by Cassia Leo
“Did I wake him?” she asks, still fanning herself with the fridge door.
“I don’t think so. Are you feeling okay?”
She sighs. “I’m burning up. If it’s not hot flashes, it’s night sweats. It’s a waking nightmare.”
“Is there anything I can do? I have a small desk fan in the bedroom. I can put that in Austin’s room and point it at you. It’s not very powerful, but it should give you a little comfort.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” She looks around as if she’s just realized where she’s standing. “Oh, dear. Am I in your way?”
I smile. “Just getting some water.”
She grabs the jug of filtered water and hands it to me, then closes the fridge. I hit the night-light button on the microwave and reach for a glass in the cupboard. She watches me as I pour myself a glass of water, and I get a strong feeling there’s something she wants to say.
“Would you like some?” I ask, holding the glass out to her.
She smiles as she takes it. “Thank you.”
I pour myself some more and put away the pitcher, then I lean back against the counter and sip my water as I wait for her to speak her mind.
She sets down her glass. “How are your vows coming?”
I sigh, glancing toward the living room to make sure Houston hasn’t gotten up. “Not well. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I seem to be having some sort of wedding-vow block.”
“Maybe you’re still harboring some latent fear from losing your book? You had some beautiful ponderings on love and commitment in there. Is it possible you feel like they’re gone forever?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what it is. Every time I sit down to write them, I draw a blank. Then I find something else to distract me: Austin, my book, Houston, Hallie’s Hope, the wedding, whatever. My list of distractions is long.”
She smiles. “Well, that’s what I’m here for, to distract you from your distractions so you can focus on the wedding. You’ll find the right words. I’m sure of it.”
I nod then guzzle down the rest of my water. “Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
* * *
My head jerks to the side and I open my eyes to find Houston brushing his thumb over my cheek. I smile as I grab his hand and wrap it around me as I snuggle up to him.
“Good morning,” I murmur, planting a soft kiss on his scruffy jaw.
“You and your mom had a slumber party last night?” he asks, sounding amused.
For a moment, I panic that he overheard our conversation about me having trouble with my vows.
“She was having night sweats,” I reply. “She must have woken Austin when she got out of bed. I thought I’d turned off the baby monitor fast enough for it not to wake you. Sorry.”
“Is your mom okay?” he asks, absentmindedly brushing his thumb over my bottom lip.
“I think so. I mean, she’s as well as she can be, but something’s still off. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
Houston slides out from underneath me, propping himself up on his elbow as his other arm disappears under the covers. “You can’t put your finger on it?” He smiles as his hand slips inside my panties. “Can I put my finger on it?”
His finger slides between the throbbing folds of my flesh. I close my eyes and tilt my head back as he lightly massages my clit. He gently rolls me onto my side, his hand never losing contact as he brings his body flush against my back. His other arm slides under my head and turns my jaw toward him to kiss me, swallowing each of my moans.
It’s a technique we both adopted after Austin was born, so we wouldn’t wake him with our sex noises. Instead, we feed each other our cries of passion through an unrelenting kiss, which has only served to make sex even more interesting. Of course, there are certain positions where kissing just isn’t possible. In those cases, we’ve had to be creative, or maybe kinky would be a better word. I’m not a fan of ball gags, but there’s something about having a scarf tied around my mouth and hands that gets me hotter than I thought possible.
He removes his hand from between my thighs and guides his erection inside me, then he spreads my knees apart as he works his way in. I drape my leg over his and reach up to firmly grasp the back of his neck so our mouths don’t lose contact. The muffled sounds of my whimpers are punctuated by the smack of skin on skin. I worry briefly that Austin will wake up soon and, in turn, wake my mother, who will hear us having sex.
