15. Ellie
Chapter fifteen
Ellie
“It doesn’t have to be fancy! It just has to be white!
” I know my voice is too loud as I aggressively swipe through the rack of maternity clothes at the Cypress City Goodwill.
My outburst draws the attention of several nearby customers, including one little girl who turns to her mother and says, “ Adults get to yell in stores.”
Cleo pulls me from the rack I’ve sorted through three times. “I’m thinking now would be a good time for—”
“Don’t tell me to take a deep breath. I’m gonna have to get married in a trash bag. At least those are white.” Hysteria is creeping in, and it’s starting to feel like I’m going downhill—like a snowball getting bigger and bigger as it rolls. It’s going to get too big to stop soon.
“The big ones are black,” Cleo helpfully informs me.
“Are you telling me I’d need a big trash bag?”
“Definitely not.” She rubs her hands up and down my arms. “You’re a master seamstress, and your sewing machine is fixed, so that opens up a lot of options for you. We can look at the plus-size section. We can look at smaller clothes that you could add lacy panels to. It’s going to work out.”
The hysteria snowball starts to melt as I think about Hunter fixing my sewing machine. “You promise?”
“Yeah. I do.” Cleo pulls me into a hug, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for my friend and for the fact that she takes my hormonal fluctuations in stride.
I catch the little girl from earlier watching us as tears fill my eyes.
Cleo releases me and smiles until she sees my face. “Tears? What’s going on?”
“I just love you, and Hunter’s amazing for taking care of me, and I think I also love the idea of lace panels.” It all rushes out of me in a blur of teary words. I take her hand and lead her toward the tablecloths, because you never know what you might find.
My dress, which did end up being a small dress that I expanded with lace, took the entire weekend to alter. I knew that come Monday, I’d be too busy and tired from work, so I worked like a dog all weekend. It’s gorgeous and I couldn’t be more pleased.
You know, unless I’d had time to make my dress from scratch.
I smile as I see it hanging from the top of my closet door.
I pull out a flowy top covered in subtle pale pink, mauve, and purple leaves to wear over my leggings.
If anything was made for Thanksgiving, it’s leggings.
I’m going to fill these stretchy pants with dressing and green bean casserole. And gravy. And pecan pie.
My stomach rumbles just thinking about it.
“Knock, knock!” Cleo’s voice rings in my room, and I peek my head out of the closet.
“Hey, you. What are you doing here?”
“I mean, I can leave if you want.” She smiles. “I had some time and thought it would be fun to come by. Maybe I can pamper you a bit. Do your hair or makeup. Whatever would help. We can bring in a kitchen stool, and you can relax.”
“Ah, yeah. That would be extremely nice. You’re so thoughtful.”
“That’s true, Eleanor.” Cleo flips her auburn hair off her shoulder with a faux-cocky attitude.
I roll my eyes. “I’d fuss at you for Eleanoring me if you weren’t here doing nice things for me.”
Cleo grins and leaves the room.
She grabs a stool while I dress and we meet in the bathroom.
There are two in this house so thankfully I don’t have to worry about all my stuff getting in Hunter’s way.
I like to think I’m not terribly high-maintenance, but I have a wide variety of skincare and hair products, and I like to leave them sitting out.
I could adjust and be tidier, but I don’t have to … so …
“What are you thinking for your hair today?” Cleo asks.
“Loose waves. And I have a thin woven headband I think would be nice. It’s white and pale pink.” I pull it out of a drawer. Note: It wasn’t out on the counter.
“That’ll be perfect. I love it.”
Cleo curls my hair and does my makeup, then surprises me with a shoulder rub. I start to cry at the kindness, but she reminds me of my makeup and fans my face.
“How about I do this for you sometime when you don’t have anywhere to go?” Cleo says. “Or better yet, get that hunky future husband of yours to do it.”
“He already rubs my feet. I think I’m already asking enough of my future husband.”
“He rubs your feet? Gross.”
I stand up from the stool. “Excuse me, but my feet aren’t gross. Bigger than usual, yes. Gross? No.”
“Don’t be offended. I think all feet are gross.”
“You gave me a pedicure last week,” I say, confused.
“It was more difficult than I let on. But anyway … you wanna ride with me to the Dawsons’? I noticed Hunter’s truck isn’t here. Are your parents just meeting you there?”
“Yeah, they are. I just planned to drive over myself. Hunter had some things to take care of and was going to help his mom.”
“Helping his mom … your future husband is so sweet.”
“Don’t remind me.” All of Hunter’s sweetness is starting to get confusing. My pregnancy hormones aren’t helping.
Ansel’s—now Cleo’s—family always eats Thanksgiving in the evening, so Cleo, Ansel, and her little brother, Cameron, are coming to have lunch with us. I’m thrilled I’ll have her there to help absorb some of the awkwardness that is sure to be lingering from our sudden news.
