Rose
I immediately start crying again.
“Fuck.” I reach for the tissue Macy shoved into my hand five minutes ago and carefully dab beneath my eyes, trying not to destroy the makeup she has already fixed twice. “I look like a hog in a pretty white dress.”
The room goes quiet.
Blaire gives the girls a knowing look before crossing to me and pulling me into as much of a hug as my stomach will currently permit.
“Honey, you are a beautiful, pregnant bride.”
“I’m huge.”
“You’re pregnant,” Jade says.
“Same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Jenn argues.
I sniff and look at myself in the mirror again.
The dress really is beautiful. I know that objectively.
I loved it when I chose it, and the poor alterations woman deserves some kind of professional medal for managing to keep up with a body that seems to change dimensions every twelve fucking hours.
It hugs me everywhere it should, falls softly around my stomach, and somehow manages to make room for breasts that have become a completely separate logistical problem.
But standing here in it is different.
I run both hands over my belly, and another wave of tears threatens.
“I just didn’t think I’d look like this when I married him.”
There.
The stupid thing I’ve been trying not to say because even thinking it makes me feel like an asshole.
This baby is wanted. So fucking wanted. I love every kick, every weird little roll beneath my skin, every reminder that there is an actual person growing inside me.
I could live without the heartburn, the swollen ankles and the fact that putting on shoes now requires either assistance or a level of athleticism I no longer possess, but the baby? Never.
Still, when I imagined marrying Jackson, I imagined looking a certain way. And I’m the one who refused to move the date. I was fine with it when we decided. I am still fine with it.
My hormones, however, have other ideas.
Blaire takes my face between both hands.
“Listen to me. Do you honestly think Jackson is going to see you walking toward him and think anything other than how fucking lucky he is?”
My chin wobbles.
“He’s going to see you in that dress, carrying his baby, about to become his wife, and we’re probably going to have to sedate the man before you reach the altar.”
A laugh slips out through my tears.
Blaire smiles. “There she is.”
“I still feel huge.”
“You are huge.”
My mouth falls open.
Behind her, somebody chokes on a laugh.
“Blaire!”
“What?” She gestures toward my stomach. “I’m not going to lie to you on your wedding day. There’s a whole-ass person in there. They’ve been baking for seven months. You’re supposed to be huge.”
“You could’ve phrased that with a little more compassion.”
“I’m postpartum. Compassion reserves are low.”
I laugh harder, which naturally produces more tears because my body has become an unreliable fucking faucet. Blaire catches them with her thumbs.
“You’re also gorgeous,” she says. “Both things can be true. You’re glowing, your tits look phenomenal, this dress is magnificent, and Jackson is going to lose whatever tiny amount of sense he has left when he sees you.”
“That’s your pep talk?”
“Is it working?”
I look at myself in the mirror again.
Everything I said is still true. There is absolutely no hiding the fact that I am very, very pregnant.
But I also look happy.
Really fucking happy.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Good.” Blaire kisses my cheek, then immediately jerks backward in horror. “Shit. Did I get lipstick on you?”
Macy groans from somewhere behind us.
“If either of you fuck up her makeup one more time, I’m leaving.”
I laugh and reach for another tissue. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
She’s right. I’m not.
***
“You ready?” Samson asks as we stand in front of the doors waiting for them to open. He holds out his arm, and I happily loop mine through it.
“I’m ready. But where is James?”
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Uncle BenBen had to fix my tie.”
I turn at the sound of his voice and watch him hurry toward us, straightening his suit jacket as he walks.
Samson laughs. “He’s really not letting him up on that bet, is he?”
“Nope.”
James made the mistake of losing a bet against Michael, and Michael has remained completely committed to collecting his winnings through public humiliation ever since.
Family.
“Ready, Mama?” James asks when he reaches us, placing both hands against the sides of my stomach. Then he bends toward it. “You ready too, baby sis?”
I’m about to answer when his tie catches my attention, and every thought I had disappears.
“What...” I reach for it. “Where did you get this?”
“Michael’s had it,” Samson says quietly.
It’s my dad’s tie.
My fingers move over the fabric, taking in the tiny pictures printed all over it.
We had the thing made for him years ago, one of those cheesy personalized gifts we thought was hilarious.
Dad loved it with a sincerity none of us had prepared for and wore the damn thing far more often than any reasonable person should have, usually with some dress shirt it didn’t remotely match.
He’d proudly explain to anyone stupid enough to comment that his family made it for him.
Then my fingers reach the knot.
There’s a tiny elephant pinned beneath it.
My mom’s favorite brooch.
Oh my God.
“James.”
“I thought I’d bring a little bit of Grandma and Grandpa with me today.” His voice is quieter now, some of his usual confidence disappearing while he watches my face. “Is that okay?”
“Is that okay?” I repeat, already reaching for him. “God, James.”
I pull him into my arms, and at this point my makeup is just going to have to fend for itself. Macy has fixed it three times. I cannot reasonably expect her to follow me around all day with a brush every time somebody emotionally assaults me.
I’m pregnant.
I’m getting married.
My son just walked up wearing my dead father’s tie with my dead mother’s fucking brooch pinned to it.
There was never a chance in hell this face was surviving intact.
James wraps his arms around me as much as my stomach allows, and I hold him tighter.
“I wish I could’ve met them,” he whispers.
Well, fuck me.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
There are so many things I wish my parents were here for today.
I’ve thought about what Mom would’ve said when she saw the dress, whether Dad would’ve cried when he saw me, whether he would’ve pretended he wasn’t crying while visibly crying.
I’ve wondered what it would’ve felt like to have him standing where Samson is now, waiting to walk me down the aisle.
But James saying that hits somewhere completely different.
“I love you so much,” I tell him when I finally pull back.
“I love you too.” He smiles and reaches up to wipe beneath one of my eyes with his thumb. “You look so beautiful, Ma.”
“I look like a fucking mess.”
“You do not.”
“James, I’ve cried off half my face.”
He laughs. “You still look beautiful.”
“Good answer.”
I reach for the tie again and straighten it even though it does not need straightening.
My fingers linger over Mom’s elephant before I smooth the fabric down against his shirt.
They would’ve loved him. Dad would’ve talked his ear off about engineering even though he knew absolutely nothing about it.
Mom would’ve fed him until he begged for mercy.
Both of them would’ve been disgustingly proud of how smart he is, how funny he is, how good he is, and I’m disgustingly proud enough for all three of us.
The music changes on the other side of the doors, and my stomach immediately flips.
Samson puts a hand gently against my back. “That’s us.”
I take a deep breath and make one final attempt at dabbing beneath my eyes before abandoning the entire enterprise. “Okay.”
Samson offers me his arm again, and I take it. James moves to my other side and reaches for my hand, and when our fingers close around each other, I look between the two men standing with me. One who kept my son safe when I couldn’t, and one who is my son.
Well, fuck. Here come the tears again.
James smiles. “Ma.”
“I know, I know. I’m fine.” I sniff and square my shoulders.
“Nobody say anything else meaningful until after the ceremony. I have reached maximum emotional capacity. Compliments are suspended. Memories are suspended. Nobody mention my parents, my baby, my dress, love, family, personal growth or anything else capable of producing moisture.”
Samson laughs.
“I’m serious. I have no more face left to cry off.”
James squeezes my hand. “You ready?”
I look toward the doors, knowing Jackson is on the other side.
And yeah.
Now I am.
“Let’s go get me married.”