I nodded again.
“I’ll always be faithful to you. Just you. The things we do here? These secret things between us? They’re special to us. They’re expressions of our love for one another. I don’t ever want you to think they’re wrong or dirty.”
I blushed.
“Because they’re not.” He paused and scratched his cheek. “I just wanna study you like a specimen under a microscope.”
I giggled.
“I know that’s freakin’ weird. But it’s the truth. I can’t get enough of your body, and I’m sorry if that scares you.”
I sat up slowly and crossed my legs.
“It doesn’t. I like it.”
He smiled.
“I like letting go. I like that you help me let go.”
“Bailey?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll always be faithful to you.”
“You already said that.”
“I know,” he replied. “But I need you to really hear it and understand it.”
“I do.”
“This right here? What just happened? I don’t want you thinking I’ve done this with lots of other girls or something. I’ve never done it with anyone but you. I’m not a crazy sex freak in general. I’m just a crazy sex freak with you.”
I smiled. “I understand.”
All that time I thought I was the one on display—open and vulnerable to my boyfriend. In reality, he was baring himself just as honestly to me, hoping I would accept the love he was so desperate to give.
And I did.
I should have known this day would come. I couldn’t very well coast along indefinitely, ignoring my rituals, relinquishing control of my schedule, laughing in the face of my anxiety. Please. Reece was good, but he wasn’t that good, and I should have prepared myself better for the big day. Not my big day. Her big day. Her wedding. The wedding. The wedding of the century.
He discovered me at the kitchen table, cardstock scorer in one hand and a shot of vodka in the other. I was a frazzled mess: hair sticking out in all directions (I stopped counting the number of times I tugged on it), eyes wild with fear, sweat-stained shirt.
“Bailey?” Reece said carefully, placing his gym bag and basketball in the corner of the living room.
“I should have paid attention. I should have checked this weeks ago.”
“What is it, honey?” Reece sat down in a chair across from me.
“I made a mistake.” I lifted my face to his, eyes swimming with panic tears. I hate panic tears. They sting worse than regular tears.
“Impossible,” he replied.
“Look at these place cards!” I screamed.
I waved one in the air, then threw it at him. He picked it up and looked at it. And then I watched his eyes move from side to side, looking for an answer to the right, and then an answer to the left. Side to side until he realized there was no answer. He didn’t know what was wrong.
“Please don’t yell at me, okay?” he began. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The crease, Reece!” I spat out impatiently.
He suppressed the urge to laugh.
“Oh, it’s funny?”
“Bailey, you rhymed. Come on.”
I huffed and watched him study the crease of the card.
“Bailey?”
“What?”
“I’m not seeing it, honey.”
“The cracks! The cracks in the crease because those dipshit bridesmaids didn’t use a scorer!”
“Huh?”
“Oh my God. Look it: You have to score cardstock, Reece. It has to be scored to fold pretty. To fold crisp.” I held up a brand new card I recently scored beside the botched one in Reece’s hand. “See?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Yours looks way better.”
My stomach flipped. “Oh my God. Oh my God! My sister is gonna freak out, okay? Freak the fuck out!” I cried.
“But she’s not the perfectionist,” Reece pointed out. “You are.”
“Exactly! And that’s why I’ve gotta redo all these. All 150 of them!” I gulped. “I’ll be up all night cutting and scoring and printing and tying and . . .” I took the shot that was still in my hand.
“I’ll help,” Reece offered. I watched him glance at the clock in the kitchen: 8:44 P.M. “We have plenty of time.”
I halfway listened as I tapped the pointed end of the scorer against the table.
“Bailey, stop.”
I kept tapping.
“Honey, think about all the progress you’ve made,” Reece said.
“She’s getting married tomorrow!” I wailed. “I should have been a better maid of honor!” I threw the scorer like a dagger across the room. It barely missed Reece’s eye as it whizzed past him. He had a right to yell at me, but he didn’t. Because he’s Reece. And he’s very nearly perfect.
“Breathe,” he said gently.
I inhaled.
“Now out.”
I exhaled.
“Keep doing that while I get your scorer,” he said, standing up. “And don’t count.”
How’d he know I was counting? God, you’ve no idea the urges crawling everywhere inside my veins. I wanted to “tic” all over the fucking house. I wanted to turn the knobs on my stove top so many times they’d fall off. I wanted to stand at my front door and twist the lock for hours. Just stand there, twisting. Like a maniac! I wanted to count my steps to every room, divide the number by two, and hope it came out evenly.
“I have the creepy crawlies,” I admitted to Reece when he returned to the table.
“Bailey, Restless Leg Syndrome isn’t a real thing,” he replied.
“My urges,” I said desperately.
“It’s okay. That’s why I’m here. We’re gonna get all this done, and we’re not gonna freak out, and you’ll have plenty of time to get your beauty rest,” he replied. “And you’re gonna be the prettiest girl on that beach tomorrow.”
I didn’t deserve him. I knew it when he handed over the scorer with all the trust in the world that I wouldn’t fling it across the room again.
“Show me how to set up the printer for the names,” Reece said. “And I’ll work on that. You cut. And score.”
We worked into the night, past the midnight point and into the early morning hours. He forced me to go to bed at 2 A.M. and promised he’d take care of the rest.
“Give up control,” he urged, pushing me into the bedroom.
“But Reece . . .”