Epilogue 2
James
Iguess Stella is never going to give me a break.
Just once, I would kill for a driving tour instead of a walking tour, I complain to myself. I really shouldn’t though. We’ve seen so many amazing places, and collected what feels like a thousand new postcards.
We’ve had so many amazing adventures.
I admire my wife as she washes her hair through the glass shower door. The Bali sunlight glints off of her ring stunningly. We’ve only been married a few days, and already I can’t imagine my life any other way. She’s everything to me.
When she suggested getting married in Bali, like her parents did, the first thing I did was find the temple from her pictures.
It was incredibly difficult, and some of the exterior had changed, but after speaking to some locals, who referred me to a business owner, who sent me to speak with a Pemangku, a Hindu priest, who recognized the temple from the photo and showed me where it was on a map, I was able to track it down.
I’ll never admit it, but I sobbed like a baby watching her walk towards me, towards forever and our future together.
I wasn’t sure she’d even say yes when I asked, knowing how nervous she was to begin a relationship in the first place.
I shouldn’t have worried though, because she leapt into my arms squealing the moment I got down on one knee and whipped out the ring I’d picked out for her.
Every day since then has only been a reaffirmation that she is all I’ll ever require to be happy in this life.
Now all I have to do is tell my sister, which brings me back to the present moment where my laptop is ringing with a video call from her, which I promptly answer.
It’s been a few weeks since we last spoke, and something has been eating at her, I can tell. Something about her is distinctly not right.
“Hey big brother!” Nessa calls out, her usual cheeriness not quite landing. I appraise her on the screen: huge, purple bags under her eyes, sallow skin, smeared mascara, and a wobbly smile. “You said you had some news to share with me?”
“Are you okay?” I ask, not wanting to share such happy news when she’s clearly going through something, or at the bare minimum before she tells me what the hell is going on to make her look this distraught.
“I’m fine, what did you call me about?” She tries to divert the conversation, but I’m not having it.
“Nessa, what’s going on? You are clearly not okay.”
“Of course I’m okay!” she says with a brittle laugh. “I’m totally fine.” Her voice hiccups on the last word.
“Vanessa.”
“Okay, fine,” she huffs. “You caught me. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to get mad!”
“Why would I get mad?”
“Promise, and I’ll tell you.” Jesus Christ, this woman is difficult.
“Fine. I promise. Just tell me what’s happening.” I can see Nessa steel herself, taking a big breath. This is Nessa we’re talking about, nothing ever phases her. My mind is wheeling, trying to think of what could have her this freaked out.
“I don’t know how to say this…” she sniffs, her green eyes flicking around the screen, scared to look in my eyes.
“I’m pregnant.”