LoveLines

by S. Walden

  And I was happy for her.

  I saw little of Reece all day. He understood my absence and took up my father’s invitation to go fishing that morning. I thought Mom would kill them both—“They ought to be helping in some way!”—but honestly, what should men be doing on a wedding day? All the finer details were left to the women because, let’s face it, women were better at them.

  Nicki bossed me relentlessly. She really only eased up during the actual ceremony. She and Brad wrote their own vows. Something about dolphins and sunsets. And forevers. I stood beside her listening, holding her bouquet, wondering how a girl who was so trendy and fashionable could say words that belonged on a cheesy airbrushed T-shirt from Myrtle Beach. I did tear up when Brad cried, though. I’m a sucker for man tears.

  At the reception, I made sure Nicki had a plate filled with all the food my father paid for before slipping away. I’d check up on her later. She was busy receiving compliments and wouldn’t need me for a while anyway. I searched for Reece. He wasn’t at his table (yeah, we were assigned to different tables). He wasn’t on the dance floor. He wasn’t at the bar. I found my father instead.

  “Hey, Puddin’ Pop,” Dad said, putting his arm around my shoulders. He pressed a beer-spiked kiss to my cheek.

  “Dad, you know Mom’ll get mad,” I said, kissing him back.

  “Your mother has agreed to leave me the hell alone for the day,” Dad replied. He took another swig of beer.

  “It was nice of her to refrain from yelling at you and Reece about the fishing,” I noted. “She just bitched to me about it.”

  He grunted.

  “How was it?” I asked.

  Dad thought for a moment. And then the smile crept stealthily across his lips.

  “Just fine,” he said.

  “Just fine?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Dad, I’m a girl. I need details.”

  He chuckled. “I like your boyfriend, Bailey. Better than any of the others.”

  “Me too,” I agreed.

  “He’s a good man,” Dad went on.

  “I know.”

  “I trust him.”

  I crinkled my brow. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

  “Why? It’s weird that I trust him with my daughter?”

  I paused. “Okay, maybe it’s not so weird.”

  I ordered a cranberry vodka.

  “So, how are you holding up?” Dad asked, pushing his empty beer bottle toward the bartender.

  “Eh.”

  “Just ‘eh?’”

  “I can’t find Reece.”

  “He’ll be around.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Anyone working for Nicki would be exhausted right about now.”

  “I stayed up all night fixing the place cards.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Dad said.

  I grinned. He didn’t take any notice of them. Men don’t do that.

  “So how are you really doing, Puddin’ Pop?” Dad asked gently.

  I stared into the crimson red of my drink and shrugged. Dad plucked it from my hand and led me to the dance floor at the exact moment the soft, strings-laden sound of a Tony Bennett song started.

  My father may be a smelly, gruff fisherman by day, but he’s a dancing superstar by night. Well, nights that include weddings, that is. He pulled me close and moved to a throwback- style of cigars, fedoras, and old, hand-written love letters.

  “Daddy?” I whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  “Shouldn’t you be dancing with Mom to this?”

  “The Very Thought of You”—I’d heard this song a trillion times floating out of the back bedroom Dad used as his little workshop. He’d work on his model boat to Tony’s voice—no one else’s—and spend hours trapped in the past where love hadn’t yet turned to color but was still black and white. Where love hadn’t turned to TV but was still radio. Where love hadn’t turned loud and transparent but was still private, sacred, and quiet.

  I couldn’t help but think how much we’d messed it all up.

  “I wanted to dance with you,” Dad replied.

  I was crying. I really didn’t want to. I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself that this wasn’t my wedding, that it wasn’t me who Daddy walked down the aisle today. I wanted to share that intimacy with my father—him giving me away to another man. I was jealous that Nicki experienced it first.

  “Stop,” Dad said softly.

  “I’m thirty-one, Dad,” I cried.

  “And? You’re young. You have a great man. And you’ll have all this, too. Be patient.”

  I snorted. “Haven’t I been?”

  “Yes. So why change now?” he asked. “You’ve nothing to feel sad about today.”

  I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but that wouldn’t be right. I didn’t have anything to feel sad about today. I had a wonderful man who loved me to pieces. I had a full life with friends who celebrated my successes and loved me unconditionally. I had parents who would do anything for me—yes, even Mom, as cold as she was. I was blessed.

  I felt a light tapping on my shoulder and turned to see Reece smiling down at me.

  “You mind if I steal your daughter away, Sam?” Reece asked.

  “I do mind,” Dad replied. “But I’ll let you do it anyway.” He kissed my forehead and turned me to my date, then strolled back to the bar.

  “Hi there, gorgeous,” Reece said, taking me in his arms.

  “I missed you today,” I replied.

  We swayed to another Bennett song, and I realized Dad must have struck a deal with Nicki over the reception music.

  “Me too,” Reece said.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. It came out a little accusatory.

  “Where have you been?” Reece replied.

  I smiled up at him.

  “Running around like a crazy woman,” I said.

  “Would you happen to be finished for the evening?”

