Imogen looks at me, at James, at our still-joined hands, and her eyes light up. “You two!”

  James looks down at our hands, but doesn’t let go. He just shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “You figured it out?” she says, her voice hopeful.

  “Sort of,” I say. “We still have some…figuring…to do.”

  James chuckles, and neither Jesse nor Imogen miss the undertones swirling between us.

  Imogen grins. “Did we interrupt something?”

  I laugh. “This is pretty much the only thing that could have interrupted us.”

  “Well, don’t let us keep you,” Imogen says. “We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Go finish figuring it out!”

  James grunts a negative. “You’re family.”

  He lets go of me and crosses to stand over the incubator. He crouches, staring down through the glass at the tiny little sweetie inside. “Hi, Renée. I’m your uncle Jamie.” His voice is so quiet, so tender. “Someday, I’ll tell you all about your namesake.”

  I’d be lying if I said that didn’t send a twinge through me, but I stand beside James and rest a hand on his thick shoulder. He glances up at me, smiles, and then looks at Jesse and Imogen.

  “She looks like you, Imogen.” He grins at Jesse. “Fortunately for her.”

  Imogen smirks. “She’s got his nose.”

  James laughs. “Poor little thing. Maybe she’ll grow into it.”

  Jesse shakes his head. “Don’t be a dick, dick.”

  Imogen whacks him, or tries to. “Watch your language around our daughter, Jesse O’Neill.”

  Jesse snorts. “She’s not even five hours old. I don’t think she minds.”

  Imogen’s eyes close, flutter, and shoot back open. James stands up, takes my hand again.

  “You should rest,” he says. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Imogen nods, but she’s already drowsing. Jesse watches her, and then, once she’s asleep, he catches my eye and points at the hallway. He and James and I crowd into the hallway outside the room, and Jesse shuffles his feet, and then glances at me.

  “This sort of puts a wrench in the wedding plans,” he says. “I know you said you’re not up for planning it, but I—um, I had an idea, and I was hoping you’d be able to help me with it.”

  I smile at him, squeeze James’s hand, and listen to his plan.

  Chapter 15

  Two days after Renée Audra O’Neill is born, all eleven of us are gathered—in rather cramped quarters, it must be said—in an unused room in the maternity ward; the bed has been temporarily wheeled out to make room for all of us. There’s an eleventh person: a minister—a willowy, silver-haired woman in a lavender dress, a thin leather notebook in her hands.

  “Dearly beloved,” she says, in a quiet, bell-like voice. “Family, friends…we’re together in this place to celebrate the joining of two lives, the marriage of two beautiful souls.”

  Imogen is in a wheelchair, still connected to an IV and oxygen, but she’s in her dress, a veil draped over her shoulders, facing Jesse, eyes on his, reaching up to hold his hands; Jesse is in his tux, hair brushed to a wavy shine and loose around his collar.

  James is beside and behind him, also in a tux. Nina and Ella are on one side of the minister, holding bouquets of fake flowers—real ones were a no-go, in consideration of Imogen’s weakened immune system—and Nate is on the other side, solemnly holding a pillow, on which are the rings. The rest of us are lined up as best as possible on either side of the bed, women on the left with Imogen, men on the right with Jesse.

  Imogen had resigned herself to having to postpone the wedding, so Jesse’s surprise of having me scramble this together means she’s still crying with pure happiness. She hadn’t suspected a thing—when Audra, Laurel, and I had shown up with her dress, she’d been puzzled, and hadn’t believed us when we promised her she was marrying Jesse now, today, here in the hospital. We had to FaceTime Jesse so he could reassure her himself and then, once she believed it was real, she promptly lost her mind. She’d alternated between sobs of happiness and panic at trying to look her best, given that she’s been in the hospital for two days and was still so weak she could only stand up for short periods of time. The three of us had worked with the nursing staff to get Imogen showered and dressed, get her hair brushed and dried and curled, all without disturbing her IV or oxygen lines.

  Now, here we are, gathered in a tiny hospital room, breathing each other’s air, with half the maternity ward staff and patients clustered outside the open door, watching the proceedings.

