IT WAS RAINING. Isn’t that the way all great love stories start? And also usually end? The cool breeze whipped through my curls as I stared off the side of that bridge.
Sam’s hand folded over mine, taking the umbrella from my grasp. “How you feeling?” he asked, brushing his hand against my swollen, but still hidden, stomach before gripping my hip.
“Like shit,” I answered through a smile as dozens of cameras flashed around us.
“I would like to use this moment to once again remind you that it wasn’t a blow job that got you in this situation. Swallowing is, and always will be, safe.”
I exaggerated a laugh for the crowd then wrapped him in a tight hug, sneaking a hand between us to secretly pinch his nipple. “I’m not sucking your dick. I almost puked just brushing my teeth this morning,” I whispered into his ear.
He leaned away and lovingly held my gaze. “That explains your breath. You want some gum?” He winked, and a genuine laugh bubbled from my throat as he pulled a pack of mango-flavored gum from his pocket.
One year after Sam had proposed, we said, “I do,” in front of three hundred guests in an over-the-top ceremony in San Francisco. News helicopters flew overhead making it virtually impossible to hear a single word Sam said, but I couldn’t have cared less. I knew those vows by heart—it was, after all, the second time I’d heard them.
The truth was Sam and I had been secretly married on our bridge not even five hours after I’d said yes. We were both in jeans, and our ceremony was officiated by an ordained minister Henry had once slept with, but all we cared about were the promises we were making each other, even if they were sealed with plain, silver bands we’d picked up at a department store ten minutes before they’d closed.
An expensive, world-renowned photographer made us an extravagant wedding album after our public ceremony, but I didn’t cherish it nearly as much as I did the one Sam had surprised me with on our real one-month anniversary. It consisted of a few selfies we’d taken to show off our new rings on the top of the bridge and funny composite images Sam had made, complete with beer and chickens strewn across the bar floor of our hillbilly wedding. Sam claimed that he wasn’t good at romance, but as I sobbed while flipping each page of that album, I begged to differ.
He was good at everything.
And, together, we were unstoppable.
The Fall Up was released the month after our lavish wedding. The project had gotten away from me more than once, and it wasn’t nearly as low stress as I’d hoped. But, each and every time I hit a snag, Sam bluntly became my voice of reason. Especially when my record label attempted to pick off a few of the tracks on the album. But, with my husband at my side and my head and heart finally aligned, I stood my ground. I threatened to hold the album and leave when my contract expired only a few months later. They were none too happy about the stand I was taking against them, but we both knew they needed me more than I needed them.
They backed down.
I held the album anyway.
Then I left them.
Then Henry and I started a record label of our own.
Then Sam’s head exploded when I told him that I’d taken on a new project.
Eventually, he got over it. I had more than proven I wasn’t the same girl he’d met on the top of that bridge. I wasn’t drowning anymore. To be honest, I was truly living, maybe for the first time ever.
Upon release of The Fall Up, I hadn’t been sure what to expect, seeing as no one had even known I’d been working on a new project. However, it shattered every single album I’d ever released, soaring to the top of the charts and selling millions the first week alone. Between the record sales and donations from other musicians wanting to help after hearing my story, we raised over one hundred and eight million dollars.
Being famous is a funny thing. For some reason, people think you’re the special one. But, in reality, I wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar without them. Yet, somehow, hundreds of people reached out to me to say that The Fall Up had changed their life.
And that changed mine.
I still visited children’s hospitals when time permitted, and it still felt incredible to bring a smile to those tiny faces, but suicide prevention quickly became my personal calling. Sam and I even filmed a series of PSAs that would be aired during the Super Bowl.
The world took to Sam much the same way I did—in utter awe.
He was a natural in front of the camera, and I swear to God he signed just as many autographs as I did when we went out in public. We were both amazed at the amount of offers he had rolling in. Calvin Klein actually offered him a hefty sum to be the new face of their rugged wear line. Sam declined every offer except for one: Popular Wood.
rePURPOSEd took off with all of the new exposure, and Sam opened storefronts in Miami, Seattle, and New York within two years. He also decided to take a step back and hire a CEO to run things.
His business was booming.
So was my career.
We were crazy in love.
It seemed like the perfect time to flip our lives upside down.
Three years after we were married, I went off birth control. Five months later, I was hanging my head in the toilet, cursing the pregnancy gods for having lied to me that morning sickness went away after the fifteenth week.
Several hours later, I found myself once again standing on the top of a bridge, wrapped in Sam’s arms, this time at the formal ceremony unveiling the brand-new Anne Rivers Suicide Prevention Barriers.
“My breath doesn’t stink,” I finally shot back at Sam before forcing him into another kiss.
“My nose disagrees,” he joked then pushed a piece of gum into his mouth.
Sam had never once picked up a cigarette again. But, judging by the fact that he’d just devoured his tenth piece of gum since we’d arrived on the bridge, his memories were testing him.
“So, have you given any more thought to Sander?” he asked, turning to face the podium, where the governor had stepped up to give his speech.
“Sanders? Maybe. Sander? No. That end ‘s’ makes all the difference.”
He groaned even though he was still skillfully smiling for the camera. “Sanders Rivers is a terrible name. Don’t set our son up for failure.”
“I’m not setting our son up for anything. We’re having a girl.”
“Fine, but we aren’t naming her Bridget.”
I gasped, slinging my head to face him. “We met on a bridge!”
“That doesn’t mean she has to suffer for it,” he replied out of the corner of his mouth. “Thank God we didn’t meet at Taco Bell.”
“Her name could be Bella.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. McDonalds.”
“Donna Rivers is a beautiful name!” I exclaimed, interrupting the governor and causing every eye on the bridge to swing in our direction.
Sam laughed and dropped the umbrella forward to shield us from the cameras. Looping his arm around my shoulders, he pulled me in for a hard kiss. “Okay. Okay. Bridget it is. But, for the record, we’re calling her Bree, not Bridge.”
“Deal,” I mumbled against his mouth as photographers worked their way behind us, furiously snapping pictures.
I should have cared that they were stealing that moment from us just to sell it to some magazine or website. But that was our life. It was hard to get worked up about that while safely cradled in Sam’s strong arms.
So, instead of ending the moment in an effort to protect our privacy, I sucked in a deep breath and got lost in the golden-brown eyes that had saved my life in nearly the exact same spot all those years before. “I love you.”
Sam smiled one of his award-winning grins then used the toe of his boot to tap my high heel. “I love you too, Designer Shoes.”
The End
Coming in 2016
The Spiral Down
Henry Alexander’s story