She continues in French, “Thank you for being here on this special day. Please excuse me for using notes. I guess forgetfulness runs in the family,tabarnak.” She grins at the ripple of laughter as she pulls index cards from a hidden pocket in her dress.
“All jokes aside. Stéphane and I have been together for six years. Not all in a row.” She glances mischievously at her husband, who looks at her like she’s the slice of raspberry torte he’s been waiting for his whole life, the sweetness he can have and eat, too.
“But hard times leave unexpected gifts. They move us in directions we might not otherwise have had the courage to explore. That’s why we took vows for all the times, good and bad. And I know everyone here will support our brand-new family.”
Béa’s so much younger than me—how can she be wiser, too? How did it take me all these years to grab hold of my own life? Why did I make myself into what I thought other people wanted, instead of whatIwanted?
Turning thirty was an event I loaded with meaning, making up all kinds of dark deadlines that, once missed, were gone forever. Butbeingthirty made me think about who I am, and who I want to be. I have my birthday to thank for everything good that’s happened to me this year—Béa and Sharon and McHuge and improv and truth.
And myself.
And hopefully my marriage. We just have to get through one more hard thing. Less than two weeks, and the annual retreat will have come and gone. Tobin and I could be on our way to bettertimes. I have to believe he’s right, and we can have it all: a winner, a loser, and a marriage all at once.
“Tout le monde—on danse!”Béa tosses her notes in the air to the opening notes of Pharrell’s “Happy.”
“I promised I’d dance!” I shout over the music. Tobin takes my hands as we stand, spinning us so my face meets his back and my arms wrap around his waist. Entwined, we head to the dance floor, Tobin clearing the way with his big body.
Béa didn’t need to worry; half the guests are crammed onto this square of hardwood. The tight crowd shoves us together until we give up trying to leave room for Jesus.
And then it’s just us.
It’s the first time since April that we’ve been together, on purpose, as ourselves. Every other time, we’ve been trying to do something or be something or create something.
Tonight, I have Tobin, his body moving with mine, the cologne he wears on fancy occasions sneaking memories into my heart with every breath: nights of loving him, wanting him, making promises to him that felt as unbreakably pure as a gold ring. Tonight I have his eyes, deepened to indigo by dim lighting and desire. His hands on my hips, thumbs curving into my waist.
A chill-wave version of “Harvest Moon” comes on, dreamy with a soft, fragmented beat. I haven’t heard the words this way before—a beckoning, from one knowing lover to another.
Because I’m still in love with you.
Tobin’s left hand slides down and back; his right rises to trace the delicate neckline of my dress. Easing the fabric away from my skin, letting it fall. Slipping down to the dip between my breasts, sliding up the other side.
Every muscle I supposedly control turns slack; every other fiber twists tight, belly pulling toward my spine. My hands twine around his neck; I let one thumbnail climb his nape, push throughhis hair until his eyes fall closed, his eyebrows a little lifted in that expression of pain and pleasure that means he wishes he didn’t have to hold back. He’s hot under my hands, as I must be under his, the dance floor creating a place perfectly private and shockingly public all at once.
He gathers me close on a long exhale and an arch of neck that travels down his spine in one long wave, opening his chest to mine so we can feel each other, body and soul. There should be better words for how I can’t get close enough to him, for this desire that makes me want to press my heart to his forever.
We’re nothing but two bodies and a pair of promises, and he’s mine, he’s mine.
The magic of the song dissolves into echoing beats, then into Earth, Wind & Fire. It’s impossible to stay fused in the bumping crowd, but the promise lingers where our palms meet.Water,Tobin mouths. He walks backward off the floor, a wicked look in his eye saying he’s thirsty for other things, too.
We’re almost free when a hand snakes out to grab mine—Sharon, twirling me away from Tobin and into the bridesmaids’ dance circle.
Everyone in the wedding party screams when they see me. It’s so unexpected and amazing, I can’t help but scream back.
It’s wild that this is how magic works. I told half a dozen strangers one of the most painful stories of my life. I didn’t solve Béa’s officiant problem in the slightest. Everyone here has gotten a question from me that was straight out of left field. Yet somehow, I’m the life of this party.
And I can’t pretend I don’t love it.
I look back at Tobin, biting my lip. Something changes on his face, a pinch at the edge of his mouth so subtle I can talk myself into believing it’s nothing.
If anyone would understand how special it is for me to be included this way, it’s Tobin. We’ve had each other for years; it’s okay if I take a few songs with my friends. He’ll wait for me.
And besides, Tobin’s at home anywhere, anytime, with anyone. He’s landed in countries where he knew no one, had no money, and didn’t speak the language, and come home a few weeks later with an allover tan and a brand-new appreciation for the importance of wearing shorts when surfing.
Soon,I mouth at him.
And we go our separate ways.
Long after I’ve forgotten I’m not supposed to work up a sweat in this dress, one of the bridesmaids leans over. “Your date. Hot,” she yells.
