My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  Papa looks over at Nana with a triumphant wink of his eye as he rubs my shoulders. “See, Angie? This one loves me the most. Do you see any of our other granddaughters here?”

  “That’s because you’ve scared them all away with your crazy stories,” Nana growls, but there’s an undercurrent of affection for the man who is both a thorn in her side and her everything.

  Papa laughs and squeezes me with a fierce strength that belies his shrinking frame, raining kisses down upon my forehead. I feel comforted, enveloped in his familiar scent, leather and spicy meats . . . masculine and comforting. For a moment, I forget the direness of the situation as he rocks me back and forth in his arms like I’m a child or the one in need of comfort, though he’s the one in the hospital bed.

  But the moment is fleeting as reality slams back into me, and I rise to my feet to ask Nana in a rush of words, “What happened? Is he going to be okay? How long has he been like this?”

  “The old fool was working out back in the summer heat after I told him he should take it easy and come inside,” Nana says with a frosty scowl at Papa, but her voice softens as she speaks, revealing how frightened she really is. “I found him lying face down in the dirt.”

  “Papa!” I say in admonishment. “You know you’re not supposed to be taking on a heavy workload, doctor’s orders. Why didn’t you listen to Nana?”

  Grandpa waves away my worry with a bony hand. “I don’t see what the fuss’s all about. A man has to work, and I’ll do what I need to until the day they put me six feet under. I just tripped and had a little fall, that’s all.” He says it like he believes that to be the truth.

  Nana gives me a sour look that says, ‘That’s definitely not what happened.’ “He passed out—” she begins.

  “I fell and was getting up before you came squawking like a worried hen, making things worse,” Papa interrupts. “So, I decided to lie back and let you do what you were going to do. You shoulda done the same for me.”

  “Nonsense!” Nana snaps. “If I hadn’t found you, who knows what would’ve happened?”

  “Nothing.” Papa dismisses Nana with a nonchalant shrug. “I’d be fine, maybe about to pass out from eating some of your overcooked pasta—”

  “Why, you old bast—”

  “Bah! Hush, woman, you worry too much. I’m more likely to drop dead from all of your hen clucking than I will from a little heat.”

  Their bickering is comforting in a twisted way, the camaraderie of being together for decades and knowing which buttons to push to get a rise out of each other but also which ones are entirely off limits.

  He pulls a long cigar out from the side of his bed and offers it to her. “Here. Calm yourself and have a stogie.” The shit-eating grin on his face says he knows he’s poking the bear, and I realize he’s giving her something to focus on besides worrying about him. He’s a slick old fox, I’ll give him that.

  Nana snatches the cigar out of his hand, brandishing it as if it’s a weapon. “Have you gone pazzo? They don’t even allow smoking in the hospital. And really? A smoke when you’re supposed to be recovering?”

  “Sure, why not? I’d rather have a smoke than act like a pagliaccio!”

  Nana throws her hands up in frustration, the cigar flying from her hands in a perfect arc that ends in the trashcan. If she wasn’t so riled up, I’d give her a round of applause, but as it is, I’m staying out of their battle. For now, at least. “Oh, fanculo tutto! You’re impossible!”

  “I know.” Grandpa tosses me a mischievous wink meant to lighten the mood. “That’s why you married me. You like the challenge.”

  The two continue to bicker as I look on fondly, feeling a sense of relief. Whatever happened to land Papa in the ER hasn’t robbed him of his feistiness, so it couldn’t have been too bad, could it?

  It’s a particularly hot summer, and it’s not uncommon for the elderly to overheat when they underestimate the weather. Maybe he’s right and this is all a lot of fuss for nothing. He just needs a slap on the hand to follow the doctor’s and Nana’s orders a bit better, and everything will be fine.

  Even as I tell myself that, I know it’s wishful thinking and childish hopes. A girlish desire to deny the mortality of a man who has always seemed larger than life to me. Deep inside, I know he’s no more immortal than the rest of us, but even so, I need to know this isn’t going to happen again. I love him too much to lose him. Especially not now, and if I had my say, not ever.