Thankfully, Mama and I had a good conversation when they got into town yesterday, and I know they’re fine. Excited, even. I’m slightly worried about Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, but I’m more concerned about my own awkwardness.
Thanksgiving at the Dawsons’ is a flurry of activity.
Hunter’s mom, my mom, DeeDee, Rosie, Raquel, and Bethany—Hunter’s cousins—and Asher are in the kitchen, putting the final touches on everything.
Asher won’t let anyone else mash the potatoes or make the gravy, so he’s got one hand mindlessly whisking the gravy while the other seasons the potatoes.
Sadie, who recently got engaged to Hunter’s cousin Beckett, is setting the table—a job I could surely help with—but apparently I’m not even allowed to carry a plate in my state.
Everyone else is in the living room watching football. I—being neither interested in football nor welcome in the kitchen—am perched at the kitchen island watching the action.
“How many more babies do you think you and Hunter will have?” DeeDee asks as she cuts the dressing. I would think his grandmother had lost her filter in old age, but I’m fairly certain she never had one.
“I don’t know,” I answer as truthfully as I can. “I’ve always wanted a big family.” A fact that Dylan knew when he married me. But then in our first year of marriage, he did a complete one-eighty, then made it seem like I was the one with the problem when I wanted to get pregnant.
“I hope some of them have your hair. All these Dawsons and their dark hair.” She shakes her head like there’s something wrong with brunettes. Raquel tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and scoffs.
“My hair isn’t dark,” Asher argues.
“Mine either,” Cameron says, walking into the kitchen—and the conversation—as a redheaded, non-Dawson. “Can I have pie? I was thinking that Thanksgiving seems like a dessert-first kind of day.”
Mrs. Dawson, who had had a major soft spot for the boy ever since his parents died and Cleo became his guardian, walked straight to the pies. “For you, it is. Which kind?”
“Pumpkin, please. With whipped cream.”
“The job of Thanksgiving supervisor is very underrated,” my dad says, sneaking up behind me and kissing me on the cheek before making his way to stand by mom and the foil-covered mac ’n’ cheese.
“I told them I was here for quality control, but I’ve yet to taste anything,” I say, loud enough to draw smiles from mom and Mrs. Dawson, who has been her normal loving self.
I shouldn’t have spared any worry for the Dawsons and their reaction to our engagement.
Mama pulls a spoon from the drawer and drags it through Asher’s mashed potatoes.
“Hey!” he complains. “I’ve not tested them yet.”
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Mama says, ignoring Asher and handing me the overfilled spoon.
“I’ll let you know what I think, Ash.”
As I pull the spoon from my mouth I’m hit with a thought. Oh no. I hop down from the stool and go put the spoon in the dishwasher. “Very tasty,” I tell Asher as I skitter from the room.
“Hunter!” I whisper from the living room door. He turns my way and I wave him to me. He hops up, and as soon as he reaches me, I grab his hand and drag him into the laundry room.
“What’s going on? Is everything okay?” he asks.
“They’re going to expect us to kiss.”
He visibly calms to his typical, unruffled self. “We’ll be fine.”
“It will be obvious we haven’t kissed before. They will absolutely know.” The look on his face shows me he clearly doesn’t get how dire this situation is. “I’m thinking we should …”
“We should?” Hunter asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.
“We should practice,” I whisper.
“Practice kissing?”
“Yes.”
“Here in the laundry room?”
The cloud-covered sun coming through the small window illuminates the room just enough for me to realize I’m standing less than a foot from what is either Asher’s or Mr. Dawson’s dirty underwear. I step as far from said underwear as I can, which leaves me directly in front of Hunter.
“Yes. Here in the laundry room.”
“Are you sure this is where you’d like our first kiss to be?” he asks, and I’m surprised at the sentiment.
“I mean, it’s not ideal, but better than looking awkward in front of our families.”
“Okay … if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
He nods and I see him swallow as he erases the space between us. “Ready?”
I nod and suddenly realize how very ready I am. I’m not sure if my feelings are trustworthy, but right now I want to run my hands up his chest and thread my fingers through his hair. I want him to hold me so close that I can’t tell who’s who.
Hunter looks like he’s having very similar thoughts, and it sends a thrill running up and down my spine.
I fist the sides of his shirt and close my eyes as he puts his hands on my neck, sliding them into my hair and tilting my head up toward him.
Something small inside me worries he’s not okay, so I chance a peek.
The look he’s giving me is so tender it makes my knees weak.
He moves one arm around my back and just as he’s leaning in we’re hit with light from the hall. Then Wyatt’s voice pollutes our atmosphere.
“Well, well, well. Look who I found.”