  “I’ve done weddings in a lot of unusual places,” the minister says. “In churches of all kinds, in more than a few bars and restaurants, in courthouses, in fields, in barns, even in a cemetery, once. I’ve even done weddings in this very hospital—in oncology wards, usually. This is the first time I’ve performed a wedding in a maternity ward, however, and I have to say this is by far my favorite place to do a wedding.”

  She turns to look at the iPad resting on Imogen’s knees: it shows a real-time feed of little Renée, sleeping in her incubator. The doctors said it was too early for her to be around this many people, so we’d had to improvise a way to have her be a part of the wedding.

  “Love knows no boundaries, and I can’t think of a better place to marry you than a place where we can see, very literally, love come to fruition in the form of sweet, innocent babies.” She pauses, glancing from Jesse to Imogen. “I’ll keep this brief, and to the point. Love brought you together. Love will bind you through whatever comes your way—especially if you remember that love is a choice—an action, not just an emotion. Me marrying you two is nothing more than a symbol, and a civil, legal formality. You are, truly, wedded the moment you commit yourselves to each other to live your lives as one. All I’m doing is broadcasting that commitment to your family and friends.”

  “Family,” Jesse puts in. “We’re family, all of us.”

  “To your family, then,” she says, smiling. “So. On to the fun part.” She looks at Imogen. “Imogen—you’ve written your vows, I understand?”

  Imogen nods, sniffles tearfully, and pulls a folded piece of paper tucked into the side of the wheelchair. She tugs on Jesse’s hands, and he holds tight as she shakily pulls herself to her feet. Audra and James both hover at either side of her, ready to help her stay on her feet. Imogen wavers, and then visibly draws on a reserve of strength, stiffening her spine and locking her legs, holding on to one of Jesse’s hands, clutching the paper in the other.

  “I wrote this in about fifteen minutes,” she says, her voice quavering. “So…it’s not gonna be Shakespeare.”

  Jesse chuckles. “Because I’m known for my eloquence,” he says. “From the heart, baby. That’s all that matters.”

  Imogen nods, smiles, and takes a shaky breath. The paper shakes as she reads from it. “Jesse—from the moment I first met you, I knew. You showed up that day to fix a window that mysteriously broke…all by itself.” Everyone laughs, especially Jesse and James, who know the real story. “You didn’t just fix the window, that day—you fixed me. You repaired my heart. And every single day since then, you’ve made me a better person. You make my life better just by existing. You make me happy just by being you. Even if you do sometimes forget to take your stupid big muddy boots off on the porch.”

  She pauses, sniffles, smiles at Jesse, brightly, lovingly, adoringly, and she continues.

  “There’s nothing in this world that could make me happier than to be your wife. To share life with you. To be Imogen Catherine O’Neill.” She smiles down at the iPad, at Renée, who snuffles, whines in her tiny baby voice, and then quiets again. “You’ve given me everything—more than everything. I love you more than I know how to say, so I promise to spend every moment of every day for the rest of our lives trying to show that love to you.”

  Jesse clears his throat, gruff and hesitant. “Well, shit. How am I supposed to match that?” He glances at the minister. “Sorry. Shoot, I mean.”

  The minister just laughs. “I’m here to marry you, not judge you.”

  Jesse clears his throat again. “Anyway. Imogen, I’m—you know me, and you know I’m not much for making pretty speeches. I didn’t even write anything down. I just…I figure the best thing is to just tell you what’s in my heart.”

  He pauses, closes his eyes for a minute, and then opens them—he’s visibly emotional, but his voice is strong and steady. “You say that I didn’t just fix your window, I fixed your heart. Well, I may be good at building things and fixing things but, until you, I didn’t know the first thing about…” He waves a hand vaguely, hunting for a word to finish the thought. “Life. Love. Anything, really. I didn’t know anything about anything except building houses. You’ve opened my eyes, my heart, and my whole world to things I didn’t know existed.” He looks down at the live stream of Renée, one room over. “I don’t know the first damn thing about being a husband, much less a daddy, but I do know one thing—and that’s that as long as I have you, I can figure it out. With you at my side, Imogen, I can take on the world. I love you more than…more than fu—friggin’ anything I can even imagine, and I’m honored beyond words to be your husband, and to raise this amazing, miraculous, beautiful little girl together with you.”

  James slaps him on the shoulder. “Good job, brother.”

