CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ONE WEEK LATER
STERLING
I’m determined not to be a stressed-out bride. Momma’s got that covered for both of us. And Rorke and I have had enough stress the last couple of weeks. But now that’s all behind us. Better things are ahead. Tonight is full of fun, with my bachelorette party/book club meeting. I’m not sure that’s ever been done before. I suppose it’s another thing I’ve invented.
Daddy’s been kicked out of the house, and Momma is making herself scarce. Ms. Mirabelle, Tally, Melanie, and the rest of the book club gang are here. We’re all in my bedroom—alcohol and chips and books and smiling faces everywhere. I take a moment to look past all that, and take in the room where I grew up, wondering if my parents will always keep it as a shrine to me, or perhaps if one day, it will be a guest room for my son or daughter.
I can’t believe I’m even having that thought. Rorke’s made me a believer.
It’s been a while since my bedroom was filled with giggling girlfriends. Ms. Mirabelle has known me forever, and I get the feeling that pretty soon, it will feel like I’ve known all these women forever. These women will be my tribe. Maybe they always have been. Perhaps I was just too busy, too worried, too scared of ridicule and judgments to risk looking before. But I’m not anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if these are the women that give me a baby shower, whose kids’ weddings I attend, who end up in the retirement home with me, shooting back whiskey at breakfast! I’m going to have to up my drinking game if I’m to keep up with them.
Walking over to my dresser, I pick up the Magic 8-Ball and remember Rorke telling me he loved me for the first time. I give it a good, hard shake. This little toy, more than any other, changed my life. The irony in that hasn’t escaped me.
“Show us the dress,” Ms. Mirabelle says.
I open my closet and pull it out, the same simple white dress I was wearing the day I returned to town. I plan on leaving my hair down, and wearing only mascara and lip-gloss. Momma wanted to hire a professional makeup artist and hair stylist, but I’m ready to face the world. No more hiding for me. Take me or leave me. And God, does that feel good.
Things aren’t perfect, though. Rorke’s Mom has decided to sell, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t bother me to see the “For Sale” sign in front of the farm. But this is what Mrs. Laurel wants. I think she just didn’t want the burden falling on Rorke, and she hated that Rorke and I had ever fought about it. She took matters into her own hands, even managing to convince the bankers to let her keep the acreage that the houses sit on. Sometimes it pays to live in a small town. I doubt the bankers in big cities would be so kind.
Rorke wasn’t happy about her decision, but he didn’t raise too much of a stink about it. And he’s still managed to come up with a brilliant plan to honor his brother. Instead of establishing a camp in Levi’s memory, he’s starting a scholarship fund for college students who’ve lost a sibling to a chronic disease. He got permission from those who already donated to use the funds this way. Levi’s illness did a number on his family. Not only did they lose Levi, but they lost their financial security. So Rorke wants to help relieve some of that burden for others. It’s beautiful—and I expect nothing less from him.
As for the honeymoon, I don’t know what to expect. I’ve been a lot of places, and I know Rorke wants to take me somewhere I’ve never been, although I don’t really care. Everywhere will seem new because he’ll be by my side. Part of me wonders if he doesn’t know himself, and we’re just going to hop in his Jeep and go. That would be fine with me, too.
Tally stands up on wobbly legs in the middle of my bedroom. “Present time!”
I give a tight smile. I much prefer to be the bearer of gifts than the recipient.
“We really didn’t know what to get you. So . . .”
They open my bedroom door and return with a wagon. Yes, a wagon, like a child’s wagon, full of wine bottles. I almost split my pants, I’m laughing so hard. If I had a drinking problem, I definitely wouldn’t have a problem staying on that wagon.
Giving each one of them a hug, I reach for my phone, saying, “I have party favors for you, too.”
I find the playlist I created just for this moment and hit shuffle. Let’s just say, you’d be surprised how many songs there are about masturbation. Self-service has become a pop song phenomenon. Everyone from Britney Spears to Macy Gray has a song about it. Pink’s “Fingers” comes on first.
I make a mental note that I should start each of my lectures with one of these songs. Yep, I decided to do it. Over the course of the next year, I’m going to be speaking at a number colleges and universities. Crazy, but true. I don’t think the ridicule and judgment over my profession are over, but being invited to the Ivy League to talk about sexuality and female empowerment does give me an extra boost. It legitimizes my business and me.
I hand each of my friends a little bag, and they scream in delight when they look inside to find a prototype of Paramour’s latest invention. Not sure if it’s against the law to gift a vibrator in this state, but if it is, I’m willing to risk it to see the looks on their faces.
“This is so perfect!” Ms. Mirabelle says with a wink. “I was wearing mine out!”
