Time Stamps

by KL Kreig

  I roll over, throwing an arm over my eyes to block out sunbeams that are trying their best to sear them out of their sockets.

  “Seen better days,” I mutter.

  I feel sick.

  Fuck.

  I feel veeery sick.

  Bolting from bed faster than an Olympic sprinter, I make it to the bathroom in the nick of time, projectile vomiting the remains of last night’s champagne. And vodka. And three shots of Fireball.

  “Ugh.”

  I’m never drinking again.

  I flush and lean my forehead against the cold porcelain. I don’t even know if it’s clean. And I don’t care. Right now, it feels like the breath of life. I can’t move. I may never move again.

  “Overdo it a little?” Roth asks on a chuckle. He takes a seat beside me and rubs my back. That feels good too.

  I turn my head so the other cheek can get equal treatment, catching Roth’s eye. “What gives you that idea?” I answer. I’m going for sassy, but I sound awfully pathetic.

  “How much do you remember?”

  I try to think but thinking hurts too.

  “Did the officiant go skinny-dipping or did I dream that?”

  Roth busts out in laughter. “Oh, that happened.”

  “Yikes. I was hoping that was a bad dream. Please don’t tell me that I—”

  “Ah, no. But you had your dress unzipped before I scooped you up and took you to bed. Now, Carmen’s mother? That’s a different story.”

  I drag my head off the toilet. “Nooo.” Sweet Mrs. Morales?

  “She didn’t get completely naked, buuut…there was plenty o’ skin that I cannot unsee.”

  “Oh my God.” I slap a hand over my gaping mouth. “What did Carmen do?”

  “She whipped out her phone, of course. I think Isabella will be in about the same shape as you this morning.”

  The afternoon and evening come rolling back in snippets but not in order.

  The tear-jerking toast Roth gave during the reception.

  The swing dancing until my feet hurt.

  The tears as Carmen and Manny said their I dos.

  The coconut-encrusted mahi-mahi…

  “Oh God.”

  I slam up the lid up and vomit again, not even having a chance to tell Roth to leave me in private. He never flinches.

  When I’m through this time, I feel better. But I stay close to the bowl anyway. I know exactly how my hangovers work. I will be here for a while. Scooting back, I lean up against the wall and close my eyes.

  “Remember anything else?”

  I pop one open. Something in his tone niggles at my memory. Something I am supposed to know but don’t quite.

  I’m beginning to get a bad feeling. And this time it’s not fish or leftover alcohol. It’s bigger.

  “I forgot something, didn’t I?”

  “Did you?” he lobs back lightly, bumping one of his feet against mine.

  “I…” Crap. What happened? “I…” Did I get on a table and pull a Coyote Ugly? Did I…oh no. Did I sing? I sang, didn’t I?

  This just gets worse and worse.

  I have loosened up considerably in the years Roth and I have been together. I’m not as outgoing as Roth is. I never will be, but I no longer want to be a wallflower, either. He calls it growing. I call it breathing. He allows me the opportunity to inhale and exhale at my own pace. To laugh. To be. And now occasionally it gets me into trouble.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “Singing…” I suggest, but it’s a fishing expedition, not a confession. I don’t remember crap. Other than the snippets, last night is a big black blur.

  “Singing?” He smirks.

  What does that mean, exactly?

  “I know I need to stay in my lane,” I keep going, not sure I’m on the right road. I stay focused on the windshield though, not the rearview. Can’t see potholes that way. “I’m an elementary school teacher. I am not Beyoncé.”

  “Yet…you diiid ask me to put a ring on it.”

  Shut up.

  “I did not.”

  Roth’s lips flatten into a thin line.

  Oh, snap.

  I did?

  “What did you…” Gulp. I take a long, stuttered breath in. “What did you say?”

  He doesn’t react for so long, I start to believe he’s trying to pull another fast one. But then he pushes himself from sitting onto all fours and he crawls over to me until we are nose to nose. His arms are wedged on either side of me. His knees hug mine. His breath smells of mint, mostly, with a slight hint of coffee. Mine smells of puke. Great. His eyes volley between mine, making me a bit woozy again.

