by R. C. Martin
He stares at me for a moment, his gaze implying that he’s never seen me before. I suppose, until now, he hasn’t.
“Love is overrated,” he says, backing away from me.
“Oh,” I whisper. I feel my shoulders sink as my residual rage disappears completely. All of a sudden, I see Jude clearer than I ever have before.
“Oh?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.
This time, I walk toward him. When I’m in reaching distance, I cup my hand around his bruised jaw and admire him compassionately. I’ve claimed to understand him, I’ve claimed to know him because I was him, but I neglected to see this. His broken heart. He doesn’t know how very much we have in common. But I can’t help him; I can’t save him. He has to choose to save himself.
“Love isn’t overrated. It’s everything. One day, you’ll find her—the woman that makes you want to remember that. Until then, you’ll have to find someone else to play with. I’m taken.” I pat his cheek and turn away from him. Just before I cross the threshold, he stops me.
“I meant it. What I said about your skill. They weren’t just pretty, shallow words.”
I inhale deeply, more relieved than I imagined I would be at his declaration. Somehow I know that’s as close to an apology as I’m ever going to get…and that’s okay. In spite of the person he chooses to be, I wholeheartedly respect the professional that he is and his opinion of my craft matters to me. So, I nod my thanks as I leave him to himself.
When Daphne calls me, letting me know that she’s leaving work early, I head directly to the front of the shop to check my schedule for the rest of the day. She’s been complaining about how challenging it’s been to get through a shift at Little Bird without throwing up. The smell of steamed milk makes her incredibly nauseous. She’s requested to man the register as much as possible, but I guess her senses are super heightened and that only helps a little.
Apparently she’s got this rule; she’ll allow herself to get sick twice before she’ll even think about going home. The third time it happens, she’s out. For the last couple of days she’s managed to push through, but today must be really bad. I keep telling her she should tell Brandon and Lori what’s going on, but she’s insistent that she doesn’t want anyone else to know. She feels bad that I haven’t told any of my friends yet and she doesn’t want the scales anymore unbalanced than they already are.
I’m anxious to tell everyone at the shop, but I guess the rule of thumb is to wait until we get to twelve weeks. We thought about telling Harvey and Grace before that, but then we remembered that they’ve been trying to make a baby for a little while now. We don’t want to rub it in their faces if they’re starting to feel discouraged. In any case, if Daphne’s at home, I want to make sure she’s okay. I’ll have to make up some sort of excuse to get out of here early.
According to the schedule, I have a consult I forgot about in fifteen minutes. After that, I’m free. I’m supposed to stick around here until around eight, but I’m betting I can get Willow to cover me. Pete is closing tonight.
When my client shows up, I try my best not to rush him. Luckily, what he’s thinking of isn’t too extravagant. He wants to get the city scape of Denver tattooed across the back of his left shoulder. We talk about color versus black ink and I suggest a sunset scene, which allows for a little bit of both. He likes the idea, so we run with it. A half an hour later, I walk him back up to the front so he can schedule his tattoo appointment with Grace.
I tell Willow that I’m needed at home and she doesn’t bat an eyelash before she agrees to cover me for the rest of the night. I make my excuses with Grace and then I’m headed to my truck before anyone can call me back inside. When I get to the house, it’s quiet. I find Daphne asleep in our bed, curled up on top of the covers. I stand in the doorway for a minute, watching her as she sleeps. I’m relieved to see her so peaceful.
Ever since I found out about the baby, it’s like I’m hyperaware of every move that she makes. Now, when we sleep, if she grows restless in the middle of the night, I know it. I wake up almost every time she turns over. I don’t mind though. They’re my responsibility now. I intend to watch over the both of them for the rest of my life.
Daphne’s always been my forever. Even before she was anything more than my friend. I’ve loved her longer and deeper than I’ve ever loved anyone who didn’t share my blood. Now that she’s the mother of my child, I literally ache at the thought of ever being apart from her. I don’t need a piece of paper, legally binding us together, to promise that I will never leave her or forsake her—but that’s exactly what I plan on giving her anyway.
As I make my way to the dresser, I realize that there isn’t any point in me searching for the perfect moment to propose. We’re bigger than that and our needs far exceed the necessity of perfection. I pull open my sock drawer and dig for the velvet box I picked up yesterday afternoon. I know it’s totally cliche to hide this here, but she’s not expecting it so I wasn’t worried that she’d find it.
I open the box and stare at the ring, thinking back to yesterday morning when I walked into the jewelry store with no clue as to what I was doing. The woman behind the counter caught me browsing through engagement rings and told me to tell her about Daphne. I knew exactly what she was doing when she asked; I do it all the time. By the time I was done, she had pulled out three different rings in three different price ranges. All of them were nice—but this one was right. It’s as simple as it is extravagant, just like my girl.
It’s a two carat, rounded solitaire diamond on a thin, plain, white gold band. She’ll complain that it’s too big, but I’ll argue that it’s not. It’s supposed to be a representation of what she means to me. I would’ve gotten something bigger if I knew she’d wear it. She deserves the best…she settled for me.