  After being reassured several times by Papa that he’s fine, I excuse myself from the room to let him and Nana bicker themselves out.

  In the hall, I run into a man wearing a long white coat and carrying a binder with Papa’s name on the spine. His name tag says Dr. Lee, and he has an aura of calm control that seems to relax me immediately.

  “Are you Violet?” he asks before I can say anything, giving me a warm smile.

  I nod. “I am. How’d you know?”

  He grins. “Your grandfather wasn’t concerned in the least about his health and has been talking about you since the moment he came in, telling anyone who’ll listen about his granddaughter. If you didn’t know, he’s quite fond of you.”

  I smile. “That definitely sounds like him. Can you tell me what happened? I’m not sure I trust his version of events.”

  Dr. Lee’s expression turns solemn and the energy around him shifts, making me instantly nervous. “It appears that, due to the heat and overworking himself, your grandfather’s blood pressure dropped and he lost consciousness.”

  “That’s what Nana said. So, if we can keep him from overdoing it, he’s going to be okay.” I say it definitively, like I’m adding tying him to his recliner in the air-conditioned living room to my to-do list.

  Dr. Lee tilts his head, his lips pressed together. “Well, as I explained to Angela and Stefano, we’re waiting for tests to come back for a more complete picture, but I don’t need the tests to tell me that his heart isn’t in good shape. It hasn’t been in quite some time.”

  Oh, no.

  “But he’s stable now . . .” I say, like I’m refuting his medical knowledge with only the power of my hope.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Violet, but . . .”

  The growing look of sorrow and despair in Dr. Lee’s eyes says everything, and I’m forced to grab ahold of a wall rail to keep from falling.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  It just can’t.

  My worst nightmare come to life.

  “How long does he have?” I ask through the lump in my throat. The words sound surreal, like someone else is saying them.

  “At his age, it’s hard to say,” Dr. Lee muses, shrugging his shoulders. “Anything I say is at best an educated guess. Six months? A year, maybe? But he’s a stubborn mule who refuses to follow orders, which complicates things. To be honest, he could go at almost any time if we can’t get his heart to function properly and him to be compliant.”

  His words, an awful confirmation of what I feared most, hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, the air leaving my lungs in one forceful gust.

  Six months to a year? Or less?

  How can Papa, the only father figure I’ve ever known, the man who practically raised me from a pigtailed toddler to adulthood, the man who could take on anything the world threw at him and live to tell about it . . . have such little time to live?

  In that moment, all the should’ve, could’ve, and would’ves flash in front of my eyes. It’s as if everything I expected to experience with Papa has turned into a puddle that’s evaporating quicker than I’d ever considered.

  But the worst part is, the one thing he’s wanted to see the most is likely to never happen, and that looms like a dark umbrella over my breaking heart.

  When’s my beautiful little flower getting married so I can walk her down the aisle?

  To say marriage is a huge tradition in my family is like saying a tsunami is a little wet. An understatement of such magnitude, it’s laughab
le, especially for my grandparents, who look forward to the next generation of weddings with teary smiles and proclamations of the continuation of their legacy with another branch on the family tree.

  Hell, most of the women in my family are married off before they’re old enough to drink alcohol. In fact, I’m probably the only woman in my family, at age twenty-six, who isn’t married with a wagonload of kids.

  Due to my busy career, I’ve been single for as long as I can remember, although I’ve always dreamed about having this big fairytale wedding. I used to use Nana’s curtains as a makeshift veil and Papa would pretend to walk me down the aisle. I want him to do that for real, hold my hand as I greet my husband-to-be, bless us with a marriage as long and happy as his and Nana’s has been, and see that I’ve finally grown into the woman he always told me I could be. Successful, loved, happy.

  Now it’s never going to happen.

  As if sensing my tormented thoughts, Dr. Lee adds, “If there’s anything you need to say or anything important left for you to do with your grandfather, I’d do it very soon. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Gee, thanks for the guilt trip, Doc.

  Whatever else the doctor says fades off into the background as I watch Nana and Papa bicker through the glass window, happier now and blissfully unaware of the countdown looming.

