But I didn’t. I came, wanting to wrap my fingers in her hair but instead gripping the comforter on either side of my thighs.
She finished and I fell backward on the bed, reaching for her. She evaded me. Through one eye I watched as she leaned to the side, picked up a previously hidden washcloth and pressed it to her mouth. Then she picked up a hidden bottle of mouthwash and rinsed out her mouth, using another towel. And then, she picked up a hidden bottle of water and took a swallow.
Then and only then did she come to me, laying pressed against my side, a smug smile on her lips. “So, I was perfect?”
I exhaled an incredulous laugh, enjoying the sight of her triumphant moment, enjoying her. “You planned this.”
Her grin widened. “I did.”
“You’re a sneak.”
She nodded. “I am.”
I shook my head—at her, at myself.
“I love you,” I said, and breathed, and felt, and knew, and believed. I was faithing Jennifer. I was faithing her so hard.
And she was faithing me as she responded, “I love you more.”
This was our life. This woman was my future. She would be the mother of my children.
This was our beginning.
I couldn’t wait for the middle.
And I never wanted it to end.
Epilogue—Thanksgiving
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes...”
― Byron
Jennifer
I had brown hair.
“Are you sure we’re not supposed to bring something? Not even a casserole?” my mother fretted, twisting her fingers as we drove along Moth Run Road toward the Winston homestead.
“I’m sure. They were very adamant that we just bring ourselves.”
I felt my mother’s eyes on me and she sighed sadly. “I’m not used to seeing you like this yet.”
I didn’t respond. I was tired of talking to her about my hair.
The Monday after Jethro’s wedding, my momma and I came to an agreement on my terms of employment. She’d also signed over my BMW to me as a show of good faith. Or as a bribe. One or the other, and possibly because at Sienna and Jethro’s wedding I’d been approached by a famous pastry chef based in Los Angeles.
I’d dyed my hair back to what I assumed was my natural color just before the trip to New York, after seeing Cletus off for his boar hunting trip to Texas. The color had caused hysterics from my momma. I did my best to tolerate her waterworks. Instead I concentrated on organizing the bakery in preparation for my three-day absence.
She’d been crying non-stop since kicking my father out. At first I had worried she would take him back, but then she explained that she wasn’t crying because she was missing him. She was crying because she realized how much his nasty and vile behavior and selfishness had cost her family. She’d nearly lost both her children. It was then I realized how much I did love my momma, and wanted to give her the chance to know the real me. And perhaps, I might get to know the real her, too.
Presently, I was a little nervous about my hair. Cletus hadn’t seen me yet and I hadn’t told him. I wore blonde wigs for all my social media posts and pictures, and during the meetings with the talent agent.
“Am I dressed okay?” She smoothed her hands down her pants and fiddled with her third finger on her left hand, where her wedding ring no longer belonged.
“You look great.”
She did look great. I’d insisted we go shopping while in New York and had pushed her into trying on a pair of pants. They looked fantastic. I then talked her into buying them. I also splurged and grabbed a few items, one of which I was wearing now, a dark orange sweater dress. I’d liked how Cletus looked at me in the blue knit dress and I thought this one complimented the color of my hair.
“You also look very nice,” my momma said, patting my leg.
I struggled for a moment. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so I decided to say, “Thank you, Momma.”
But it felt like a big deal. It was the first time she’d complimented me about anything for months, since I’d painted my nails burgundy, in fact.
I was anxious to see Cletus. We’d been texting as much as possible, but where he’d been—out in the middle of nowhere Texas—didn’t get good reception. Also, when I’d returned from my trip, I’d been working non-stop at the bakery fulfilling seven hundred Thanksgiving orders for banana cake.
Then he’d returned from Texas late last night.
I missed him.
But today was the day. The cakes were baked. The orders were delivered. I’d talked my momma into taking the day off and going to the Winstons’ with me for Thanksgiving.
“This will be fun,” she said, as though trying to convince herself, still twisting the vacant spot on her finger.
I parked my car and then reached for her hand, squeezing it until she met my eyes. “It will be fun. The Winstons are really nice. Just try to relax and enjoy yourself.”