I glance across the room at Mikey and watch him stand and press a kiss to Tori’s sleeping head before giving Luca a high five.
He jokes around a lot, complains even more, but, Mikey loves Luca and Tori. He’d be an awesome dad and if I close my eyes and let myself picture it, I can see us with a kid or two. But that’s an image my mind has to work for, one that doesn’t come naturally.
Since we were kids, my sister always talked about getting married and having babies. I swear she came out of the womb with a copy of Modern Bride tucked under her arm. I was the opposite. I never liked to play house and would rather hang out with the boys in the school yard than play with dolls.
Does it mean I’d be a crappy mom? I’m not entirely sure.
I stand as Mikey escorts Anthony and Adrianna to the door. I watch as he leans against the closed door and peers back at me.
“Thank God,” he cries. “I’m fucking beat.”
He locks the door behind him and pushes off it, reaching for me. “You coming to bed?”
“I’ll be right up,” I say, pressing my lips to his. “I need a fucking cigarette after all that.”
“Okay,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Don’t be too long.”
“I won’t.” I smile, lifting my hands to his cheeks. Mikey was my dream come true. Not too many people can say that they nabbed the guy they’ve always wanted—but me? I totally can. I often ask myself why me, why did I get the happily ever after? And sometimes I’m afraid to question it at all. Sometimes I just sit back and wait for the other shoe to drop because nothing is ever easy in life.
I watch Mikey climb the stairs before grabbing my cigarettes off the table and heading out to the back porch.
I knew it would happen eventually, I knew the other shoe would drop. I just assumed it would be something we could control, something we could work through. Something less threatening, less agonizing. I never expected the thing to rip apart my happiness to be an illness neither of us could control.
Taking a long pull of my cigarette, I try to ease my nerves and shake my head, hoping the thoughts will disappear. I’m overreacting which is so out of character for me. I’m not the girl that worries, or drives herself mad with maybes. I’m the girl that rolls with the punches and when life gives me lemons I make spiked lemonade—a shot or two of vodka and that shit is delicious.
So why am I sitting out here crying?
I angrily wipe my tears only for them to be replaced with fresh ones. Staring at the cigarette in my hand, watching as it burns, I realize I don’t even want it. I was hoping it would relieve my anxiety but all it does is remind me how bad smoking is for me. I flick it over the porch and jump when I hear the sliding door close behind me.
I turn my back to Mike and try to blow into my eyes to stop the tears.
“I’ll be right in,” I say quickly, willing my watering eyes not to betray me as he steps closer. His fingers knead my shoulders as he leans close.
“Princess,” he whispers.
I close my eyes as he slowly spins me around in his arms.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
I can’t.
I want to disappear.
“Nikki, look at me,” he insists.
Clouded by unshed tears, I blink my brown eyes and peer into his that are full of concern and confusion.
“Shit,” he growls, wiping my cheeks with his thumbs. “Why are you crying?” I imagine Mike feels panicked watching me unravel. I can count on one hand how many times he’s seen me cry and three of them were over the last few weeks. He gets frazzled when I’m emotional, like I’m a freak of nature he doesn’t know how to handle.
I don’t blame him.
I hate emotional Nikki too.
“Is this about your dad again?”
Right. My dad. The reason everyone thinks I’m distraught. I suppose my dad being in prison is partially the reason I’m sad, but it’s not everything—it’s not the main reason I’ve been bursting into tears at the drop of a hat.
After Mikey proposed I was upset, and I cried whenever I thought about our wedding and how my dad wouldn’t be there. It’s not so much him not walking me down the aisle but knowing I won’t dance with him. I’m not even talking about the sappy dance a bride and her dad usually share, I’m talking about real dancing, where you break a sweat and have everyone on their feet watching you. Dancing was kind of our thing, we’d tear up the floor at every family function and on the most important day of my life, he won’t be there. Not to give me to Mikey or to dance with me.
It sucks.
It hurts.
“It’s not my father,” I snap, pushing him away and taking a step back to put even more space between us. “Not everything is about our wedding and my father spending the rest of his miserable life behind bars.”