Page 154 of The Other Side

“Your crying stops forever, Dove,” he whispers. “Today. Tomorrow. Forever.”

My face falls as he echoes a rendition of that first goodbye.

In a hold just like this.

Just like this.

“As long as I have something to do with it, happy tears are the only ones allowed. I don’t make the rules,” he claims softly. “Because it is about time, Callie Rae.”

The pads of my fingers caress his stubbled jaw, and our mouths lap the tiny wounds of the last couple days. Our foreheads press together, bodies snuggled close when my digits thread through his short hair.

“Are you thankful for it, Brant?” I sigh.

When I was younger, I always thought the other side would be so different. So much more exciting in so many ways.

What I found out is: It’s really the same.

When I was growing up, moments with Brant were my favorite stories. Puffer coats, fingerless gloves, loblolly pine trees, Italian ices, worn cowboy boots, a beaten station wagon, Christmas Eve, and Italian rainbow cookies.

Instants of beauty that formed a colorful mural over the black canvas we were given.

And now? Out of all the stories I was able to write on this side and recount to Brant, this is my most beloved.

Right here.

In his arms.

Our forever.

It just so happens, this tale couldn’t have been told without the other side.

“My greatest accomplishment, Callie,” he whispers. “Every damn day.”

And with that, I finally answer Brant. “Me too.”

I grin when he takes my hand to spin me around. My back presses into his chest, and his arms cage my stomach.

We’re staring at the array of lights that flicker on.

…

My palms meet Brant’s forearms over my belly, a wide smile still painting my lips. The strobe bulbs flash across the thousands of people on the ground level.

Brant and I have a perfect view at the center of the first upper section. We’re protecting my tiny baby bump from the general admission crowd, but we’re first row here.

The salty breeze whisks through the beach venue, and Brad re-enters with a microphone in his hand. My nose scrunches, jaw dropping like a schoolgirl when he emerges. He looks even more handsome in person. With his short-sleeve button down and electric guitar strapped around him.

His amplified voice echoes through the enormous speakers, singing the first verse to “Beat This Summer”. My arms rise just as my hips start swaying with Brant’s.

I laugh when Brant nuzzles his lips into my cheek. I plant my hand on his cowboy hat atop my hair, and the chorus kicks in.

Our heads kick back, and we hold out the notes of the lyrics. We’re singing along with the grand crowd and Brad Paisley—an experience I couldn’t see in my wildest dreams.

My head turns to peek up at Brant, and we’re hollering the lyrics in each other’s faces. There’s chuckling amidst our singing, and my hand cups his stubbled cheek. He smirks as he tugs the end of his pink bandana I tied around my neck.

Come to think of it, most of my wardrobe is courtesy of Brant—cowboy hat, pink bandana, pink boots. But I’ll take credit for my tight dress and denim jacket.

Our lips meet, meshing together as Brad sings the next verse. We break away, Brant’s hands stationed on my little belly now. I rest my palms over the tops of them, and we knead our fingers between each other.