Chapter 3
Emryn
It doesn’t fit…My dress doesn’t fit.
I don’t know why I thought my wedding dress would fit after six years. After having Avery, I put on some weight that I never could get rid of, but I had big dreams when I pulled it from the top of the closet and tried it on.
Big dreams that scattered in the dust once I tried to pull it over my hips.
My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I hate myself for it.
It’s not a big deal, and I would never want Avery to see me crying over my body—a body that gave me her. But my chest aches anyway, and my tears fall faster than I can catch them.
With a huff, I fall back onto the bed, blinking rapidly at the ceiling to try to slow the stream of tears running down my face.
There’s a knock at the bedroom door, and I scramble to sit up, knowing that my face is probably a wreck of black smudges. The dress is still bunched around my legs, restricting most of my movements, so I brace my hands behind me and try to appear casual—like I hadn’t been crying my eyes out moments ago.
Brooks is standing in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the jam and his arms crossed over his chest. Even having been married for six years and knowing him much longer than that, it’s embarrassing to have him see me like this. But when I meet his gaze, so much love shines back at me that I forget why I’m embarrassed.
“What’s going on?” he asks, still leaning against the door frame.
He knows me too well. I needed a moment to breathe in the air without him in it because once he’s close, I can hardly breathe.
Wiggling, I kick the dress off my legs until it lays on the floor. “It doesn’t fit, and I know I’m not as small as I used to be—but I feel especially fat today.”
Brooks takes a tentative step towards the bed, and I lower my brows, glaring at him. “And don’t you dare say I’m not fat. I just need a moment to wallow about not being able to fit into that dress.”
Holding his hands up, he signals that he isn’t going to fight me on this, but he doesn’t stop walking toward me. His steps are slow and even, and I watch him, my breathing becoming a little stuttered.
The man is beautiful.
If I told him that, he’d glower at me—a look that is sexier than it is intimidating—and grumble about men not being beautiful. I keep my opinion to myself, even if I love how that look sends flames through my veins when it’s turned my way.
“I wouldn’t dream of not letting you have your moment,” he says, finally standing in front of me at the foot of the bed.
There’s a smirk on his lips and hunger in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine.
Brooks’s eyes narrow in on the movement, and his smirk grows wider. He leans down in what feels like slow motion, crowding my space until I’m lying back on the bed. His fists land on either side of my head, his face hovering just above mine.
“It’s silly. I know,” I say, cutting my eyes to the side to avoid his gaze because the weight of it is too heavy.
“I don’t think you’re silly,” his words fan against my cheek, and I swallow hard. “But I do think you’re beautiful. You don’t need a wedding dress to tell you that—not when I’m here to tell you every day.”
He lifts one hand, bracing all his weight on the other, and gently turns my chin towards him. Tears still swim in my eyes, and my emotions feel like they’ve been run through a grater—all because of one silly dress. But when I meet Brooks’s gaze, I feel perfect, and cherished, and wanted, and so danged loved. He makes me forget all my imperfections because, in his eyes, they don’t exist. He can see past them to the woman he loves.
“Sometimes,” I start, “when I stare in the mirror, my body is all I can see—the way my hips are a little too wide or my stomach a little too pudgy—and I convince myself that’s all others can see when they look at me, too.”
“Can I tell you what I see?” He asks, the hand on my chin falling to my hip.
I nod, my throat too thick for words.
“I see,” he says, kissing my jawline, “A woman—not a college girl that I married six years ago, but a woman that gave me a beautiful daughter—a woman with curves that drive me crazy. I look at you, and I see forever.”
The need to pull him down and crush my lips to mine is overwhelming. Dragging my hand up his chest, I let it trail until I reach his neck. Then I pull his face down to mine and kiss him, letting him feel how the words take away some of my hurt.
And when he pulls back, we are both left breathless. His chest heaves, and I smirk, giving him the same cocky smile he usually gives me. “I see you, too, you know. And I wouldn’t want to be doing this life with anyone else.”
His nose brushes against mine, and he smiles. “Buy a new dress, darlin’. Find one that fits the woman you are now. But just know, I would love you in a potato sack.”
I smile, looking up at the man who will always define love for me.
______________________
“Mommy, I’m done,” Avery yells from the bathroom where she’s taking a bath.
At four, she’s independent to a fault, but no matter how hard she tries, she still can’t get the tangles from her hair. So, every night after her bath, she calls me in. I wrap her in a towel, sit her on the vanity, and brush her hair while she talks about her day.
I dread the day she can do it on her own. She’s getting too big, faster than my heart is ready for.
Walking into the bathroom, I grab a towel, scoop her out of the tub, and wrap it around her. She giggles when I grunt, pretending she’s too heavy.