  In that moment, denial surges and I clench my fists.

  This can’t happen. I won’t let it.

  Six months to a year?

  I can make it work.

  Suddenly determined, a feeling of resolution washes over me as a plan formulates in my mind.

  Don’t worry, Papa. I’m going to find myself a husband so you can walk me down the aisle on my wedding day before you leave this earth . . . if it’s the last thing I do.

  Violet

  “I still can’t believe it!” I squeal, wiggling my fingers and watching my engagement ring flash as the overhead lights reflect on the diamond’s faceted surface.

  Having already heard this once, or maybe two dozen times, my two best friends sigh but rally with the appropriate oohs and ahhs, even throwing me a bone of another “Congratulations, girl!”

  My lifelong bestie, Abigail Andrews, and Archie Hornee, my interior design assistant, are basically saints for putting up with me at this point. “Colin and I are getting married!”

  Archie arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and presses a palm to his black T-shirt-covered chest, which is most definitely manscaped. Ever the sarcastic ball of sass, he deadpans, “Dear, we know.” He continues the performance by pulling a Vanna White, slapping a big fake smile on his face and gesturing widely to the roomful of wedding gowns surrounding us. When he finishes, his face goes right back to his usual blank ‘fuck off’ mode.

  As if we’d be at a wedding dress shop for any other reason. Lord knows, Abigail and Archie aren’t looking to get married, and obviously not to each other since Abigail lacks a rather important piece of the perfection that Archie is looking for, a never-ending appreciation of his special brand of hilarious, off-the-cuff, don’t-care-about-being-politically-correct, catty-bitchiness.

  So nope, not for them, for sure. We’re here for me! I can’t believe it’s really happening.

  It’s been five months since Papa’s diagnosis, and what a busy five months it’s been.

  Initially, I thought there’d be no way I’d ever get married before his heart gave out. After all, his doctor had painted a grim picture with no happy ending.

  But despite the odds, Papa has miraculously held on long enough for me to reconnect with an old high school fling and get engaged after a whirlwind romance where we both said we wanted the whole nine yards—wedding, marriage, kids. Luckily, since Colin and I already had a history, it wasn’t starting at ground zero, and instead, we moved quickly after a short get-to-know-you-now phase. He’s a really good man, and I think we can be happy together.

  Serious relationship, party of two . . . here! I think, adding a shimmy to my ass as I raise my hand, peering at the weighty sparkle resting there again.

  But despite my excitement, the rows of gorgeous gowns, and two friends with a sharp eye for fashion, I’m currently trying on what has to be my twentieth wedding dress. Ride or Die Bride, an edgy bridal shop that calls itself the Number One Bridal Shop for the Modern Badass Chick, is failing to deliver a dress that is The One.

  They’ve got everything from fairy tale princess to woodland nymph to Vegas stripper, mixed in with classic beauties covered in expensive lace and hand-sewn beading. My dress is here, I know it is. But in the three appointments I’ve made, I haven’t found it. Yet.

  I need perfection.

  It has to be. Everything about my wedding has to be perfect in order to do it right for Papa.

  “I’m so happy for you!” Abigail declares, rushing forward and pulling me into a fierce hug. A moment later, I feel another set of arms wrap around me, Archie’s, and I’m encased in a group hug.

  “Hey, guys!” I gasp as I feel my bridal shapewear corset, a marvelous invention that gives me the perfect hourglass figure, squeeze me to within an inch of my life. Any more and I swear it’ll crush my ovaries. “I know you’re both excited for me, but I can’t breathe!”

  No one told me trying on wedding dresses and getting the right shape could be this painful. I thought it was come in, try on a few dresses, and after a few twirls and happy tears, be done.

  “Shit, sorry!” Abi and Archie exclaim in near unison. As Archie jumps back, Abi tries to loosen my corset but fails as there’s too much dress fabric in the way. “I forgot how tight we had to pull it to get you into this thing.”