  I nodded. I watched him gaze at me—that tender look men very rarely get, but dear God, when they get it . . . well, it makes you feel like you’re the most important person on the planet. The prettiest. The smartest. The cleverest. The funniest. That look. It was love-making. Not sex. It was paying homage to my body, not using it. It was a deep kiss with no expectations, not foreplay.

  “Bailey Bailey Bailey,” he murmured.

  “Yes?”

  “How did you get your hair to look like that?” he asked.

  “I didn’t,” I replied. “Nicki’s hairstylist did.”

  My mass of brown hair was pulled up, strands woven in and out of one another all around my head like a crown, decorated here and there with Nicki’s wedding flowers. All of the bridal party members were required to wear their hair up because Nicki wore hers down. I didn’t complain. Her hairdresser made me look like a character out of a fairytale.

  “You’re a princess,” Reece said.

  I giggled.

  “What? Cheesy?”

  “A little. But I love it.”

  He squeezed me, and leaned in. “Wanna get out of here?”

  “Gosh, I wish. But if I’m not there to take charge of the bubble-blowing at the end of the night, Nicki will never talk to me again,” I said.

  “No rice?” Reece asked.

  “Are you kidding me? You think Nicki would stand for rice being thrown at her?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t you just put the bubbles out with a note attached?”

  “No, sir.”

  He sighed. “You’re a better sister than she deserves.”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to sneak out for a quickie,” Reece said.

  I blushed. “Where?”

  He scanned the room. “I don’t know. We’ll find a place.”

  “I’ve never done it in public,” I confessed.

  “Well, that’s because you’re a rule follower, Bailey,” Reece said. “But lucky for you, I’m not.”

  He popped my bu
tt and ordered me to get moving. We disappeared from Nicki’s world into our own—into an empty storage room—where Reece transformed my wedding exhaustion into sexual exhaustion.

  ***

  I didn’t get a wedding. I got a puppy instead. It was a huge step in our relationship—sharing a dog—and I suppose it sealed the deal in a way. She was no engagement ring, but she was a hell of a lot cuter. And if Reece could commit to raising a dog with me, then surely that meant forever.

  “I’m naming her Poppy,” I said, tickling her pink belly.

  She was an eight-week-old West Highland White Terrier, and I researched all about the breed before I decided on her. It was really the Cesar dog food commercial that hooked me, but I knew better than to make such an important decision based off a thirty-second ad. I spent days reading and calling other Westie owners, asking endless questions and absorbing as much as I could to make the right decision. She would be a lot of work, but then again, I was a lot of work. Maybe she would further help in managing my OCD—help me learn to let go even more.

  I was hopeful. Reece was skeptical.

  “They bark. A lot,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “They have Napoleon complexes,” he continued.

  “I know.”

  “They hold grudges and aren’t that affectionate,” he went on.

  “I know.”

  “They have to be groomed.”

  “Yep.”

  “They’re known for having major skin problems,” Reece said.

  “Okay.”

  “They dig.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Reece placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him.

  “Listen to me, Bailey,” he said carefully. “They dig. They’re earth dogs. They go after vermin. She will tear your back yard to shreds if she sees a chipmunk.”

  I cracked a smile. “You backing out of this?”

  “What? No! I’m just trying to make you understand the kind of commitment that goes with owning this type of dog,” Reece explained.

  I held Poppy in my lap on the drive home. She sighed and snuggled and slept against my arms, and I thought absurdly that I was building a family—not the conventional family like Erica’s, but it worked for me. And I was happy. For the first time, I opened my home to another person. I gave it to him. I invited him to be a part of every aspect of my life. And he gave all of himself in return. I no longer looked at it as my house, my yard, my neighbors. They were all his, too.

  It felt only natural to continuing progressing—moving forward with confidence that our relationship was secure and strong. He was faithful to me. And he trusted me. So why not take the next step? Why not share a living something together? (Plants don’t count.)

  “Bailey Bailey Bailey,” Reece muttered as we pulled into our driveway.

  “You love her,” I replied, holding Poppy up to his face. He kissed her coal nose.

  “Yeah, I do,” he said.

  And just like that, we were a family. Weeks passed in this hazy, love-drunk state of a couple riding together to work, walking their puppy in the evening, sitting outside in the candlelit, star-popped summer nighttime drinking chilled wine. Watching for the elusive firefly. Listening to the song of crickets over the rustling stems of flowers bending in the breeze.

  Sometimes it overwhelmed me, and I waited for the day when my OCD would splash black paint all over my perfect picture, erasing the easiness that had become my life. Suffocating the woman who decided to let go. Replacing her joy with fear.

  “I imagine it’ll be like this forever,” I lied one night as we sat under the pergola, trying to teach Poppy a new trick.

  “Down,” Reece kept saying. “Down, Poppy.”

  She stared.

  I sipped my wine and said it again. I wanted his affirmation, and then perhaps I could flick away that nagging feeling for good—just set it on the tip of my thumb and catapult it with the forward thrust of my forefinger.

  “Easy to think that way when you have a back yard that looks like this,” Reece pointed out. “Poppy, sit. Good girl. Down. Poppy, down. Down. D—”

  “Well, I know,” I said, twirling a strand of hair around my finger.