  The minister smiles again. “Indeed. Beautiful words, both of you.” She turns and glances at Nate. “You have the rings, sweetie?”

  Nate nods, his expression serious. “Yes ma’am. Right here.” He lifts the little velvet pillow.

  She takes the larger of the rings and hands it to Imogen. “Imogen, echo me, if you would.”

  Imogen nods, and places the ring on the tip of Jesse’s finger, but doesn’t slide it down yet, and repeats the minister’s words. “Jesse—this ring is a symbol of my love. It represents the eternal bond, forged in this moment, before these witnesses. This ring represents my vow to love you, cherish you, and honor you all our lives, in sickness and in health, come what may. With this ring, I vow my eternal love for you.”

  And then, with a tearful gulp, she slides the ring onto Jesse’s finger. He’s equally moved as he repeats the same vow to Imogen, and places the ring on her finger.

  There’s a moment of silence, then, as Jesse and Imogen stare at each other.

  “Well?” The minister glances at them both in turn, expectantly. “Don’t wait for me—seal it with a kiss!”

  Jesse gently gathers Imogen in his arms and kisses her thoroughly, but delicately, and then, mouths just barely parted, they laugh together.

  “And with that scorcher of a kiss,” the minister says, laughing and pretending to fan herself, “I now pronounce you married, in the eyes of the State of Illinois, in the eyes of God, and, most importantly, in the eyes of these, your gathered family. What this marriage has joined, let nothing ever separate.”

  There’s applause, then, not just from us in the room, but from the fairly sizable crowd outside—not just hospital staff anymore, but expectant fathers, soon-to-be mothers in wheelchairs grimacing between contractions, doctors, friends, families of other patients.

  One of the things that joins all of us as a family is that we’re all each of us has—for a myriad of reasons, we’re all the family any of us has, by choice or by loss. So, to share this, surrounded by our family, the family we’ve chosen? It’s everything.

  Imogen gratefully and exhaustedly lowers herself, with Jesse’s help, into the wheelchair, and a nurse excuses herself as she weaves between the crowd to enter the room, carefully carrying a sheet cake—she’s followed by another nurse with paper plates and plastic cutlery.

  The celebration that follows is makeshift, occurring in the overcrowded room, barely enough space to move let alone eat cake or mingle, but it’s a joyful one.

  It ends when Renée begins to fuss. Imogen gives hugs and kisses to everyone, and then Jesse wheels her to the room next door, so she can feed their daughter. That’s when we all begin to filter out, heading for the elevator as a group.

  Two hours later, the rest of us have dined together at a nearby Italian place, said our temporary goodbyes, and parted.

  Twenty minutes later, James and I are sitting in his truck, in his driveway, a thick, expectant silence between us.

  The girls are with James’s parents for the night.

  And he and I are finally alone

  Chapter 16

  James shuts off his truck, and opens his door, but doesn’t get out just yet; he sits with his foot on the step, one hand on his knee, and the other draped over the steering wheel. He’s staring into space thoughtfully, one finger tapping restlessly on the steering wheel.

  I wait silently, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready.

  After several minutes of silence, he lets out a slow breath. “That emergency delivery the other day was scary.” His voice is a deep, quiet rumble.

  I reach out and massage the rock-hard round bulge of his shoulder. “Yeah, it was.”

  “I keep having flashbacks.” His voice is so strained, so tense. Stretched taut, tightly controlled.

  It’s late evening, a pink-red-orange sunset stains the sky and the long, ropy wisps of clouds. I open my door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  James glances at me, brow furrowed. “We’re finally alone, though. Not sure when that’ll happen again.”

  I shake my head and smile. “We have all the time in the world, James. Let’s just go for a walk.”

  He nods, and hops down from his truck. The doors slam with twin thunks, and I round the hood of the truck, meet him by the driver’s door, and take his hand.

  We walk in a slow stroll, hand in hand, down the side of the rural dirt road, the sun setting in front of us.

  “You’re probably sick of hearing about this shit,” James says.

  “No, James. I’m not interested in burying this stuff anymore. We’ve both spent years burying it. Repressing it. Refusing to talk about it. Pretending it’s fine. We both need to let it all out.”