I take the ring out and close the box, stuffing it into my pocket as I gently crawl towards her across the bed. I didn’t plan a big speech. I know, because we’re us, I don’t need to. Besides, she’s the one that’s good with words, not me. As I slide the ring onto her finger, I wonder how long it’ll take her to notice. Waiting will be the fun part.
I lay with her for a few minutes before I get up and head for my drawing room, hoping to distract myself for a while. An hour later, when I hear her start to stir, I stop what I’m doing and sit silently as I listen. I hear it when she comes into the kitchen; when she opens the fridge; and when she closes it. I listen as she opens a drawer; as she reaches for a piece of silverware; and as she slides it closed. Then she gasps and her utensil drops to the floor. I wait to see if she’ll come searching for me. When a few seconds pass and I don’t hear her move, I get up and make my way to the kitchen.
She’s on the floor, her legs sprawled out in front of her, her right hand cupped around her mouth to muffle her cry, her left hand resting limply on the wood floor, and her eyes glued to her new rock. When I’m close enough for her to see my socked feet, she looks up at me and hiccups. It takes her a moment to calm down enough to say what’s on the tip of her tongue and I smile as I wait for the words to come.
“Trev, it’s like the size of my fucking head,” she barely manages.
I laugh as I lower myself down onto the floor with her. I lean up against the cupboards and coax her under my arm. “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” I insist, taking her hand in mine and holding it up for both of us to see. “Do you like it?”
“It’s fucking amazing,” she says, laughing and crying all at once. “But it’s too much. You probably spent too—”
“No,” I interrupt her, shaking my head to express the extent of my dismissal. “You don’t come with a monetary value, Daphne. There’s no such thing as too much for you. This one made me think of you and this is the one I want you to wear. Got me?”
She doesn’t respond right away, which makes me slightly concerned that she’s not ready to give up on this argument. Then she sniffs and looks up at me. The expression on her face has me worried that whatever�
��s on her mind is bigger than my ring choice.
“Is this about the baby? Because we don’t have to have a shotgun wedding, you know? We can wait, if that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask with a furrowed brow, showcasing my confusion. “Do you want to wait?”
“Wolfy, I’d marry you tomorrow if I knew that’s what you really wanted.”
“Okay,” I say, drying her cheeks with the backs of my fingers. “Tomorrow it is. I don’t have anything in the afternoon.”
“Wait—what?” she asks, pulling away from my touch with a scowl. “Are you serious?”
“Wings, baby or no baby, I want you to be my wife,” I tell her, tipping her chin up. “I don’t want to wait. If we don’t do it tomorrow, we’ll do it next week or next month; we’d be postponing the inevitable if we waited, so lets just skip that part.”
She moves her mouth in an attempt to speak, but nothing comes out. It takes her a couple tries before she finds her voice again. “Our friends—they’d kill us for not telling them.”
I press a soft kiss against her lips and touch my nose to hers as I reply, “They’ll get over it. We’ll let them throw us a party later or something.”
“Trevor…”
“What? We don’t need a wedding, right?”
“No,” she hiccups, her tears rushing back. “We don’t need a wedding.”
“So, let’s do it.”
“I—I need something to wear. You—you need a ring.”
“This is your weekend off, right? You can buy a dress in the morning, when I go into work. You can pick out a ring for me, too. I know what size I am and everything; the lady who helped me find yours thought it’d be a good idea to get my measurements. We’ll pick it up on our way to the courthouse.”
“We can just do that? We can just go get married tomorrow?”
“Baby, for you, I’ll make sure of it.”
“Okay,” she chokes out with a nod.
“Can you stop crying for a second so I can kiss my fiancée?” She giggles as she grips my neck and pulls me in for a kiss. When she opens her mouth around mine, I follow her lead, more than happy to let this moment linger on and on and—
“Oh, my god,” she mutters, pulling away from me abruptly. “My parents.”
I arch an eyebrow at her in surprise. “You’re thinking of your parents right now? Funny—my thoughts were definitely headed in a different direction.”
“No—I mean, yes—I mean, I’m sorry.” She huffs out a sigh as she brushes away the remnants of her tears. “I was actually thinking about our little worm, which made me think of my parents, which made me wonder how in the world they’ll react when they find out I’m not just pregnant…I’m married.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong but, wouldn’t that be good news?”
“My parents are very traditional and I’m their bad seed. I’m sure it’ll be a tough pill for them to swallow no matter how good it tastes. Not to mention, they’ve never met you.”
“Maybe we should change that,” I suggest, kissing her forehead. “Technically, they’ll be my parents too, right?”
She laughs and then moans as she props her head against my chest. “I apologize in advance.”
“They can’t be that bad,” I insist, burying my fingers in her hair. “They made you.”
She lifts her head and grins at me. “You are such a softy,” she teases before planting a kiss on my cheek.
“Says the woman who cries at the drop of a hat.”
“I’m pregnant, it can’t be helped,” she concedes.
“I’m serious, though—about meeting your parents. You don’t have to tell them anything alone.”
“To be honest, I was actually going to have Rome set something up for me. It’s been a really long time since we last spoke and I thought I could use a buffer.”