Just as this thought crosses my mind, Houston slams into me, hitting my cervix and calling forth a sharp moan from deep inside my throat. He chuckles, continuing to kiss me as his finger finds my clit again. Every time he slams into me, his finger presses firmly on my sensitive nub, sending a shock of pleasure through me. The pleasure builds quickly and I soon find myself digging my nails into the back of his neck to keep from screaming.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers against my mouth. He slows his thrusts as he releases himself inside me. “Holy fuck,” he says as my muscles contract around him. “Good fucking morning to you, too.”
I chuckle. “We’d better get up before Austin does.”
He thrusts into me one more time as he hugs my body tightly against his. “Your mom’s here to help. If he wakes up, she’ll take care of him.”
I laugh as he slides his hand between my legs again. “I’d stay in bed with you all day… if my mom weren’t here. But she is. We have to get up.”
He groans as he slides out of me then smacks my ass before rolling out of bed. “By the way, you are pregnant. Your cervix has that soft pregnant feeling. You should go to the doctor.”
My jaw drops as I sit up in bed. “Are you kidding me? I can’t be pregnant. I only got pregnant with Austin because I forgot to take my pill a couple of times. I haven’t forgotten to take my pill in months.”
He shrugs as he grabs some clean boxers out of a drawer. “I’m just giving you my dick’s very scientific diagnosis.”
“Pft! Your dick needs to go back to medical school.”
Once we’re all showered and dressed, Houston obliges my request to sit down and have breakfast with me, Austin, and my mom. Houston insists my mother should sit down while he helps me set the table and fix the baby’s morning porridge. I’ve been slowly introducing almond milk into Austin’s diet, mixing a little in with the breast milk. The goal is to stop pumping soon. I told myself I wouldn’t go beyond six months’ breastfeeding, but then I read some articles that suggested children who are breastfed longer have higher IQs. I’m willing to do just about anything if it’s good for my mini-Houston.
Well, almost anything.
I set down a plate of bacon, a basket of toast, and a French press of dark-roast coffee in the center of the table as Houston sets down three plates of scrambled eggs. I sit next to Austin to help him eat his porridge. My mom pours us all a mug of coffee and I thank her when she passes me the carton of cream.
“Are you going to pick up the dress today?” she asks, stirring some sugar into her coffee.
“Yeah, Kenny and I are leaving in a couple of hours. Our flight to Seattle leaves at 1:15. We should be back by seven.”
“That should be fun,” she says, raising the mug to her lips.
I flash her a tight smile. “If you consider rushing from the airport to the designer’s studio then back to the airport fun, then I guess so.”
She sets down her mug and reaches out to tickle Austin’s neck. “Well, at least Austin and Grandma will finally get some quality time together. Right, angel?”
Austin squirms a bit, his face scrunching up as if he’s about to start giggling, then he lets out a loud belch followed by a small pocket of vomit.
“Oh, no,” I say, grabbing my napkin and using it wipe his mouth.
He spits some regurgitated porridge into the napkin as I wipe, then his face screws up like he’s about to cry.
“Oh, no, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
By the time I unlock the tray on his high chair, Ho
uston is already there to undo the straps and pull him out. Austin lets out a pitiful whimper and sniffs a couple of times before Houston calms him.
“Did he throw up because I was tickling him?” my mom asks.
“No, it’s not your fault,” I insist, though I’m pretty sure it is, since Austin has never vomited this particular brand of porridge since I started giving it to him a few weeks ago.
Houston disappears into the bedroom, probably to change Austin’s shirt. I try to eat a few bites of scrambled eggs, but I find myself becoming anxious over the prospect of leaving my baby alone with my mom for so many hours. I know it’s ridiculous to feel anxious about that. She took care of me on her own while my dad was away at work. It’s not like a hot flash is going to make her forget how to hold a baby. However, forgetfulness is another symptom of menopause. I don’t know what I’d do if I came home to find she’d forgotten to lay him on his back instead of his stomach, or she forgot to feed him. I know. It’s ridiculous. I’m being a helicopter mom, but I can’t help it. He’s just so precious to me.
