I have an unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean at dusk, but my gaze is fastened on a far better sight.
Oliver stands in line beside his brothers, sun-tanned and striking in a black tux, laughing as he palms away a tear. In my peripheral vision, I see Ren cup Frankie’s face as they kiss to an eruption of applause. But my eyes don’t leave Oliver. They hardly ever manage to.
As the bride and groom walk out to more applause, I stare at Oliver and feel peace crest like a wave in my soul.
There are plenty of big names here, but there are no frantic camera flashes, no probing questions or enthusiastic fans. By some feat of money or connections or some combination of both, the beach is protected this evening, away from prying eyes and press. Here, we’re simply family and friends, celebrating two people promising each other forever.
I’m starting to get used to that. Being simply Gavin. Little by little, I’m learning to embrace the relief that comes with not waking up having to prove my worth to myself or to the world, the serenity of accepting myself as I am, believing that’s enough.
I have someone reminding me of that every day, too, which certainly helps—the man who comes bounding toward me and slips his hand around my waist. “You owe me fifty bucks.”
“Piss off,” I tell him.
“I didn’t cry!” Oliver yells. “You bet I would. I bet I wouldn’t. Fifty bucks. Now hand it over.”
I kiss him even though he’s full of shit and earn his satisfied smile as he pulls away. “I watched you, you mendacious pain in my ass. You cried.”
“I swiped away a bit of moisture at the corner of my eyes when the wind picked up,” he says loftily, hand out. “Let’s go. Cough it up.”
I slap his open palm. “Fuck no. Besides, I’m not the one raking in the dough now. You’re the breadwinner.”
He rolls his eyes. “This again.”
“I’ve got a long retirement to plan for. A budget to respect.”
“Kladdkaka!” Linnea runs into my legs and smiles up at me, cheeks flushed, her fluttery yellow dress already smudged with something that looks suspiciously like chocolate cake. At least, that’s what I hope it is.
“Hello, rug rat.” Crouching, I smile and meet her eyes. “You look very lovely, Linnea. And you did an excellent job throwing your flower petals.”
“Thank you!” she says, plopping herself on one of my thighs. Pain pulses in my knee, but it’s not unbearable, more tiring and familiar than excruciating. I’ll ice it tonight. Then Oliver will massage it for me. Then his hand will wander higher, higher and—
“Remember, Linnie,” Oliver says gently, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. “Take it easy with Kladdkaka’s body.”
“She’s fine.”
He sighs and just smiles.
“Kladdkaka.” Linnea sets her hand on my cheek. “Can I come over soon?”
“Absolutely. I have lots of free time nowadays.”
A smile lights her face. “And I want your guac.”
“You got it.”
“Yay!” Pressing a kiss to my cheek, she throws her arms around my neck and says, “I’m so glad Uncle Ollie loves you, Kladdkaka. I love you, too.”
Swallowing roughly, I hug her back. “I’m glad he loves me, too. And I love you, Linnea. Very much.”
She laughs, a bright, bubbly child’s laugh. Then she hops off my lap and skips away, barefoot and twirling in her dress.
“You’re worse than all of us,” Oliver says.
Easing upright, I throw him a glare and tug him close by the waist. “How exactly so?”
“She’s got you wrapped around her finger so bad.”
“I can’t say no to a face like that. How can you?”
He smiles, stealing a kiss. “You’re such a softie. But don’t worry. You keep wearing that scowl and your grayscale clothes to scare away the world. Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll just keep you all to myself.”
“Not if your brother has anything to say about that,” I mutter, noticing the brother in question coming our way.
“Huh?”
“Ren wants me to go public with the support program and merge with his nonprofit. Says with both our faces on it, we’ll get so much more financial backing and even stronger publicity, which then of course means—”
“More money to help more kids.” Oliver nods. “It’s smart.”
“Smart, yes. But it requires things like talking to people and leaving the house and not swearing as much.”
Oliver smiles wide. “Let me guess. This plan was hatched at the not-so-secret Shakespeare club of his that you joined.”