The thought of having a buffer is comforting. With her parents’ reputation, I could probably use all the help I can get. If Roman is coming… “All four of us can go,” I suggest. “Logan hasn’t met your parents either, right?”
She gasps, sitting up straight. “Oh, my god—that’s a brilliant idea! We’ll divide and conquer. There’s no way my mom can attack me the whole time when her golden boy is calling my best friend his girlfriend. Trevor!” She pauses so she can kiss me. Just like that, her soft lips are all I can think about. “You’re amazing. I love you.”
“I love you more,” I murmur, leaning in for another kiss. She doesn’t stop me when I ease her down onto her back, our lips locked as we descend.
“Not—possible,” she mutters before I silence her with my tongue. She sighs into my mouth and pulls me closer. We abandon our previous conversation in favor of this one.
Here, on the kitchen floor, is where we celebrate our engagement.
Friday, September eleventh, two-thousand-fifteen, I became Mrs. Daphne Elizabeth Rockwell. Just thinking about it fills me with this undeniable urge to breathe in deeply and sigh happily. So I do.
When Trevor and I agreed to elope, we didn’t consider the date on which we had decided. In fact, it wasn’t until we signed our marriage license that it really sunk in. All morning I was busy running around, shopping for Trevor’s wedding ring—I chose a black titanium band, which just happened to be the perfect size—and a dress for the occasion—I wore Tiffany blue—and he was busy secretly making arrangements for us while he was at work. After it was all said and done, we realized just how perfect the whole plan was.
I love that whenever I think of my wedding day, I’ll smile at how serendipitous it turned out to be. The terrorist attack that happened fourteen years ago, yesterday, was what sparked the war in the middle east, where Garrett Rockwell fought and died. I know how much Trevor misses him, how much he wishes Rett could have met me—his wife—and how much it sucks knowing that our baby will grow up never knowing his or her most beloved uncle. In a way, getting married on 9/11 was like our way of remembering Rett. No, we didn’t plan it, or even think about it until after the fact, but that’s what makes it so beautiful. So serendipitous.
As I roll away from my sleeping husband to reach for my phone, I’m temporarily distracted by my new rings. As if the two carat diamond on my engagement ring wasn’t enough, he also bought me a wedding band that’s encrusted in another carat of little diamonds. I swear, I could stop traffic with these things. I tried to argue against more sparkle, but he persisted. The lady at the jewelry store looked at me like I was crazy for putting up a fight and I decided maybe she was right. If my man wants to show off via his wife’s left hand, I suppose I should just let him. It could be worse.
I grab my phone and unplug it from its charger just as Trevor reaches for me, pulling me back against his chest. I grin as he kisses my shoulder, then the back of my neck, then just below my ear. “Good morning, Mrs. Rockwell,” he murmurs groggily.
“Good morning, Mr. Rockwell,” I giggle.
“What are you doing?”
“I was just going to look through our wedding-selfie album.”
“Let’s see it.”
Just as I unlock my screen, I get a text from Roman, reminding me that he’ll be by to pick us up at eleven. That’s two hours from now. I toss my phone away from me, suddenly nauseous, and flip around so that I can bury my face in Trevor’s neck. He chuckles as he holds me warmly.
When I called Roman Thursday night, telling him about Trevor’s plan for all of us to go to Denver to see our parents, he was pleasantly surprised, to say the least. His enthusiasm made me second guess myself. I don’t actually think this will go over well, but I could tell that he was a lot more hopeful than me. Before I could change my mind, Trevor snatched the phone out of my hand and told Roman he’d better arrange something soon before I lost my nerve. Two hours later, we had Saturday afternoon lunch plans for six.
“I don’t feel good,” I mumble.
“Is this about your parents or the baby?” he asks, rubbing slow circles around my lower back.
I start to relax at his gentle touch, which lets me know—“It’s not the baby. That feels really good, don’t stop.”
“Okay.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath as I try and calm down. It’s true that I haven’t seen my parents since—I don’t even remember. Last Christmas? Or was it the Christmas before? I send my dad a Father’s Day card every year and I call him on his birthday; he calls me on mine, too. However, seeing as how that’s the worst fucking day of the year, I can’t say I remember those conversations fondly.
My mother, on the other hand…
I shake the thought away, reminding myself that she hasn’t exactly made much of an effort, either. If it wasn’t for Roman, I’m sure I wouldn’t be invited to anything. Thinking about that truth makes me angry. I wonder how I’ll be able to get through this afternoon in one piece. Then Trevor kisses my forehead and I have my answer.
I know that I’ve always had Roman to call my ally. He’s been standing up for me since as long as I can remember; but at the end of the day, they’re his parents, too. He loves them, very much—as he should. I most certainly do not blame him for that. I love them, too. It’s why it hurts so much; it’s why it’s easier just to keep my distance. But Trevor—Trevor’s not just my ally. He’s my partner. He’s my husband. He’s the father of my child.
Trevor is my everything and my always and he’ll be with me the whole time.
I can’t help but worry about what my mother will think of him, though. What with his tattoos and his eyebrow piercing—I’m sure she’ll size him up and misjudge him in a second. It’s what she’s good at.