My first thought was to hurl the flowers at that nappy patch of leftover hair in the middle of his balding ashy scalp. But instead I inhaled their fragrance and imagined myself for yet another moment as the headliner, the main attraction. Next time, thanks to God, and because of Graham, I would no longer be the bridesmaid, but finally the bride.

Chapter 2

3:15 P.M. EST
NOVEMBER 27TH, THANKSGIVING EVE

It was the busiest travel day of the year.

My announcements barreled through our 787 wide-body jet. “Welcome aboard Transcontinental Flight 592 with service to Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. All luggage must be properly stowed in the overhead bins or underneath the seat in front of you. Our flight time is two and a half hours.”

Needless to say, the attitudes on the plane were as high as the altitudes. Most passengers were angry for having been bumped twice due to oversold flights. Others were disgruntled because their fit-for-a-king first-class comfort cove had been downgraded to a fit-for-a-peasant second-class coach coffin. But me, I was happy. Nauseatingly happy. I was “Oh Happy Day when Jesus washed my sins away” happy. So happy I had begun to irritate already irritated passengers attempting to board.

“Good evening, welcome aboard!” I said with a “Hey, Kool-Aid!” smile.

“Why in the hell are you so happy?” growled a passenger covered in sweat hoisting two oversized pieces of luggage over his shoulders.

“I’m happy because for the first time in my life I can hear the birds singing. Three birds named love, happiness, and commitment. Like the Love Unlimited Orchestra, all joining together in one fabulously orchestrated symphony. Melodic, harmonious, and glorious.”

“Bitch, please. Don’t nobody want to hear about no got-damn birds.”

“Alrighty, then. You have a wonderful flight.” Yes, I was happy. So happy that the mean-spirited verbal assaults of angry passengers rolled off my sleeve like summer rain on a vaulted windowsill.

For on the other side of Flight 592 was Graham. Graham my husband-to-be Jackson. Graham, my chocolate knight in shining armor, who would surely meet me at passenger pickup and whisk me away through the snow atop a towering Clydesdale.

“Yah! Yah! Yah!” he’d shout like a bronze-toned Ben Hur in the Roman coliseum. “Yah! Yah!” Galloping down the Dan Ryan Expressway. “Yah! Yah!” Trudging through the snow. “Yah!” Trouncing cars and SUVs on our way to his palatial estate. “Yah!”