“That,” I tell him primly, “is none of your business.”
His smile widens. “I think it’s great—the club that we pretend I don’t know about but also merging organizations with Ren’s to reach and help more kids.”
Just as he says that, his brother breaks in, a hand on each of our shoulders. “Family picture time,” Ren says. “Come on!”
“Sure thing,” Oliver tells him, following in his wake, my hand in his. I try to extract myself. I’m not a part of that.
Ren and Oliver turn in unison, looking uncharacteristically serious, with their sharp black tuxes and twin deep frowns. “Gavin,” Ren says. “Come on. Family photos.”
My mouth opens. Shuts. “I don’t… That is—”
“Sötis, I told you.” Oliver threads his fingers through mine again, tugging until I start walking with him.
Reassured that I’m coming after all, Ren turns and disappears into the small crowd, presumably to round up the rest of the family.
“You Bergmans put the poker guys and their pushiness to shame,” I grumble.
“Speaking of.” Oliver’s eyes find Mitch, who stands nearby with his arm around a petite bespectacled woman with short, silver-white hair. “I still can’t believe it.”
Millie, a former administrator for Ren’s team, turned out to be Mitch’s pen pal, and they’re now dating. When I mentioned her name and we realized the connection over a recent Sunday family dinner, Ren nearly fell out of his chair.
“Our lives were destined to entwine,” Oliver says dreamily. “And you’re stuck with me forever, so you’re in the family pictures. Don’t be a grump about it.”
It’s a moment I’m learning to work through, to loosen the grip of fear and accept an outstretched hand like the one firmly clasping mine, its thumb sweeping soothingly over my skin. “You’re just as stuck with me, I’ll have you know,” I growl against his neck, before pressing a kiss above his shirt collar, breathing him in.
Oliver smiles as a blush warms his cheeks. “I do know. You’re just not used to being manhandled by a dozen oversized half-Swedes and their equally assertive partners and offspring, let alone being reminded you’re now one of theirs.”
“Precisely.”
Oliver’s smile deepens. He tugs me close and kisses me soft and slow, for all the world to see. “Good thing you’ve got the rest of your life to get used to it.”
“Oh sweet God,” I groan, stretching out my aching legs on the chaise in the backyard. My knees pop. My ankle cracks. Fuck, it feels good to put my feet up.
“Your ice pack, sir.” Oliver sets it on my aggravated knee. “And your heating pad.” He wedges that between my lower back and the chaise. “And my favorite spot.” He eases onto the chaise, then shimmies my way until he’s leaning his back against my chest, wrapping my arms around him.
Then and only then do I feel his body relax, a long, contented sigh leave him. I press a kiss to his temple and stare up at the stars, my heart so impossibly full. “I love the fuck out of you, Oliver Bergman.”
I feel his smile as he nuzzles his temple against my jaw. “I love the fuck out of you, too, Gavin Hayes.” Peering up at me, he slips his hand along my neck, into my hair, scratching affectionately along my scalp. “That was a good wedding.”
I grunt in agreement, running my hand over his chest, kissing his temple again. “Great food, great music and dancing, didn’t run too late. The trifecta of party perfection.”
“Mhmm.” He presses a kiss to my jaw, then settles in against me. “You’re a good dancer.”
“Damn right, I am.”
He snorts a laugh. “And humble as always.”
“You are, too. And if you think I missed those rainbow argyle socks you snuck on, I didn’t.”
“Damn,” he says. “How’d you spot them?”
“Your ‘Electric Slide’ moves. A sartorial technicolor eyesore is what those were. You couldn’t for once do what you were told and wear a tux and appropriate dress socks.”
He grins. “You like my sartorial technicolor eyesores.”
I grin, too. “I do. I love them, actually. I could find you in the blink of an eye all the way across the dance floor.”
Sighing happily, Oliver glides his hand down the nape of my neck, rubbing those tight, sore muscles. “Your place or mine tonight?” he asks.
“Mine. Wilde is going to start pissing in more than my shoes if I don’t show my face soon.”