Spitting out her wine in a huge laugh, Tally is the first to notice what I named the new toy. “The Quaid?”
I deliver a wicked grin, telling them that last week, Mrs. Quaid just so happened to find in her mailbox an advance copy of a press release for the toy. I’d have given anything to see the look on her face when she read it. But I settled for watching her temper tantrum on Rorke’s front porch when she came to threaten to sue me for slander.
I simply explained to the delusional woman that this was nothing more than a huge coincidence—how I’d been struggling to come up with a name for a long time, how I had dated communications with my employees documenting our efforts to find just the right one, how on a whim one day I reached for my Bible—Urban Dictionary—and found that a hot, sexy guy with a killer smile is, of all things, referred to as “Quaid.”
It struck everyone at Paramour how perfect the name is. A toy that makes you smile. A toy that makes you think of a hot man. Of course, she didn’t believe me about the definition, so I showed her the link on my phone. At that point, she had some dumbfounded look on her face, mixed with a fair amount of horror, as well.
I proceeded to tell her that my English-major, soon-to-be husband thought the name was perfection, as well, having consulted more traditional sources to uncover the linguistic history (or whatever he called it) of the word “Quaid”—which turns out is an old, Irish name meaning “powerful ruler.” And don’t we all, at one time or another, feel like we are ruled by the power of our vibrator?
I posed that question to her, and she again gave me the same dumfounded, horrified look. She appeared to be in actual pain, like she regretted ever coming to see me. The last thing I told her was that she could go ahead and sue me if she wanted to, though my high-powered New York lawyers would countersue for attorney fees and costs and probably drive her into bankruptcy. And I would spare no expense to make sure of it. Then I turned and went inside, leaving her on the front porch to huff and lick her wounds.
As my girlfriends howl in delight, I tell them something else: “Be on the lookout over the next week or so. Every single resident of Fall Springs is getting mailed a press release for The Quaid.”
“Remind me never to piss you off,” Tally says, laughing.
“Revenge is sweet,” I say, “but passive-aggressive public shaming is even better.”
“You should take out a billboard in town!” Ms. Mirabelle says.
“Maybe Times Square, too,” I say.
*
RORKE
This is what my life looks like. She’s wearing a white dress, and her green eyes are fixed on me as she walks down the aisle.
Our little wedding isn’t so little. Fall Springs must be shut down right now because it seems the whole town is here: my students, their parents, the book club, the sheriff, and even the principal, who I expect will be really nice to me from now on. Some folks even came from out of town, like my buddy Pierce from New Orleans. And in typical kiss-ass fashion, Sterling’s assistant Miles came, too, all the way from New York. Mrs. Quaid, of course, didn’t come, which was good. She wasn’t invited, anyway.
But the only thing I see is Sterling.
She stops at my side, kissing her dad’s cheek, then taking my hand. I want to kiss her, so I do, right there before the priest (not the one from school) has a chance to say a word. For those of you non-Catholics, a Catholic wedding takes about an hour because you generally do a full Mass. And an hour was too long to wait.
We kneel before the altar, before God. I can feel my dad and Levi with me, and peer at my mother over my shoulder. She’s not sitting on the groom’s side of the church. She’s sitting with Sterling’s parents. I didn’t want her alone, and they liked the idea of us being one big family.
Turning back, my eyes glide over Sterling. She’s honored my request and left the bra at home. She can’t help but push the envelope, and I love her for it. The vow to honor your husband is definitely working in my favor so far. I know I’m supposed to be thinking about the sacrament of marriage, but I bet most guys are more focused on the honeymoon than the wedding ceremony.
And this one is going to knock her socks off, and hopefully the rest of her clothes, too. Me, her, and a Scottish castle for a whole week. Had to dip into my grandparents’ inheritance to make that happen, but it will be worth it.
Tolstoy’s War and Peace says: “Everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.” Sterling’s learned to let me love her, and taught me what that really means—love. People have been trying to figure that out since the beginning. Some say love is a dirty word. Others say love is blind. The Bible says love is patient and kind. My dad said love has to be stubborn. Love makes us drunk. Love makes us stupid. Love makes the world go round.
If love is dirty, I want to be dirty with her. If love makes me blind, I want her by my side, leading the way. If love is patient and kind, it’s because so is she. If my love is stubborn, it’s only because I won’t let her go. If love makes me drunk, I want it to be on her kiss, her taste. If love makes me stupid, what more do I need to know than her? If love makes the world go round, I only want to take that trip with Sterling. She is love. Stupid, drunk, patient, stubborn, kind, hopefully all kinds of dirty—Love.