“Maybe I should send Kenny to Seattle by himself,” I mutter, holding the coffee mug in front of my mouth as if this will soften the blow.
She cocks a silver eyebrow at me. “You don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that I don’t even know why I have to go. Kenny would be perfectly happy to pick up the dress without me.”
She huffs at this excuse. “Really, Rory. I’m going through menopause, I don’t have brain damage. I can still spot a lie like that a mile away.”
“It’s your first day here, Mom. I should be here to ease you into this.”
“Ease me into it? Please, by all means, ease me into this new role. Lord knows I’ve never taken care of a baby before.”
“It’s not the same as it was when I was a baby. You can’t just tickle him all day or stick a bottle in his mouth to make him shut up.”
She glares at me. “Do you hear yourself?” She pauses to register her shock. “At least when I got married, I had no problem writing my vows!”
Houston walks in, looking very confused. “You haven’t written your vows?”
I stand up to take Austin from him. “I’m still working on them. They’ll be done soon.”
“She hasn’t written a single word,” my mom says, crossing her arms as she sits back in her chair.
I bounce Austin on my hip as I wait for Houston to say something. He just stares at the dining table, truly at a loss for words.
“Houston, that’s why my mom is here. I’ve only had time to take care of Austin and write the book. Now that she’s here, I have all the time in the world to write my vows. They’ll be done in no time.”
He squints at me as if he’s trying to figure me out. “I’ve had mine written for months. When I asked you about your vows last week, you said they were almost done. You lied to me?”
“I was ashamed,” I reply, laying my hand on his chest. “I just want to get them right.”
He heaves a deep sigh as he grabs my hand. “I have to go. I have to meet the inspector in a few minutes. I’ll see you later.” He kisses my cheekbone and Austin’s forehead. “See you later, buddy.” He waves at my mom. “Bye, Patricia.”
As the front door closes behind him, I turn on my heel to face my mom, flashing a scathing glare in her direction. Then I set about making another half bowl of porridge for Austin while carrying him in one arm. By the time I have him seated in his high chair with his new breakfast, my breakfast is cold. I stare at the plate of rubbery eggs and cardboard toast and sigh.
“If you’re going to be here for the next seven days, you cannot stir up trouble between Houston and me.” I look her in the eye and she purses her lips. “I will not hesitate to call Ava to replace you if you can’t stay out of my marriage.”
Her shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything to Houston about the vows.”
I nod as I grab my plate and Houston’s to take them to the sink. As I’m shoving the leftovers into the trash bin, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and breathe a sigh of relief when I see Kenny’s name.
“Hey, are you almost ready?” I ask, balancing the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I rinse the dishes.
“Rory, have you gotten RSVPs from Houston’s uncle Ned or Benji and Bella?”
I slip the plates into the dishwasher and shut the door as I try to think whether I’ve heard from either of them. “No, actually, I haven’t. Have you?”
“No, and it’s weird because they were on our probably-definitely list. I’m going to try to get in touch with them and see if maybe the invite got lost in the mail or it just slipped their mind to RSVP.”
“Sounds good to me. Do you have RSVPs from everyone else?”
“No, there are a few we had on the maybe list who haven’t RSVPed. I’ll try to get in touch with them if I find there was some kind of widespread mail issue or something.”
“Okey-doke. I’ll see you in two hours.”
“See you soon, my blushing bride.”
* * *
Kenny and I arrive at the bridal studio in downtown Seattle just after 2:30 p.m. The moment we enter the store, I get the same bubbly feeling in my stomach I got the first time I came here. The studio is a three-bedroom bungalow converted into a bridal studio, but made to look like a 1920s Parisian loft. The creamy wallpaper and vintage furnishings in various shades of sage green and soft pink make you feel as if you’ve drifted into another world, a dream world where feminine beauty and afternoon champagne cocktails rule.
