“Yeah, Sunday,” Dusty replies. “Pudge, no, you can’t have any chicken just yet.”
I giggle, grabbing the paper plates and napkins, then walk into the living room where they’ve got two boxes already sitting on the coffee table. It’s been a month since the team won the state championship, and we’re now watching pro football. I can’t every weekend because of my schedule, but thankfully, I’m off this weekend, because our two teams are rivals and they’re playing one another.
“Why don’t you go ahead and make our plates, I’ll get the drinks, and Dusty, you go wash your hands,” Jett orders.
It’s playoff weekend, and my guys and I are going to enjoy yelling at the television while we eat our weight in carbs, something I enjoy more than I can express. As the two of them move to take care of their tasks, I set the plates down, and open up the lid of the box then gasp.
“Will you marry us?” is spelled out in pepperoni slices, with a green bell pepper serving as the question mark.
All the memories we’ve made so far flash through my mind; from the weekend camping trips to the solo dates with just Jett and me. While it’s only been a few months, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I want to spend the rest of my life with him by my side, along with Dusty, and any children we might have further down the road.
“Well, will you?” Jett asks, causing me to turn my head to see him bent down on one knee, a ring box opened in his hand, with a gorgeous diamond sparkling at me.
“Yes, yes I will,” I whisper, tears slowly rolling down my face.
He slips the ring on my finger just as Dusty war whoops from beside the couch, causing us both to laugh before his lips gently kiss mine.
“I love you, Sunday Cross,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I love you more, Jett Blake,” I reply. Then, pointing to Dusty, I continue. “But I love our son even more.”
“Yeah, I’m a pretty good kid, and very loveable,” Dusty says, giggling.
“Modest too,” Jett retorts. “Okay, so have you guys decided on what you’re betting on for the first game?”
“A week’s worth of doing laundry,” I state.
“I’ll take care of the cats when Sunday works,” Dusty tosses in.
“And I’ll do the grocery shopping for a week,” Jett pledges.
“Then let’s watch some football,” I reply, getting the plates set up while Jett passes out our drinks.
Later that night, as Dusty sleeps, I come back to the bedroom from cleaning up, and crawl into bed, curling up in Jett’s arms. “I don’t want to wait a long time to get married,” I confess, my hand stroking across his pec.
“You don’t want the big shindig?” he asks, looking down at me.
“Nope. Because that’s not what makes a marriage. What we’ve been doing, day in and day out, that’s what does, Jett. I’m perfectly okay with going to the courthouse with your sister’s family and mine as witnesses. We can always have a huge reception after if that’s something you’d like, but at the end of the day, as long as I’m Sunday Blake, I don’t really care, do you?”
“Not at all, sweetheart. We’ll let everyone know and see when we can do this,” he agrees to my wishes, kissing me. “Now, let’s get some sleep. Seems I have to go to the grocery store, and I suspect Dusty is going to put everything he can think of on the list.”
Even though I’m tired, I can’t help the giggle that escapes. “Good night, Jett.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
Epilogue
Jett
One Month Later
“It was nice of your folks to take Dusty,” I say as we pull out of the courthouse parking lot.
“Are you kidding me? Mom’s been beside herself since she found out she was getting a grandson,” Sunday teases. “I’m pretty sure there will be minimal vegetables eaten while we’re gone as well, because they’re going to spoil the hell out of him.”
“He was so young when my folks passed, he doesn’t really remember them,” I reply. “Stacey’s folks wanted nothing to do with him when she split, so he’s past due for some grandparent spoiling.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I suspect those words are due to the fact her mom has clued her in as to the plans they have with our son.
“It’s okay as long as it’s not an everyday thing, sweetheart,” I tell her as I make my way to the tattoo shop.
Manual Alvarez, or Manny as he prefers to be called, was finally able to get Sunday in to check out her scar and see if they’d need to wait any longer for her to get the area tattooed. Apparently, he’s a whiz with scars, having apprenticed under some guy named Loki, who told him when he reached out that he’d be available to help. Kind of intriguing to me, since Loki is part of a motorcycle club over in St. Mary’s, which isn’t exactly all that close. But I keep my thoughts to myself since this is something my wife wants.
My wife.
When the Justice of the Peace pronounced us man and wife, then introduced us as Mr. and Mrs., those two words embedded themselves in my heart. Not only did he marry us, but he signed the adoption paperwork afterward, so Sunday is now officially on Dusty’s birth certificate as his mother.
After parking, I help her jump out, then we walk hand in hand to the shop, which is just off of Main Street. Walking inside, I hear the chime of the bells announce our entrance, then a male voice yell out, “I’ll be right there!”
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
“About needles? I don’t particularly like them, but I’m sure the minimal discomfort from getting a tattoo will be nothing. At least, nothing like the surgeries I had, that’s for sure,” she replies, smiling up at me.
“Hey, I’m Manny,” the guy says, introducing himself as he walks through a curtained-off area. “You must be Sunday?”
“Yes, this is my husband, Jett,” she announces, standing.
“Come on back and let’s see what we’re working with,” he invites.
I grit my teeth knowing he’s going to have to get up close and personal to her body, but he doesn’t give off a creeper vibe, which slightly allays my concerns. When we breach the work area, he points to a door and offers, “There’s the bathroom so you can slip into something more comfortable.”
While she goes to change, I sit in a chair that’s been pulled next to the table I presume he uses when working. I watch him gather a sketchpad and pencil, along with his phone. “Sunday says you’ve worked with a guy who is a rockstar tattooist when it comes to covering up scars.”
“Loki’s one of the best,” he replies. “He does a lot of work on women who have had mastectomies, as well as burn victims. While all skin isn’t able to be worked on, from what your wife indicated, her skin grafts took well, so we shouldn’t have any problems.”
I hear the door open and watch her cross the room, her stride confident even though she’s now in a one-piece bathing suit. Manny has her stand straight, and I glance over his shoulder, observing him take several pictures of her thigh before he motions for her to turn around.