Swap Out(142)

“That’s different,” she says as I stop us in the hanger and grab her rig, having her step into the harness until I can hook it onto her shoulders and buckle it. “You I trust, this is a plane and a parachute.”

“A parachute I personally packed,” I remind her.

“Whatever. And you don’t even remember our wedding! You were so doped on painkillers I think you were mentally at the circus and just waiting for them to invite you onto the trapeze.”

I chuckle as I check her straps and the position of her rip cord, because she’s not far off. The day they released me from the hospital I could barely breathe for the pain, but they handed over a whole bunch of pills and said to check in with a physical therapist in a few days. I took that as the okay for me and Zoe to drive to Vegas and get married. That way we could hole up in a hotel on the Strip for a week since neither of us were really in any condition to fly somewhere for our honeymoon. We didn’t even get our license until we got back, but backwards and messy is kinda our style.

The whole thing is a blur of wrangling my wild and rowdy group of military buddies who were all weirdly cool about flying in with practically no notice, until they realized I was putting them to work by making them set up chairs and tables and haul in kegs to the middle of the desert. Zoe was frantic Tori wouldn’t get there in time and that she would leave once she did arrive since apart from a few girlfriends and one wife, she was the only other female in a twenty mile radius. And when Scott also hadn’t arrived by the time we were supposed to start, we soon figured out why. Because he decided to tandem with Tori into the ceremony he was officiating, while dressed as Elvis. I’m surprised he lived through the event because Zoe was ready to kill him.

My favorite part? Our wedding pictures are a fucking disaster. In most of them Zoe is flipping me the bird—nearly five months pregnant but looking more like seven—and I’m laughing my ass off while appearing to be ten sheets to the wind, because I was. Cast on one arm and a boot on my leg, bandages on my forehead and right cheek and I’m fairly certain my jacket was inside out. And in nearly every single one, Scott—still dressed as Elvis, side burns and all—is in the background or corner giving a smoldering smirk at the camera while a bunch of guys are doing keg stands behind us.

Except for the one single shot that wasn’t terrible and somehow snuck its way in, probably because Tori took it while Scott was off calling his doctor girlfriend. I was barely conscious, my forehead leaning against Zoe’s temple with a sleepy smile on my face as my left hand cupped her cheek, and she was beaming as she looked down, her left hand crossing over to tuck her hair behind her ear. The whole thing was a fluke, just a moment Tori happened to catch, but with the moonlight glinting off our rings and the Vegas skyline behind us… Hands down, best picture in the history of cameras.

But since all in all the entire thing was pretty much a wreck, I promised Zoe we’d do another wedding. One where I’m not on pain killers I can’t even pronounce and with a real photographer and a cake and a band if she wants and an officiant who isn’t dressed like Elvis, the whole deal. But every time I bring it up, she shrugs it off. Secretly, I kinda think she agrees our totally unplanned, screwed up and utter calamity of a wedding, was entirely perfect.

I do one more check of her container, looking over her main and the seal on her reserve and make sure she can reach her rip cord without difficulty, and she has to say my name three times before I finally concede.

“You’re freaking me out,” she growls, and I smile confidently.

“It’s what I do best.”

I go ahead and get my rig on, and after I strap on her helmet and mine it’s a short walk to the plane.

“Luca,” Zoe breathes when we’re a few feet away, and I stop and turn her towards me.

I kiss the ever living hell out of her, and when I pull back she blinks at me.

“Trust me?”

“Yes,” she says immediately.

“Love me?”

“Some days.”

“How’s today looking?”

“Don’t kill me and I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she says and I grab her hand, walking her over to the plane and sharing a high-five with the pilot before he helps Zoe in. I know this guy well because he works with Scott and always flies us, and he was all gung-ho when I told him I was taking Zoe up.

I honestly don’t know what the hell I was thinking, why I was so insistent she jump at least once with me. But I really, really wanted to share this with her, so we did all the classes and she’s fully ready to go. Except all I can think is I’m about to throw my wife out of a plane and our daughter is on the ground, and Zoe is afraid of heights. And I’d probably feel better if Scott was going with us, but I don’t trust Evelyn with anyone else if something were to happen to both me and Zoe.