Misty Green—yes, that’s her real name—spots us as she’s hanging a dress on a rack in the next room. “Rory! It’s so good to see you,” she says. “Come inside.”
We enter the parlor where she was hanging the dress, then she leads us through to the fitting room. And there it is, the only dress hanging on a silver rack next to a large silver-framed mirror that’s leaned up against the wall. The dress is covered in clear plastic, but I can still see that it’s as breathtakingly beautiful on a hanger as it was when I first saw it on the runway last year.
The designer named this dress the Secret Garden, and it couldn’t be a more perfect name for this classic vintage design. A full-length flowing silk organza skirt skims the floor while a floral lace overlay covers the bodice and climbs over the chest like ivy up to the tops of the shoulders, forming a deep V-neck pattern. Under the lacy V-neck overlay is a delicate sheer organza scooped across the neckline and over the shoulders in soft flutter-cap sleeves.
My hands are trembling a little as Kenny and I head into the dressing room to try it on. Even the rustling of the plastic makes me giddy with excitement. But when I step into the dress and Kenny tries to zip up the lower back, the zipper encounters some resistance on the last couple of inches.
“Holy jugs, Batman. You can see your cleavage through the sheer neckline,” Kenny says, looking down at my chest as he continues to try to force the zipper up. “Did your boobs get bigger?”
The neckline comes together a few inches below the nape with a single pearl button. The entire center of the back of the dress is open, with the delicate lace extending from the front bodice to encircle the lower back.
I adjust my boobs a little inside my bra, trying to separate them a bit, then I suck in my belly. “Try the zipper again.”
He yanks the zipper and this time it goes all the way up. “Honey, you may need to lose five pounds this week.”
“I can’t lose five pounds in a week!” I snap at him and his eyes widen. “Sorry, it’s just that Houston thinks I’m pregnant, but I really don’t want to be pregnant during the wedding and the honeymoon.”
“Is everything okay in there?” Misty calls to us from the other side of the dressing-room door.
“Just fine!” I shout back, then I turn to Kenny and whisper, “Undo the zipper.”
“But you haven’t even looked in the mirror.”
�
��I don’t care. It looks fine. Just take it off me. I can’t breathe.”
He quickly unzips me and I sigh with relief as I slide out of the dress. “You’re gonna need to get a good backless corset or do a liquid cleanse this week.”
My hands are still trembling as I pull on my jeans. “I have to go to the doctor first. I can’t do a corset or a cleanse if I’m pregnant.”
Once the wedding dress and the two bridesmaid dresses are packed up in boxes, the boxes are wrapped in two layers of plastic wrap and a layer of thick brown shipping paper, so we can check them as luggage on the return flight. Kenny and I take our seats on the plane and Kenny takes advantage of his first-class seat by ordering a gin and tonic before takeoff. Though I’d love an ice-cold beer, I order a plain club soda instead.
“I can’t wait to get home,” I mutter, reaching up to open the air vent a bit more.
Kenny’s phone chimes and he lifts it off the console between us to check the text message. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
The worried look on his face makes my heart race. “It’s Benji. He said he didn’t RSVP because his invitation said the wedding was on a Wednesday and he and Bella can’t make it.”
“A Wednesday?” I reply loud enough to get the attention of the passengers across the aisle. “That doesn’t make sense. It clearly says the wedding is on a Saturday. Did he read the invitation wrong?”
Kenny shakes his head and holds up his phone to show me the photo Benji sent him. It’s a picture of the invitation Benji received, and underneath my and Houston’s names are the words Wednesday, August 10, 2016. It’s supposed to read Saturday, August 13, 2016.
Kenny and I look at each other and speak one single word at the same time: “Tessa.”
There is no way in hell Houston can find out I allowed Tessa to design and produce our handmade wedding invitations. He had only two requests for our wedding. The first was that we get married in Portland. The second was that we couldn’t use Tessa for the invitations. And I agreed with him one hundred percent on both points. At least, I agreed with him before I saw her work.