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She stirs with a moan. “Drew?”

I smooth her hair. “Yeah, baby, it’s me.”

Without lifting her head, she wonders in a drowsy voice, “Why are you on the floor?”

I kiss the top of her head and whisper against her hair, “Because that’s where you are.”

After a pause, she just says, “Oh.”

My hand slides up and down her back, her arm, savoring every touch—enjoying the feel of her next to me. “Did you have fun last night?”

Still lying on my chest, she nods. “Uh-huh.” Then Kate breathes deep and suggests, “Let’s never do anything like this again.”

“I could not agree with that statement more.”

We’re quiet for a few moments. I look up at the ceiling, wanting and needing to get a few more hours of sleep. But I have to tell her one more thing first.

“Kate?” I squeeze her shoulder gently. “Hey, Kate?”

“Mmmm?”

My voice is low, rough with emotion, as I confess, “I really can’t wait to marry you.”

She raises her head and gazes at me with adorable bleary eyes. She smiles. “Yeah . . . me too.”

Kate lays her head back down, and her hand rests right over my heart. I cover her hand with mine, and together we fall back to sleep.





Epilogue


So what have we learned from this story?

First and foremost, bachelor parties?

Terrible idea.

Once you’re in a committed relationship, going to bars or a strip club without your significant other is just asking for trouble. Whoever started the bachelor-party tradition should be buried alive in a mass grave with the karaoke guy and . . . well . . . I was going to say Billy Warren.

But I guess we can let him live. I’m over it—he’s harmless. He’s also dim-witted, annoying, and . . . decent . . . a stand-up guy, a good friend.

You already knew that, didn’t you?

We’ll never be the best of friends, but from here on out, the one or two times a year I have to see him will actually be okay with me.

What else?

Have faith in yourself—it actually is possible to learn from your mistakes. I did. And this time, when I was on the spot, I didn’t screw up. I believed in Kate, trusted what we have, and did the right thing. Fucking finally.

Now let’s get to the part you’ve been waiting for:

The wedding.



Matthew, Jack and Steven, my parents, James and I, arrive at St. Patrick’s Cathedral right on time. Although they rarely close the church to the public, for our event—and to accommodate the thousand-plus guests sitting in the pews—the powers that be agreed to do just that. The hefty “donation” I gave didn’t hurt either.

I keep an eye on my son as he runs up and down the aisle, stopping occasionally to bask in the attention of an adoring guest. Then I shake hands with Father Dougherty, the priest who’ll actually be doing the deed.

“How are you feeling this afternoon, Andrew? Are you ready?”

“I was born ready, Father.”

“That’s good to hear. Your bride’s limousine has just arrived, so you can take your place at the altar.”

There’s no anxiety—no nervousness or fear that I’m making a mistake. No cold feet. The only thing I feel is . . . excitement. Impatience.

My mother retrieves James and they head back to the vestibule. My father and I walk up the side aisle, toward the altar.

About halfway there, he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. His blue eyes, so much like my own, are filled with emotion. “If I haven’t told you before, I want to make sure you know—I’m so proud of you, Son. You’re a good man, you’re an amazing father, and I have no doubt you’ll be an outstanding husband. I’m so very proud, Drew.”

Then he hugs me. Tight and secure, the kind of embrace that tells me even though I’m married and a father—he’s still my dad and I’ll always be his son.

“That means a lot, Dad,” I say gruffly. “Thank you for being the best example of what a father, a husband, is supposed to be.”

We pat each other’s back. Then he taps my biceps. “Now get up there before Kate changes her mind.”

I smirk. “Highly unlikely.”

He shrugs. “Better to be safe than sorry. I didn’t think your mother would try backing out, either.”

Haven’t heard that one before. “Mom balked at marrying you?”

He slaps my back again. “That’s a story for another day, Son. Go get yourself married—and enjoy every second of it.”

With that, he walks to the back of the church. I meet Matthew and Steven at the altar. “You got the rings?” I ask Matthew.

He taps his pocket. “Safe and sound.”

When the pianist begins playing the prelude—“Angels Watching” by the O’Neill Brothers—Steven announces, “That’s our cue.”

Matthew grins my way and imitates the Terminator: “I’ll be back.” They both walk down the side aisle to the back of the church.

I’m left standing alone. Waiting.

I nod to the watching guests. One hand rests at my side, the other is folded across my lower back. I inhale a deep breath and blow it out slowly.