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“No, fuck that. I wanna see it now.” AJ grips the head rest and shakes it.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I mutter under my breath.
Gwen sighs. “Locke, just pull in.”
“No shit. I want to see the place the Walton cartel uses as its cover.” Nour chuckles.
“Fuck, fine, let’s do this.”
“Ballfield, man. I want to see the ballfield. Heard it was named after you.”
“Who the hell fed you that line of bullshit? It’s named after my old man.”
“Claim it, Locke. Same last name. More than I’ll ever have in the Bronx.” AJ sits back, finally chilling out.
I direct my eyes away from the rearview and to the field.
“Oh no, they didn’t,” Gwen whispers.
On the field, there is an arbor set up, with cherry blossoms weaved through it. Whitley, Chloe, CeCe, Cora, Whit, Pope’s kids, and little Aggie are all lined up on the first baseline. The girls are in sundresses, and the boys are in khakis and white shirts. Pastor and Mrs. B are standing on home plate, facing us, and our parents and Marks are all here, too.
“I’m pretty sure they did.” I kiss her hand.
Bennett reaches between us and snatches the key fob. “You two, take a minute. We need to get changed in the boys’ locker room, and you need to meet us there. Gwen, your mom is going to go with you to get ready.”
They all climb out.
Vander is last. “Happy for you two. Glad to be here.”
“Fuck, man. Me, too.”
I nod and smile at my girl. “Looks like we’re locking this down today. Any reservations?”
She shakes her head.
“Good, because”—I laugh—“this is?—”
“Perfect,” she finishes.
“I wanna kiss you so badly right now.”
“Me, too, but?—”
I bring her hands to my mouth and kiss the back of each. “Let’s do this, Gwendolyn York.”
***
Ten minutes later, I’m standing on home plate in a gray suit with my brother beside me. Pope, Vander, Danny, Amias Steel, Rome, AJ, Nour, and the rest of the team are lined up from second to third base. Bennett’s ass is on the first baseline, with the girls smirking at me, and I’m not even pissed about it.
There are a few people in the bleachers, too. Small town and all, it doesn’t surprise me.
When the “Wedding March” starts, I crane my neck to see my girl, and the song stops.
“She’s running, man,” my brother, Lance, taunts.
“She’s not running anywhere but to me. She’s just taking a minute.” I stop when I hear “Our Song” start and smile so big my fucking face hurts.
When I see her, she’s in a white strapless dress that hits above the knees. Her hair is in a French twist, and she’s got a little bit of makeup on. She looks amazing, but it’s her smile … brighter than the Texas sun.
