We swayed to another Bennett song, and I realized Dad must have struck a deal with Nicki over the reception music.
“Me too,” Reece said.
“Where have you been?” I asked. It came out a little accusatory.
“Where have you been?” Reece replied.
I smiled up at him.
“Running around like a crazy woman,” I said.
“Would you happen to be finished for the evening?”
I nodded. I watched him gaze at me—that tender look men very rarely get, but dear God, when they get it . . . well, it makes you feel like you’re the most important person on the planet. The prettiest. The smartest. The cleverest. The funniest. That look. It was love-making. Not sex. It was paying homage to my body, not using it. It was a deep kiss with no expectations, not foreplay.
“Bailey Bailey Bailey,” he murmured.
“Yes?”
“How did you get your hair to look like that?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” I replied. “Nicki’s hairstylist did.”
My mass of brown hair was pulled up, strands woven in and out of one another all around my head like a crown, decorated here and there with Nicki’s wedding flowers. All of the bridal party members were required to wear their hair up because Nicki wore hers down. I didn’t complain. Her hairdresser made me look like a character out of a fairytale.
“You’re a princess,” Reece said.
I giggled.
“What? Cheesy?”
“A little. But I love it.”
He squeezed me, and leaned in. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Gosh, I wish. But if I’m not there to take charge of the bubble-blowing at the end of the night, Nicki will never talk to me again,” I said.
“No rice?” Reece asked.
“Are you kidding me? You think Nicki would stand for rice being thrown at her?”
He shook his head. “Can’t you just put the bubbles out with a note attached?”
“No, sir.”
He sighed. “You’re a better sister than she deserves.”
I shrugged.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to sneak out for a quickie,” Reece said.
I blushed. “Where?”
He scanned the room. “I don’t know. We’ll find a place.”
“I’ve never done it in public,” I confessed.
“Well, that’s because you’re a rule follower, Bailey,” Reece said. “But lucky for you, I’m not.”
He popped my butt and ordered me to get moving. We disappeared from Nicki’s world into our own—into an empty storage room—where Reece transformed my wedding exhaustion into sexual exhaustion.
***
I didn’t get a wedding. I got a puppy instead. It was a huge step in our relationship—sharing a dog—and I suppose it sealed the deal in a way. She was no engagement ring, but she was a hell of a lot cuter. And if Reece could commit to raising a dog with me, then surely that meant forever.
“I’m naming her Poppy,” I said, tickling her pink belly.
She was an eight-week-old West Highland White Terrier, and I researched all about the breed before I decided on her. It was really the Cesar dog food commercial that hooked me, but I knew better than to make such an important decision based off a thirty-second ad. I spent days reading and calling other Westie owners, asking endless questions and absorbing as much as I could to make the right decision. She would be a lot of work, but then again, I was a lot of work. Maybe she would further help in managing my OCD—help me learn to let go even more.
I was hopeful. Reece was skeptical.
“They bark. A lot,” he said.
“I know.”
“They have Napoleon complexes,” he continued.
“I know.”
“They hold grudges and aren’t that affectionate,” he went on.
“I know.”
“They have to be groomed.”
“Yep.”
“They’re known for having major skin problems,” Reece said.
“Okay.”
“They dig.”
“Uh huh.”
Reece placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him.
“Listen to me, Bailey,” he said carefully. “They dig. They’re earth dogs. They go after vermin. She will tear your back yard to shreds if she sees a chipmunk.”
I cracked a smile. “You backing out of this?”
“What? No! I’m just trying to make you understand the kind of commitment that goes with owning this type of dog,” Reece explained.
I held Poppy in my lap on the drive home. She sighed and snuggled and slept against my arms, and I thought absurdly that I was building a family—not the conventional family like Erica’s, but it worked for me. And I was happy. For the first time, I opened my home to another person. I gave it to him. I invited him to be a part of every aspect of my life. And he gave all of himself in return. I no longer looked at it as my house, my yard, my neighbors. They were all his, too.
It felt only natural to continuing progressing—moving forward with confidence that our relationship was secure and strong. He was faithful to me. And he trusted me. So why not take the next step? Why not share a living something together? (Plants don’t count.)
“Bailey Bailey Bailey,” Reece muttered as we pulled into our driveway.
“You love her,” I replied, holding Poppy up to his face. He kissed her coal nose.
“Yeah, I do,” he said.
And just like that, we were a family. Weeks passed in this hazy, love-drunk state of a couple riding together to work, walking their puppy in the evening, sitting outside in the candlelit, star-popped summer nighttime drinking chilled wine. Watching for the elusive firefly. Listening to the song of crickets over the rustling stems of flowers bending in the breeze.
Sometimes it overwhelmed me, and I waited for the day when my OCD would splash black paint all over my perfect picture, erasing the easiness that had become my life. Suffocating the woman who decided to let go. Replacing her joy with fear.
“I imagine it’ll be like this forever,” I lied one night as we sat under the pergola, trying to teach Poppy a new trick.
“Down,” Reece kept saying. “Down, Poppy.”
She stared.