  He rakes his free hand through his hair. “I’ve spent the last couple months talking it all out with Dr. Richard. It’s helped. I think, by and large, I’ve made good progress at putting the past in the past. Letting Renée just be…part of me, part of who I am and who I’ve been, but not letting the tragedy of losing her define me anymore.”

  “That’s hard work.”

  He scoffs. “Ain’t that the truth. I’ve had to let myself think about her, when I’ve spent these years since her death trying to not think about her. Doc Rich says I can only move on by accepting the thoughts, living in them, and moving through them.” He laughs. “It took me a couple weeks’ worth of sessions with him to not dismiss trite, gooey shit talk like that, to be honest. It just sounds like stereotypical shrink babble.” He speaks in a mocking whine. “You have to live in the painful thoughts, James. Live in the thought, let it flow through you, be in you, and then let it move past you. If you don’t learn to do this, you’ll always be stuck in the past, and your personal tragedy will always consume you.”

  I can’t help a laugh. “He really talks like that?”

  James nods. “Oh yeah. It took some getting used to. I almost stopped going, and I actually did see a couple other therapists, but in the end, as goofy as he sometimes sounds, he has good shit to say, and I feel like he’s actually listening to me. Like he understands, and actually has the tools to teach me how to be better.” He shrugs. “The others just made me feel like they were sitting there, hearing me speak, diagnosing, and waiting to charge me for their time. Doc Rich is the only one who I feel gets me, and actually cares.”

  I smile. “I’m really glad you found him, and that you’re talking to him.”

  He glances at me. “Have you ever spoken to anyone?”

  I laugh, nod and shrug. “Yeah, sort of. A colleague of mine at the hospital is a psychiatrist, and I’ve had a few sessions with her.”

  “Not the same. I don’t want to sound like I’m the expert, or like I’m trying to tell you what to do, but I know for me, I’ve been stuck in my shit for six years. I had to talk to someone objective, who doesn’t know me at all, to help me get out of my own way.”

  I sigh. “I know. I just…” I shrug, finding it hard to capture my feelings on the subject.

  “Don’t want to have to admit you need help?”

  I can’t help but laugh again. “Yeah, that’s a big part of it.”

  He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh, a scoff, and a laugh. “I get that more than you know. I’m a red-blooded American male. I’m a builder. I fix things professionally. I can take apart a car and put it together, I can build a house from scratch with my bare hands. I can look at a building that’s falling apart and know exactly what to do to fix it. One look at a roof and I know exactly how many years are left on it and how much it’ll cost to fix it. I’ve been building and fixing literally my entire life.” He holds up his hands. “There is very little I can’t do with these.” He drops his hands again, takes mine in his once more, and scoffs, shaking his head. “I can’t fix me with them, though. As a man raised to be tough, to be strong, to be a doer, a fixer, an alpha male without emotions or weakness, admitting even to myself that I needed help was…fucking hard, Nova. It meant admitting my head is fucked up, that my heart is fucked up. That I have emotions I don’t know how to deal with. Growing up, if I showed weakness around my dad, I got whooped. Get hurt playing ball? Suck it up, son. Take it like a man. Get teased, bullied, and made fun of? Kick their asses, Jamie. Show ’em you’re tougher than they are, and they’ll leave you alone.”

  He walks in silence for a while, and then speaks again. “Renée and I got in a huge blow-out fight when I fucked up my knee in that car wreck. My football career was over, and I couldn’t admit it. I was determined to rehab my knee and go for the combine. I was gonna get drafted by the Bears. That was my sole focus in life. Renée was pissed. She knew I loved football, knew I was really, really good. She knew I had a real shot at going pro, which is like…the chances of that are like winning the lottery, pretty much, and I had scouts and agents telling me I was a shoo-in. Not to toot my own horn, but I was one of the best offensive linemen in the country.” He pauses, sighs. “Then I wrecked my knee, and it was over. Renée wanted me to think about life beyond football. Rehab my knee, certainly, so I’d have full mobility, still be able to work out and all that, but just admit my career playing competitive ball was done. I couldn’t, wouldn’t. I got pissed, she got pissed, and we blew up at each other while I was in the damn hospital. Cleared the floor, just about. I’ve never lost my temper like that, before or since.”