Eye Candy

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” Scheva complains.

“That’s Urban Dictionary, baby. Do you see the kind of amazingness I was denied? I was meant for that website. Born to be an Urban Dictionary king, and I’ve been denied my rightful place on the throne,” he complains.

The hayride comes to an end with all the other families who were unfortunate enough to be on this thing with my family giving us strange looks as they continue throwing out name ideas. As we get off the wagon and head over to check out the pumpkin-carving contest entries, I’ve finally had enough and hold up both of my hands.

“All right, that’s enough. And while we’re on this subject, can we also discuss how everyone needs to start toning down their language? This baby is due in a little over a week, and you all need to start learning how to not swear in front of it. And don’t any of you say one word about how I’ve never mentioned this before. I’m pregnant and crabby and I can do what I want, including make spur-of-the-moment decisions about my child’s future well-being,” I tell them. “No more f-bombs, no more taking the Lord’s name in vain, none of it.”

“Why would we do that? That’s dumb,” Alex grumbles.

“Because you can’t swear in front of the forking baby! This bullshirt stops now,” I argue.

“We didn’t have to do that when Holly was born, did we, sweetie?” my dad says, ruffling the hair on top of Holly’s head as she walks next to him, holding my brother’s hand.

“Where da fuck punkins go?” Holly asks, looking up at him with her sweet, innocent face.

“Okay, I see your point,” Dad concedes, smiling down at his granddaughter. “Holly, we don’t say that word. It’s a bad word.”

“Da fuck, da fuck, da fuck!” she chants excitedly, jumping up and down.

Dad bends down and scoops Holly up into his arms, walking away from us to try and explain to her again about words she can’t use.

Sam stands behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and placing them on top of my belly as he pulls me back against him. He rests his chin on top of my head as we watch everyone slowly make their way down the rows of tables covered with carved pumpkins, filling out voting cards to choose their favorite ones.

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep with your family’s tradition and pick a holiday-themed name for our baby?” he asks quietly.

“Cock Goblin Stocking is growing on you, isn’t it?” I joke.

I feel the rumble of Sam’s laughter against my back, and I rest my hands on top of his over my belly.

“Not exactly, but I don’t really want your family to disown me. They’re certifiably insane, but I kind of like them.”

Closing my eyes, I rest my head back against Sam’s chest, wondering how in the hell I got so lucky to find a man like him. It takes a strong man to deal with my family and actually love them. I’ve never felt more lucky than I do right now that I convinced him to come home with me and pretend to be my boyfriend that Christmas almost three years ago.

I have a feeling this is going to be the best Halloween ever, and I can’t wait to kick things off with Alex and Scheva’s wedding tomorrow.





Chapter 9: I’m in Mother-Forking Labor!


Sam

As we stand under the tent in Reggie and Bev’s backyard, I smile to myself when Noel squeezes the life out of my hand for the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes as we watch Alex and Scheva pledge their lives to each other. The bride and groom are standing under a wooden lattice arch completely covered in orange, red, and yellow mums. Noel and I stand off to their right, Noel unhappily wearing a giant cardboard box painted to look like an oven with a magazine photo cut-out of an actual baby cooking, visible through a window in the oven door. I’m in a chef’s hat and apron. Of course, the happy couple is dressed as a bride and groom, while the rest of us look like we fell off the back of a Halloween costume truck. But since it’s their day, I won’t complain.

The weather couldn’t be more perfect. The sun is shining brightly, the temperature is in the low seventies, and all of the trees surrounding the backyard are filled with fall-colored leaves that haven’t dropped to the ground yet, making the perfect backdrop for the Halloween-themed ceremony. Reggie and Bev sit in the front row, dressed as a priest and a nun, as they were instructed. And surprisingly, every single guest in attendance showed up wearing a costume. As I look out at the rows of chairs on either side of the aisle, I see everything from doctors and nurses to a guy in a red-and-white striped shirt and matching hat, dressed as Waldo (I’m pretty proud of myself for finding him immediately in the sea of people, I kick ass at Where’s Waldo)—and even a giant plastic Mr. Peanut.

“It’s so sweet you’re getting emotional over their vows,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth, as we stand a few feet away from the happy couple. I shoot Noel a smile when she gives my hand another death-grip squeeze.

“I’m not emotional,” she says in a low voice through clenched teeth. “How could anyone possibly be emotional with what they’re saying?”

“I promise to never tell you I have a headache when you want sex, and I vow to always love you, even when you suggest we need to spice things up with a threesome.”

Alex wipes a tear from his eye when Scheva finishes her vows. They quickly exchange rings, and the minister declares them husband and wife. Everyone seated stands up and starts to clap as Alex and Scheva lean in for a kiss, and I silently thank God they made it through their own wedding ceremony without any mishaps.

As soon as their lips touch, a shrill scream pierces the air and all eyes under the tent turn to see Aunt Bobbie racing up the center aisle. She’s wearing a white, floor-length sparkly dress covered with red, yellow, green, and blue felt circles. The dress is skintight, making her run look more like a waddle. A short, curly, bright-red wig is askew on top of her head, and her normally pristine makeup is horrifying. Her red lipstick is way outside the lines and looks like she just drew a giant red circle around her mouth, and she covered every inch of her face with cakey white makeup that is half sweated off, half smeared, leaving some of her natural skin tone peeking through the white mess.

“What in the actual fork?” Noel mutters.

“Is she dressed like a drag clown? She was supposed to be Barbra Streisand!” Scheva complains.

“Oh my God. There are people chasing her,” I mutter with a shake of my head when a large mob of angry people comes bursting into the tent, shouting and racing after Aunt Bobbie.

The assembled guests start tipping over chairs as they make a hasty exit out of the tent and away from whatever the hell is happening right now.