  “I said yes.”

  He said yes?

  Confession time.

  I said I was in no hurry to get married, and while that is true, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t fantasized about how Roth would ask me. He is an incredibly romantic man, and I envisioned that night to be something of a fairy tale.

  But instead, I got blackout drunk, channeled my inner Destiny’s Child, and demanded he put a ring on it.

  Wow.

  Way to go, Laurel.

  Those negative thoughts run in a ticker tape across my frontal lobe. And then they’re gone.

  He said yes.

  “You said yes?”

  “I did, but now I’m not sure you meant it.”

  Is he teasing? Please tell me he’s teasing.

  “I did mean it.”

  “But you don’t remember it so…”

  Maybe not, but “I meant it.” I am adamant now. “I want it.”

  “Want what?” He nuzzles his nose along my jaw. Runs it up right underneath my ear. Nibbles on my lobe.

  “You.”

  “What about me do you want?”

  When he nips at my neck, sucking on the spot at base of my throat, I…

  I want…

  I want him…

  …“To put a ring on it?”

  He backs up a touch. Stares me straight in the eye. “You don’t sound too sure about that.”

  “I am.”

  “Hmm, you’re not very believable right now,” he teases, shaking his head. He moves to sit down and from out of nowhere, this kinetic energy shoots from my heart into my fists. I forget about tequila and mahi-mahi and grab him by the collar, yanking him into me so our breath is one.

  “I want you to.”

  “You want me to what?”

  “Put a ring on it!” I demand. “I want you to put a ring on it!”

  He blinks once, then twice, then a slow, satisfied smile curves his lips, and he declares, “Yes, Laurel Linnea Collins, I will marry you.”

  Holy crap on a stick.

  I just asked Roth to marry me.

  And he said yes.

  I am getting married.

  Married.

  Me.

  I throw my hands over my mouth and giggle.

  Then I lean over the toilet once more and vomit.

  17

  A Safe Place to Land

  Laurel

  Four Years Earlier

  August 22, 6:09 p.m.

  “Do it.” I angle my bare butt higher in the air.

  Roth groans, draping the sheet over me until it rests low on my hips. “I can’t intentionally hurt you, Laurel. It’s not in my DNA.”

  “You aren’t hurting me,” I insist, dragging the sheet back down.

  His fingertip feathers over my side and I jump.

  “Then why are you flinching.” He doesn’t sound at all amused.

  “You startled me, is all.”

  “Laurel.”

  I hear the anxiety mixing him up, and I hate that we’re having to go through this, but the end result will be worth it. I hope.

  “Here.” I fling Buzzy back to him. It lands on the mattress.

  “What the hell?”

  I glance over my shoulder. He’s turning it over in his hand. It’s almost comical, the muddled look on his face.
/>   “This is a toy,” he says blandly.

  “It just looks like a toy. It’s actually a very useful device. It numbs me.”

  His eyes lift to mine. Only his eyes. His grin is nothing short of mischievous. “Anyone overhearing this conversation would think we’re planning to do something very salacious.”

  “Salacious?” I draw the question out and his grin widens. “Salacious. You kill me.” I love his off-the-wall vocabulary. “Just put the cold part where you’re going to stick me.”

  “Really, Laurel?”

  We both lose it.

  I can barely get the next part out. “Then turn Buzzy on.” My pitch sounds like I swallowed helium.

  He flicks the switch and nearly drops Buzzy to the bed when it starts to vibrate. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I crisscross my arms and lay my cheek on them. “It’s supposed to take the sting out of the injection. The nurse at the clinic recommended it.”

  He flips it over, studying it. “Could be useful other places too.”

  “Oh my God.” That makes me tingle everywhere. “I don’t think Buzzy is supposed to be used a sex toy.”

  “I don’t know. Could be dual purpose.”

  “Roth,” I say, though now he has me thinking…

  “Fine. Do you have the instructions?”

