Epilogue
BRYN
I’d just taken my first sip of after-dinner coffee when the announcement rang in my ear. It rang in my ear because the bride—my new cousin-in-law, Camille—was speaking into the microphone next to me, staring at me in the face. “Everyone, it’s time for the bouquet toss.”
“I’m busy.” I try to ignore the fact every single person at our table is looking at me, including Mitchell, who just caught the garter. He’s twirling the blue lace on his finger like a prize, rubbing it in that he practically shoved half the men to the side and leapt for it.
Because, competition.
I bet him a week’s worth of dinner dishes he couldn’t catch the garter, and he bet me a week’s worth of weeding I couldn’t catch the bouquet.
But I didn’t think he’d go for it. After all, there are implications to catching these things—superstitions. It’s the kind of subject Mitchell and I try to avoid among the Aquino and Dunford clan, who are clamoring for marriages and babies, and who have sufficiently impressed upon us we should . . . you know, get engaged or something.
It’s only been a year since I moved into Paraiso, nine months since Paraiso opened, seven months since Dunford Winery’s opening. Only a month since we moved into the guest house together.
Which doesn’t qualify us for that kind of talk, does it?
It’s not for lack of want, or love, because what we have feels permanent, steady, and solid. He is my partner in every way. In business, in pleasure, in friendship. Not to mention that when I see him interacting with kids in town, my mind wanders to him as a father . . .
“Are you a fraidy cat?” Mitchell whispers, pulling me from my thoughts as Camille drags me by the arm. She’s stunning in her spaghetti-strap, loose-fitting wedding dress, which hangs on her easily and beautifully, her simple braid draped over one shoulder.
“Bryn is never, ever scared,” Camille says. “C’mon.”
I head to the dance floor, also known as Paraiso’s deck, amazingly decorated with lights and flowers. Camille and Drew’s wedding is not the first at Paraiso, but I have to admit, it’s the best thus far. During the live stream crisis, I approached the only person I thought I could partner with and asked her for advice. Chef Ellie not only invested financially in Paraiso, she created a new feature—weddings—and it has become wildly popular. For privacy, she now lives in a newly constructed, modern, tiny house a half mile down the road.
I am surrounded by females of varying ages who are literally stretching, warming up to catch the bouquet, and talking smack. Victoria has casually disappeared—I’m going to have to badger her later. I eye Ellie in her chef’s jacket and waggle a finger at her.
“Sorry, girl. Working, you know!” she yells.
The crowd laughs as I swallow my pride. I shake out my body to relax. Must keep my focus on the win. Just think: No dishes. No dishpan hands. No scrubbing out pots and pans—yuck.
Camille holds up the smaller secondary bouquet of lavender and daisies from the other side of the deck and shakes it. “Are you ready?” She yells it like a cheerleader. Her lips form into an infectious glorious smile. Behind her is my cousin Drew, whom I call pogi, because he still has that sweet baby face. He’s wearing a Barong Tagalog—a formal Filipino sheer shirt of intricate design—and is holding the real bouquet, which is as big as his torso.
She turns around so her back is to us. At Drew’s signal, everyone yells, “One . . . two . . . three . . .” and Camille hoists the bouquet in the air. Damn, she has a stronger arm than I anticipated, and I step backward, using my arms to make way behind me. The flower girls start to scream as I push them aside. The grown women curse something fierce, but it doesn’t deter me from getting myself into position. The perfect position. I didn’t grow up with Drew and not learn how to catch a football. I didn’t watch the 49ers for nothing.
The bouquet comes down in a trajectory, faster now, and I squat, sticking my butt and arms out. I leap up, only to see another woman do the same.
Oh no she won’t.
I throw an arm out like my father used to when he stopped suddenly at a red light when I was in the passenger seat. Clothesline the woman with sheer precision.
Yes. My face takes the full force of the bouquet, and petals scatter on the floor as I tuck it into my chest like a wide receiver, protecting it as I come down to earth. And wouldn’t you know, some of the women have the nerve to stick their arms into my hold. To which I answer with a couple of hell-nos. I hear my aunt hiss with disapproval at my potty mouth, but I don’t care.
I win, baby. I win. I point the flowers at my man, who’s nodding approvingly, as Camille envelops me in a hug.
“Oh my goodness, what’s that?” She’s pointing at something shining, among the sprigs of lavender. On her face is a wicked smile.
I dig inside at her prodding, pulling out the lavender sprig, where there’s a ribbon attached to a tag. It reads, “Your rain check.” Tied with this tag is a simple gold band.
My breath catches, and I’m suddenly dizzy. My hand clutches the ring to my chest as cheering erupts. When I look up, Mitchell is on bended knee.