  “I’d blame it on the pa-pa-pa-pasta!” Archie sings, doing a not half-bad riff on Blame It by Jamie Foxx, while measuring my curves through fingers held in a square like he’s a cameraman looking for my good side. His puckered lips and sharp brow remind me of Zoolander, and I’m waiting for him to say something about ‘Blue Steel’, but it doesn’t come.

  Still, I can’t help but burst into laughter at his antics then gasp as the corset tightens even further. Shit, is this damn corset alive? “Hey!” I rasp, leveling a stern finger Archie’s way and defending the curves I was blessed with through a particularly short and fierce round of puberty. “I’m half Italian. Pasta, pizza, lasagna, and red wine are a way of life for me, okay?”

  With zero apology, he traces my shape reflecting in the mirror, which is admittedly a little fuller looking in this unflattering white taffeta ballgown that’s a definite no-go. “No one’s commenting on your curvy figure, love. There damn sure ain’t nothing wrong with a little a junk in the trunk. Just look at Kim Kardashian.” He waits a moment and then adds under his breath, but still loud enough for Abi and me to hear, “Only in America can someone turn an ass and a sex tape into a multi-billion-dollar family empire!”

  The next gown is wrong too, and the one after that is even worse.

  It’s a sparkly number that somehow makes me look like a constipated fairytale princess. Too New Jersey, if that makes any damn sense, and as a half-Italian, avoiding any Jersey Shore comparisons is vital to me.

  Which probably means I’ll have to come back another time to try on even more gowns. Abi and Archie might kill me if I make them sit through this again, but I need their help and want someone to celebrate with when I do find The One.

  Because I will.

  Against all odds, I found a husband-to-be, a venue with an opening for our short-notice ceremony and big reception, and I will find a dress that makes me feel special for my big day.

  Abi adjusts my bra straps, beaming at my reflection even though she already told me this dress is ridiculous and Archie made a rather harsh comment about my being ready for Wedding Day: 90s Vegas Style with the amount of bling thrown on this thing.

  “When do you want to come check out the invitations?” Abi chirps. She co-owns a local specialty floral boutique and is handling all of my flower arrangements personally. But as my maid of honor, she of
fered to do the invitations as well.

  Shit.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry! I’ve been so busy with work and dress hunting, I totally forgot about that! When do you want me to come by the boutique to see them? Colin and I have a breakfast date tomorrow morning to talk about the wedding, so we could rearrange and come by the shop instead. But Archie and I have a job lined up right after—”

  “With Bitch-ella, the Ice Queen,” Archie interrupts with a mutter that I can’t really disagree with, but I give him a side-eye that begs him to at least try to be professional about the client.

  “So, we’d have to be fast,” I finish.

  Abi purses her lips thoughtfully as she places her hands on my hips, moving my body slightly to the side and staring at my shape in the mirror. “No way. You two do a breakfast date, and we can figure out a time when it’s not a rush. Tomorrow’s Friday, so maybe we can do it after work and then grab drinks?”

  I nod, ignoring the flutters of butterflies in my stomach. I don’t know why I’m so nervous all of a sudden. I mean, yes, there’s a lot to do and not much time to do it in, but everything’s going to plan, just like I hoped.

  Papa.

  Colin.

  The wedding.

  I should be on cloud nine. Yet, these butterflies don’t feel like good, happy flutters. More like a tornado of responsibility, expectations, and nerves.

  Abi turns me, eyeing me thoughtfully. “You good? Everything all right, Vi?”

  I don’t want to bring down the mood or start examining the questions in my head too closely, so I play pretend, telling myself that slightly cold feet are normal. After all, getting married is a big deal and not one to take lightly.

  “I’m fine. It’s just this damn corset!” I say with a grimace, grabbing my sides. “After I meet with Colin tomorrow, everything should be good to go.” I look between the both of them, spreading my arms out to the side and twirling across the showroom stage in my dress one last time. “Final verdict?”

  “Not my favorite,” Abi says, shaking her head.

  “I agree,” Archie co-signs. “It’s totally giving me Tangled, meets the Little Mermaid, meets Cinderella vibe, but like they all became dancers on the Vegas strip. Emphasis on the strip.”