  I nod. I’ve memorized them. “Place it directly on the site of the injection for thirty to sixty seconds. Then move it up a bit, making sure the power switch is pointed away from where you’ll put the needle. Hold it secure while you give me the shot in the spot you just numbed. It’s supposed to work best when the buzzing is between the pain and the brain. Make sense?”

  “Easy peasy,” he mocks.

  “Nothing to it. You got this.” I hand him the syringe filled with my ovulation-stimulating concoction.

  Roth sets the buzzing bee, ice pack side down, to my left hip. I watch the clock and tell him when it’s time to move it up. He does and with one quick glance to me and a loud swallow, he sticks me and pushes the plunger down slowly.

  It hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as badly as the first few times. Either he’s getting better or the Buzzy really works.

  Tugging the needle out, he places pressure with his thumb and gently rubs circles to better distribute the medication, so it doesn’t pool underneath the skin. Then he kisses me sweetly on the tender spot, muttering, “How many days left of this?”

  He slips the underwear around my thighs back up over my backside and gives me a light tap.

  “Six to ten, maybe? Depends on the blood work. I go back in tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be glad when this part is done.”

  “The needle part?”

  “Yah.” He disposes of the syringe in a special box they gave us and comes to sit beside me.

  “Hate to break it to you, but it will be a while before we’re done with needles. After the transfer, I have to take progesterone injections for a few weeks. It increases chances of the embryo staying implanted.”

  “Well, then…” Roth bunches up my hair into a loose ponytail. “I shall endeavor to be the best shot giver of all shot givers, so you don’t even feel them.”

  For the millionth time, I wonder how I got so lucky.

  “I love you, today, Roth.”

  “And I’ll love you tomorrow, Laurel. No matter what happens.”

  He means if this doesn’t work. If I don’t get pregnant, yet again, even with intensive medical intervention. After countless blood draws and cavity searches, our infertility issues were “undetermined,” whatever that means. We had multiple options the doctors provided us, but since I am thirty-four, considered high risk because of the fertility issues, and the clock is ticking loudly, we decided to go with in vitro fertilization, which they said was the most effective assisted reproductive technology.

  The last couple of years have been a whirlwind.

  Roth and I married in a private ceremony in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park nine months after I asked him to marry me. Eloped would probably be more accurate, much to the chagrin of our friends and family. But planning a wedding got to be too stressful. My mother was out of control. She had an opinion on everything. Invitations. The gown. The menu. The venue. The wedding list. She’d invited the whole town of Leone already for crying out loud. “You must get married in the church.” But we wanted a destination wedding. “Your bouquet must include calla lilies, dear. Everybody loves calla lilies.” Um, I am allergic to calla lilies, Mother. “Goat cheese? Are you thinking about the lactose intolerant?” She was taking over, and I spent so many nights crying about it that Roth suggested we elope. So, we found a couple to marry us and they were amazing. Jason was the official pastor and Brianna, his wife, was the photographer. We canceled the wedding and had the ceremony we envisioned in a place that was special to us and we have the most magical wedding pictures with backdrops of rivers and trees and mountains that look like something a studio would envy.

  Our friends…our real friends…totally understood. Even Roth’s parents were supportive. My mother, however, hasn’t stopped digging me about it to this day.

  Since Roth and I have married, we’ve bought our first home together in a subdivision of Nashville called Bellevue. It was close to where I taught school and twenty minutes from the action of downtown. I’ve upped my swing dance game considerably and earned my master’s degree in education as a literacy specialist. Roth has risen to vice president of marketing at the entertainment company he works for. He puts in a lot of hours, but they love him, and they pay him well. We still find time to see live music (Rudy’s is a favorite), dine at new restaurants (Sambuca is still our go-to), dance at our favorite club (No. 308), and spend nights and afternoons with Carmen and Manny and our sweet goddaughters.