“When did you get so big, Avery Bug?” I ask, setting her on the counter and grabbing the detangler. “I don’t like it. You’ve got to stop growing up so fast.”
She shrugs. “It was probably that broccoli you made me eat at supper. I better not eat it again so I don’t grow so fast.”
I have to choke back my laughter, covering up with a cough. The girl has an answer for everything. Brooks and I are in trouble when she becomes a teenager.
“Nice try, Bug.”
Her nose scrunches, and I tap it before picking up the hairbrush and running it through the ends of her hair.
She watches me in the mirror, her eyes tracking my movements, and while she watches me, I watch her. She’s quiet tonight. Even at dinner, she didn’t have much to say, which isn’t like her. Her little lip slips between her teeth as she chews on it, and worry knots in my stomach.
“Avery,” I say, putting the brush back on the counter. She looks at me in the mirror, finding my eyes, “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
She nods but doesn’t say anything.
“Is something bothering you, baby?”
“Is Papaw Kip sick?”
Fear and heartbreak mar her face.
My heart falls to my toes. Brooks and I have known about Kip for a couple of weeks, but we don’t have definitive answers yet. We didn’t want to tell Avery until we knew what this was, but I guess our little girl is more observant than we give her credit for.
Spinning her so she’s facing me, I gather her in my arms. “Why do you ask that?”
Her lower lip trembles, tears filling her eyes.
“Daddy and Uncle Grayson were talking at the cookout.”
Guilt settles like a weight in my stomach. That was almost a week ago. Has she been worried about this since then? How didn’t I notice that?
I’ve been busy with finals this week at school, but that’s no excuse. Avery comes first—always—and yet, I let her down here. I failed to notice her struggling.
It’s like my worst fear come true.
When I decided to go back to school—to find my place outside of being a mom and wife—I promised myself that I would not drop the ball at home, and the first time I did, I would give it up.
And now, between the vow renewal, finals, and everyday life, I’m sinking a little. I don’t want my family to sink with me, even if it means giving something up.
“Let’s get some pajamas on you, and then we will talk,” I say, picking her up and carrying her to her room.
Brooks is working late tonight. He said he wouldn’t be late for dinner, but he didn’t mention missing our bedtime routine too. Remnants of old anger pierce my heart. How many important conversations have I had with Avery on my own? Didn’t we promise to do better?
But he has been.
My conscience prickles at the thought because I know it’s true, but I hold onto my annoyance like a warm blanket, not ready to let it go yet—especially not in the face of our daughter’s fear.
I walk Avery to her room across the hall and get her dressed. Once she’s comfy, I climb into bed with her, and we snuggle under the covers.
My hand finds her hair, and as I run my fingers through it, I say, “We don’t know if Papaw Kip is sick. He’s been going to the doctors to find out.”
Tears slip down her cheek, and I catch them with my thumb. “Is he going to die like Uncle Grayson’s friend?”
My heart aches for the innocence of my little girl.
“Only God knows that, baby.” As much as the truth kills me, I decided long ago that I wouldn’t lie to her.
“Mommy.”
“Yes, Bug?”
“I thought God was supposed to answer our prayers if we prayed. But Uncle Grayson said that Aunt Georgia prayed for her friend, and he still died.”
Her words hit me in the sternum, making it hard to breathe. I am wholly unequipped for this conversation. Since Avery was born, I worried about how I would lead her to God—how I would handle her questions—but I never thought they would start so young.
My biggest fear in life is saying the wrong thing when it comes to her faith.
“We are supposed to pray, but that doesn’t mean we always get what we want, Avery. It’s like when you ask me and Daddy for something—you know you’re supposed to ask nicely—but just because you ask nicely doesn’t mean we will always say yes. And that’s because, as grown-ups, we can see things you can’t sometimes. It’s the same with God. Sometimes, he doesn’t answer our prayers because he can see things that we can’t. He has a plan for our lives, but that doesn’t always mean it’s the plan we want.”
My fingers shake as I go back and forth between wiping her tears away and stroking her hair. I don’t know if those words mean anything to her. She’s too young to have this conversation, but I don’t want her to feel like she didn’t get her questions answered.
“Then I don’t think I want to pray anymore.”
The words are a shock to my system. My hand freezes in her hair, and I’m at a loss for what to say. I know she’s looking at prayer through the lens of a four year old who wants what she wants, but it pokes at a deep-rooted fear that one day the things I teach her won’t be enough to lead her to God.
“Avery,” I say her name tenderly, wanting her to feel how much I love her. “I know you’re scared, but that’s when we need God the most.”
She doesn’t respond, letting her head fall to her pillow, and tears stream down her face. Her cheeks are still wet when she closes her eyes and falls asleep.