Eden
The coffee shop has been cleared of all the tables and chairs. Fold-out chairs have been set up where the bulk of the shop used to be with a red-carpeted aisle down the middle. Mom and I sit outside in the limousine, but I’ve rolled down the window so I can see into the shop. The guests are already seated, all of The Miseryed and a few friends from the university—all of whom look around at the big beasts of men like they’ve accidentally walked into a zoo enclosure. The doors of the coffee shop are thrown open, and a snow machine secured to the wall above continuously sprays white confetti into the air. Across the other side of the street, people snap pictures on their phones.
“You shouldn’t be looking,” Mom scolds, tugging softly on my dress.
I sit back from the window, looking down at the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. After the ceremony, we’re driving to the clubhouse for the reception, and then it’s up, up and away for a two-month world tour. London, Rome, Paris . . . Sydney, Moscow . . . Beijing, Tokyo . . . All bought and paid for by the millions Maddox brought into our lives.
“Oh, I know,” I say. “I just want to get in there, you know?”
“The music will start soon,” Mom says. She reaches across and taps me on the knee. “Are you happy?” she asks.
“Happier than I ever dreamed I’d be,” I say. “Are you happy, Mom?”
“To see my only child getting married? Of course I am.”
“Not just see—”
“A woman walking a bride down the aisle . . . I don’t want to speak ill of your father . . .”
“Don’t be so old-fashioned and grumpy,” I smile.
“We were never like you and Maddox,” Mom says. “I look at you two, the way you look at each other, and I see real love. Lasting love. You look at each other the same way as real lovers do. You look at each other like characters in one of my books.”
“Don’t they often end in disaster?”
“You won’t,” Mom says, firmness in her voice. “I’d be willing to bet my life on it.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
And then the music drifts out from the doors of the coffee shop. The driver steps around the car and opens the door for me, offering me his hand. “They’re ready for you, ma’am,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
I take his hand and hope he doesn’t notice how much I’m sweating. Not that I have cold feet or anything like that. I just wish someone had told me how hot a wedding dress could be, especially in the heat of LA. But the woman at the dress shop had forgotten to mention that.
When I’m out of the car, Mom appears at my elbow. “Let’s get you married!” she chirps.
“I love you, Mom,” I say. “Did I ever say thank you for saving my life?”
“Half-saving your life,” Mom says, as she always does. “It was that big strong fiancé of yours who did most of the work.”
We enter the coffee shop, and I feel like we’ve walked into a different world. Maddox stands beside a lectern, beneath a white arch that has fake snow clinging to it. The wedding music plays softly, and the guests are standing and facing me.
Maddox smirks; I roll my eyes.
***
“I’m sure Markus won’t mind if we use his office,” Maddox whispers, sliding his hand around my waist. His wedding band hand rests against my hip. “What do you think, wife of mine? Will he mind?”
“Oh, husband, I’m sure he won’t,” I giggle. Husband! Husband! Me, with a husband! Perhaps wives always feel like this on their wedding day, but a feel of dreaminess has come over me. Everything from the buffet to the bikers to my guests from college seems dreamlike. The only thing that feels solid, real, is Maddox’s hand against me. “Shall we?”
The guests watch us skulk off together, but all of them pretend not to have seen a thing. When Maddox closes the door behind us and locks it, I walk over to the desk and jump up onto it. Maddox watches me, not stepping forward.
“You’re my wife,” he says, as though stunned. “You, Eden Owens, are my wife.”
I suppose it is a very un-feminist thing to do, taking his name, but for some strange reason, the idea of being married without having his name is loathsome to me. It’s the same way I pressed Maddox to wear a ring. Many husbands don’t, because men aren’t as accustomed to jewelry as women. But I said, “If we’re getting married, we’re doing it properly.” He relented. Not because he’s whipped or anything like that. But because he loves me.
“Where have you gone?” he says, walking to the desk and kneeling down before me. “Stay with me, Eden. Don’t go off into the clouds.”
“You should probably get used to that,” I smile. “Going off into the clouds is one of my specialties.”
“Don’t I know it?” he laughs.
He removes my shoes and drops them to the floor, revealing my white-stocking feet. Then he slides his hands slowly and firmly up my shins and to my thighs, pushing aside swathes of wedding dress. His hands inch toward my pussy, and then he stops when he’s almost at my white panties.
He looks up into my eyes. “I would die before I left you,” he says. “I just want you to know that.”
His hand slides the rest of the way, his fingers brushing aside my panties and penetrating me.
“I know,” I moan, my body filling with fierce warmth. “And I’d kill you before you left—left—left—”
But words have become too difficult. An orgasm is on its way.
THE END
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