  All in all, our life has been one that most would envy, but in the procreation area we’ve fallen a bit short. Right after we married, we started trying to have a baby. And you know what happens when you really want a baby? You don’t get one. Month after month after month when I get my period, I have stayed up late at night stressing about it. Month after month after month, Roth never says he blames me.

  But does he? How can he not?

  “I’m sorry about all of this.” I roll onto my back, using one hand as a pillow.

  “Sorry? Jesus, Laurel. Don’t even say that.”

  I think back to my conversation with my mother a few years back, the first time she met Roth when she asked me if I thought Roth would stick by me in the lowest of the lows, when the hardest decision is not whether to stay, but if he should have stayed to begin with.

  Is this what she meant?

  “Do you…?” Don’t ask, Laurel. Don’t. Ask. Trust him. Trust in him. He’s done nothing, ever, to make you question whether he’d make different choices given the chance. Don’t do it now. “Do you want a root beer float?” I ask him instead.

  “Only if we have A&W root beer.” Roth thinks A&W is the best root beer he’s ever tasted, now. That’s because it is. Hands down.

  “It’s not fresh jug A&W, but it’ll do.”

  “In that case, I’d still love one.”

  “So would I.”

  I pop up and head into the kitchen in my lacy underwear and a navy blue tank, vowing to never question Roth’s loyalty again. I know he’ll see us through absolutely anything life throws at us.

  18

  Angel

  Laurel

  Two Years Earlier

  March 6, 7:13 p.m.

  “Mama, I’m done,” Sofia whines. She slumps her little body in her chair and flings her head back against the wood so hard it protests.

  “Me too,” Lucia joins in. She mimics her sister, watching from the corner of her eye to make sure she’s doing it right. I stifle a smile with the back of my hand.

  “You haven’t touched your broccoli.” Manny points with his fork to both of their plates. “You’re going to insult Auntie Laurel if you don’t at least try a bite.”

&nbs
p; “Si,” Carmen agrees, pursing her lips together.

  Carmen didn’t merely surprise Manny with one baby; she surprised him with two. Twin rambunctious girls who are the spitting image of their mama in both looks and personality. God help Manny.

  “Don’t pin this on me,” I tell the two of them. Personally, I hate broccoli, so I’m in the girls’ camp, but it’s Roth’s favorite vegetable, so it gets table time.

  “Broccoli makes you strong,” Roth says in a deep voice, posing like Popeye.

  “I am strong.” Lucia shows us her itty-bitty bicep with pride. Roth oohs and aahs and Sofia grins ear to ear. She adores Roth.

  “Girls, broccoli,” Manny instructs. His tone leaves no room for argument.

  But where there are kids and anything green…

  “I did, Papa,” Sofia insists to her father. “See?” She screws her eyes shut and opens her mouth wide. It’s empty.

  Lucia does the same thing, but she had just taken a big bite of her macaroni and cheese, so we’re treated to a mouthful of yellow mush.

  “Una mordida,” Carmen demands of the girls. “And no more arguing. One bite right now and only then are you excused.”

  Sofia and Lucia lock eyes. I watch them communicate in their unique language only twins can hear. It’s the same language Esther and I used.

  They nod in unison. While their will is no match for their mother’s, and they lost this particular battle, they still make a production of it to get their point across. They each find the smallest piece of broccoli available and shove it into their mouths. After holding their noses as they chew, they wash down the remnants with swallows of milk.

  It’s amazing what three-year-olds already know.

  “Muy buena.” Carmen dismisses them after she checks they’ve actually swallowed, and they scramble off of their chairs like their behinds are on fire. “Hey, hey, hey, no running in the house!” To me, she adds, “Sorry. I swear they’re the devil’s spawn wearing pretty blue dresses.”

  “They’re kids being kids. No need to be sorry.”

  I place my hands over my belly, excitement running through me at the thought of my own child running around and me yelling at her to stop. At just over three months along, my pants are starting to get snug, and my morning sickness is waning. The minute we passed that twelve-week mark, I relaxed considerably. And at our last visit, while the doctor told me the baby is a tad smaller than she would like, everything seems to be on track.