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Author's Chapter Notes:
OH MY GOD SHE'S BACK AGAIN. I'm sorry for my long absence. I could chalk it up partly to life events, but really, these next few chapters were hard to write. The good news is, I have enough chapters banked to get us through for a while. Thanks for your patience!

Part III

9/7/13: 3:15 p.m.

Louisville

It was another marching band moment as A.J. followed Lindie into my dining room/kitchen, wearing a crying baby on his chest and carrying a small orange Ulta bag, upsetting the delicate balance of acetone-scented nature we had managed to establish.

“Monkees!” Rochelle looked up from one end of the dining room table with a huge grin on her face. She abandoned her piles of makeup and jumped to her feet, planting a kiss on A.J. and setting to work on the baby carrier.

“Did you get the right one?” Lindie took the shopping bag from A.J. and peered inside. “Is this the right stuff, Ro? Photo Finish?”

“That’s the one. Put it over there with the others.” Rochelle was already holding Ava on one hip, smooching the top of her head and cooing at her as if she hadn’t seen her in months. “Thank you so much, sweetie,” she said to A.J.

“You’re probably the only one in the band who can actually navigate an Ulta,” I added.

I wanted to get up and hug him in thanks for helping avert a crisis that had sent Rochelle into hand-fluttering OCD panic mode, but I was tethered to the wheeled pedicure chair, with a kind-faced, platinum blonde woman busily scrubbing a layer of skin from my heels. My nails, which I had taken such care not to bite lately, were freshly French-manicured, and my hands looked like another person’s, nothing like the ink-stained wretch to whom they were connected.

“Ha, ha.” A.J. looked around the kitchen. “So this is ground zero, huh? The estrogen is a little overwhelming in here.”

The mani-pedi team had finally showed up at 1:30 with a brand-new tire and a thousand apologies. Besides the pedicure chair, which had been wedged in next to the kitchen island, a manicure tech had set up shop at the other end of the table, complete with a dropcloth to protect the weathered pine. We were all rotating through, an assembly line of beautification, at the end of which Rochelle and Lindie were sorting through the former’s huge train case of makeup. The ‘80s Sing-Along Classics station on Pandora was blasting from someone’s phone. Fruit and crackers were out on the counter, largely ignored.

“This place has never been girlier,” I said. “Don’t tell Brian.”

A.J. snorted. “He’ll be fine. This was one of the biggest fuckin’ bachelor pads on Earth before you moved in. It almost made Nick’s house look habitable. So, are you ladies all getting along and playing nice together?”

Mom looked up from her cross-stitch and smiled at A.J., that starstruck glint in her eye again. If she’d been offended by the profanity, it had passed. “Oh, we’re getting along famously. Getting to know one another quite well.”

“Oh, yeah?” A.J. stroked his beard. “Lindie, what does Connie do for a living?”

“Neuro nurse.” Lindie was back to studying eyeshadow palettes, squinting between me and her.

A.J. turned to Alicia. “Alicia, what does Lindie do for a living?”

“Personal trainer.” Alicia grinned at Lindie and added, “And makeup artist Padawan.”

“Damn skippy,” Lindie agreed. She selected an eyeshadow palette and held it up for Rochelle’s approval. The darker-haired woman squinted at me, then nodded approvingly, and Lindie started packing the others away.

“Connie, how’d Lindie and Rochelle meet?”

“Lindie used to be Rochelle’s Pilates instructor.” Mom consulted her cross-stitch pattern.

“Rochelle, how did Meg and Alicia meet?”

Rochelle’s lips squeaked on the top of Ava’s hair as the little dark-haired girl nestled into her shoulder. “They worked for the same magazine in college.”

“Meg, what’s Lindie short for?”

I prodded at a water jet with my big toe as the pedicurist dug through her supplies for toe separators. “Lindsay. Her brother had a speech impediment.”

A.J. beamed. “This is beautiful female bonding. I’m so impressed. Want to know what we’re doing back at the hotel?”

“No,” everyone, including Mom and the nail techs, said almost in unison.

“Well, fine.” A.J. sniffed in disdain. He walked over and squeezed me around the shoulders. “How you doin’, bride-to-be?”

The pedicurist jammed the separators between my toes, and I looked at the clock. A little over three hours now. I took a deep breath as anticipation made my heart speed up. The day was ticking away, and the big night was approaching fast, almost faster than I was ready for. I didn’t have to say anything. A.J. knew. His wedding seemed like yesterday.

“Don’t I know it, Miss Journalist.” He patted my hands, which were now twisted together anxiously in my lap.

“I’m allowed to be nervous, right? I’ve been waiting my entire life for today.” I watched the pedicurist paint my toenails pomegranate-red, then looked at my hands. They’d been bare for a week. My wedding set had been sent off and welded together. Brian had it now. I had worn just my engagement ring for the last time; the next time my hands felt as complete as they had these last couple months, I would be a married woman, with more hardware, more meaning.

“The Rok’s been waiting a long time for this, too.” I looked up at A.J. He shrugged. “I know, he’s been married before, but…I think he wishes you two would have just run off long ago. You’re something special. You have something special.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean, you’re pretty much of a bad-ass,” he added, more lightly.

“They’re damn lucky they didn’t elope,” Mom said without looking up. “You only get to see your daughter married so many times.”

“Um, or once.” Alicia smirked at Mom.

Now Mom rolled her eyes at Alicia. “I’ve had two husbands, and I’m about to have a step-grandson. I can’t say a darn word.”

“So, got any super-awesome wedding advice for me?” I said to A.J.

He was holding Ava now, Rochelle standing behind him, still stroking the baby’s back. “Wedding or marriage?” he parried.

I shrugged. “Both.”

“Don’t panic if you can’t remember anything about this day,” Rochelle assured me. “That’s what the photographer is for. Just relax and try to enjoy it. Let the rest of us handle the panicking for you.”

“And marriage?” A.J. studied me for a long moment, mouth screwed up in thought. His face was bare, no guyliner, beard neatly trimmed, eyes tired, more an adult than the rocker I had met two years ago. He looked almost wise as he said, “You two have been through some shit.”

I nodded wordlessly.

“Don’t ever lose sight of how much you love each other and what a couple of dorks you are.” He shifted Ava on his hip as Rochelle kissed his cheek and walked away, back to the table. “Marriage is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, even with a great wife. You two are awesome, but don’t expect it to be perfect. Just don’t stop working at it. Don’t ever stop making time for it, even if our time is super-short.”

He leaned down and pecked me on the cheek, and I caught a whiff of Ava’s powdery baby scent. She cooed contentedly as I brushed my lips against her hair.

“We’ll see you in a few, Miz Michaels.” A.J. held up Ava’s pudgy little hand in a wave, and then he was walking out, leaving me with my heart fluttering in the middle of my kitchen, with three hours until I married Brian Littrell.