The index finger of my right hand traces the scrawled letters of the three words tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. It’s become a sort of an absentminded habit, especially when I’m nervous. I’m not nervous, though.
I’m pretty use to all the publicity now. The funny thing about reporters and tabloids is that when you stop giving them interesting shit to write, they stop coming around. I discovered the quickest way to get rid of them is to call after them; turning the tables works most of the time. I’ll spot one here and there, especially when I’m in Atlanta, and I make it a point to say hi first. I wave and smile wide for the camera and they’re usually left scratching their heads. No chase equals no intrigue. It’s simple.
Three months after I came back to Tybee, came back to Zander, they had a field day when they spotted me getting my tattoo. Zander stood by with a wicked little grin on his face, reminding me that Daniel McBride was going to frown upon the ink I was having etched onto my skin. Zander liked it. He may not admit it, and he may not purposefully act out anymore, but I know he got a little thrill that I was acting out in the public eye. A photographer pressed the lens of his camera to the plate glass window of the tattoo parlor, snapping shots of me in the chair. I told Zander to sit tight and let the jerk take his pictures. When the artist finished up, I jumped up from the chair and took off for the door.
“Hey—hey!” I shouted at the photographer, my brows knit but a smile tilting up my lips as his eyes bugged out of his head and he froze in place, clearly unsure of what the hell to make of my brazen approach. “Want a picture? Ask for it,” I said kindly, holding out my wrist for him to see.
“Pushed. Squeezed. Cornered. What’s it mean?” he asked, holding the camera up and peering through the viewfinder.
I stood still, letting him take a few shots of the tattoo. “It’s a reminder that sometimes the longest route is the most rewarding,” I explained, knowing that he wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. The only other person that I knew who could possibly grasp what I mean by those words, the words that my mother had used to sum me up, is the man who captured my heart. Zander has been pushed, squeezed, and cornered his fair share too. We both take the long route to wherever we’re going most of the time, but we get there on our own terms, at our own pace, and that’s half of the reward in itself—just knowing that you’re stronger than the forces that bear down, knowing that you refuse to follow the norm, to fit in, to lie down when society dictates that you should just for the sake of following the mold. The ring on my left hand is proof of that taking the long route, even though it gets ugly sometimes, can be equally as beautiful.
I married Alexander McBride two months ago in a ceremony that was my only concession to the grandiose fancy that is his family. Photos of our wedding and reception were splashed all over the social pages in the newspaper and on the internet. I didn’t mind, though. I felt beautiful, even with a tattoo blazed across my wrist reminding me of where I had come from. Probably more specifically because of the tattoo on my wrist.
“Don’t be nervous, baby.” Zander looks over at me and squeezes my hand affectionately.
“You know they’re waiting outside. The cat is going to be out of the bag once they see us walk out of here.”
Zander shrugs his lean muscle capped shoulders. “So. I’m happy. And excited. Nothing could ruin this for me. Not even those assholes.” He smiles wide, showing his pearly whites, and the tension immediately leaves. I lean toward him and prop my head on his shoulder, sighing deeply.
“Mrs. McBride, Mr. McBride,” the doctor greets us as she steps into the exam room. She shakes both our hands and smiles curtly like doctors always do. “I’ve got all your lab work back. Everything looks great except one thing.”
I draw my bottom lip into my mouth and nip at it anxiously. “Okay,” I say, trying my best to sound confident.
“Looks like you won’t be trying to conceive in the next few months,” she says, flicking through the paperwork in her hand.”
I feel color drain from my face. My hand finds Zander’s and I squeeze.
“No need,” the doctor explains with a smile, looking up from what I guess are my lab results. “You’re already pregnant.”
“Oh my God. Are you sure? I mean—wow!” I feel Zander squeeze my hand and I look over to him. He’s smiling just as big, maybe bigger, than when I met him at the altar.
“Yes. According to the blood work, you are indeed pregnant, but we can make you a believer right now,” she says, pointing to some TV screen thing on wheels with all kinds of buttons all over it. “Ultrasound,” she explains. “It’ll have to be transvaginal due to how early on you are, but we should be able to see your little one.”
Zander and I nod in unison.
“I’ll be back in just a moment.”