  “What happens when it turns cold?” he asked.

  “Literally or figuratively?” I replied.

  “Both, I guess,” he said. “Poppy, down. Down. Down, Poppy. Poppy—”

  “Honey, give it a rest,” I said.

  Reece sighed. “Fine.” He scooped up the puppy and placed her in his lap. She lay down.

  “Ha ha,” I laughed.

  “Maybe she didn’t wanna lay on the pavers,” Reece said.

  “Who would?” I asked, and finished my wine.

  “Bailey? I know what’s going on with you.”

  “You do?” I asked, pulling on the spaghetti strap that fell off my shoulder.

  “You’re getting worried. You’re getting worried because things are so good,” he said, scratching Poppy’s ears.

  “Life doesn’t move like this,” I said. “At least not mine. I’m used to ups and downs. Never long blocks of perfect time. I feel like if it keeps heading in this direction, I won’t be able to handle when something really bad happens.”

  “And what do you think is gonna happen?” he asked.

  “That’s precisely my point!” I replied. “Shit always happens. That’s what it does.”

  Reece covered the dog’s ears.

  “Not in front of the baby,” he chastised.

  I rolled my eyes. “Be serious, Reece. I’m scared. I mean, weeks of this? That can’t be good.”

  “All right, then. Pick a fight,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Pick a fight. Let’s head it off at the pass. Preemptive strike. Whatever you wanna call it. ‘Cause I’m not about to listen to this for the next couple of weeks. So go on. Pick a fight.”

  “That’s stupid,” I mumbled.

  “It’s stupid that you’re worried over nothing,” he said.

  “No, I’m just a planner, okay?”

  “No way! For reals?”

  “Shut up.”

  Reece chuckled. “Bailey, calm the eff down.”

  “Did you seriously just say that? She doesn’t know what a cuss word is.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “And then you follow it up with ‘nevertheless?’ I think I’m going to bed.”

  “I think you’re gonna stay out here with me and help me finish this bottle of wine,” Reece said.

  “I’m getting fat,” I argued.

  He lifted my shirt and took a peek.

  “I think you’re hot.”

  I swatted his hand away.

  “Stop being a grouch and enjoy this night with me, okay? You’re not getting fat, and there’s no immediate issues we need to deal with, and I really need you to drink a lot so that I can do dirty things to you later.”

  “I don’t even wanna know,” I muttered.

  “Sweets?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Everything’s fine. And it’ll continue to be fine. Let’s just enjoy.”

  When a person says everything’s fine, you never believe it. Ever. Because he can’t possibly know, just like you can’t know that it won’t be okay. It’s like being trapped in emotional limbo. If you’re a go-with-the-flow person, then I suppose you never experience emotional limbo. Because you’re not a worrier. But if you’re an over-the-top scheduled planner, you visit emotional limbo rather frequently.

  Reece had no idea what I was talking about because he didn’t worry. But I knew deep down that my ticket was up, and I was expected to report to limbo in a matter of days. I would try to draw it out for a week or two, but my anxiety would catch up to me. She always did. And I’d yet to outrun her.

  Camden and Christopher grinned at Reece from across the table like a couple of idiots. They were enjoying pizza at Slice of Life downtown before catching a comedy show at City Stage.

  “You couldn�
�t have picked a better one,” Christopher said. “Bailey is the bomb.”

  “Oh, I know it,” Reece replied.

  Camden nodded. “When are you doing it?”

  “Her birthday,” Reece said.

  He closed the little black box, hiding the one-carat princess cut from view. Thank God he asked Erica to accompany him to the jeweler. He would have gotten it all wrong, leaning toward a pear-shaped diamond wrapped in a yellow gold band.

  “What the fuck, Reece?” Erica snapped. “It’s hideous!”

  Kirk, the salesperson, stiffened.

  “Who the hell suggested this?” she went on.

  Reece glanced at Kirk. “Umm . . .”

  “How about I show you some others?” Kirk suggested.

  “Yes, please. That sounds like a good idea,” Erica replied. “Princess cut for sure. Platinum—”

  “Platinum?!” Reece exclaimed. “What the hell, Erica? I’m not made of money.”

  “—at least a carat,” she continued.

  Reece’s eyes bugged.

  “It’s called a payment plan, Reece,” Erica explained, placing her hand on his forearm.

  He shook his head. “I don’t do payment plans. I pay the full price up front.”

  “Well, then I hope you’ve got about twelve grand in your pocket,” Erica replied.

  “Holy shit,” Reece whispered.

  Erica softened a bit. “Look, honey, you get one chance to get this right.”

  “Only one?”

  She nodded.

  “Bailey’s not like that. She’s not diamond-dazed,” Reece said.

  “Reece, all women are diamond-dazed.”

  He grunted. “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  Kirk placed a dozen loose diamonds on a velvety cloth in front of them and began explaining each one.

  “What about her?” Erica asked, pointing to a large stone in the center of the group.

  “She’s . . . imperfect,” Kirk explained. “If you’re looking for size, and you aren’t too concerned with inclusions, she’s it.”