happened while we were gone?” Jonah murmurs as we quietly shed our boots and outer things.
“Had to be Simon.” He’s always the voice of reason, though I don’t know what he could have said to flip the mood so quickly. I hold up the carton. “Roy had a dozen.”
“Oh! You’re back. Brilliant. I think I’ve managed to keep everything else warm.” Simon, still in his apron, trots over to collect the eggs, offering me a secretive wink. “It’s your wedding. You tell us what you want and we’ll happily fall in line.”
“What about Mom-zilla over there?” I whisper.
He shushes me, but says, “Even her. Maybe not as happily, but she’s already had two weddings of her own. If she wants a third, she’ll have to divorce me first.”
Muriel turns in her seat to offer her wide, face-transforming smile. “I was just tellin’ them about the time Toby surprised a grizzly out behind the Ale House. He didn’t have nothing on him and the thing wouldn’t back off, no matter how much he yelled, so he did the only thing he could think of—broke out in a rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’” Muriel’s shoulders shake with laughter.
“And what happened?” I ask curiously. Obviously nothing too horrific, because my friend is alive and well.
“Haven’t you heard that boy try to carry a tune? The poor animal hightailed it outta there.” Muriel is chuckling as she climbs off her stool. “I guess we should get this place set for brunch.” She rounds the counter to the cupboard that holds our dishes. Sometimes I think she knows this kitchen better than I do. “Here, Björn. I could use your help. My right hip isn’t what it used to be.”
There’s nothing wrong with Muriel’s hip.
Before Björn realizes what’s happening, she’s handed him a stack of plates. “Go on. Over on that table Roy built for them. It’s high time it got used.”
With nothing more than a glance Jonah’s way, he saunters over to set the table.
Astrid beckons Jonah with an outstretched hand. He closes the distance instantly. “I’m living the life I want to live, and I’m happy,” she whispers, cupping his cheek. “Just as you are permitted to do.”
He sighs heavily. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
Mom catches my eye. Her brow pulls together as she mouths, “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”
I smile and mouth back, “I know.”
Mom rolls her eyes but then smiles. Her emotions sometimes lead her to act irrationally, especially when she has an idea in her head. At least she always sees it after the fact.
“What time are Agnes and Mabel arriving?” Muriel asks, her hands full of cutlery.