by Kim Linwood
But is Montana… I mean, are we… I don’t even know for sure.
We might be married now, but the jury is still out on the happily ever after.
45
Andrea
“This cheese is the tits! Better than Stilton.” Evie smothers another glob of—actually I’m not exactly sure, but it looks creamy and delicious on her cracker.
Who knew there were so many things you aren’t supposed to eat while pregnant?
Brett and Philmore scowl at me when I send a forlorn glance their way. “Don’t look at us like that! If we’d been informed ahead of time, we could have planned for dietary restrictions, but our selection of”—Brett shudders slightly—“pasteurized cheese is limited.”
Credit where credit’s due. The Daily Rind really came through. You wouldn’t think a bunch of Mafiosos would be won over by a pair of dairy hipsters, but they’ve had a passionate clientele ever since the reception started.
They turn their backs on me for a second to tell Evie about the other options, and I take the opportunity to snag a piece of Mozzarella layered with tomato and basil. There is no way cheese can really be that bad for the baby, right? Southern Europe would’ve died out. Still… I stand there awkwardly with it on my napkin. You never know.
“You probably don’t want to fill up on cheese anyway,” Montana comments, coming up behind me and snagging the piece for himself. “There’s not much room for bloating in that dress.”
“Hey! I was going to eat that.” I watch in distress and envy as it disappears into his mouth and down his throat.
“Were you really?”
Huffing and turning away, I take a determined step away from him. “That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point then?”
“That I think you just called me fat.”
He catches up and puts an arm around my waist, pulling me close. I elbow him in the ribs, which only makes him laugh. “You have no idea how beautiful you look in this dress.” He holds me even tighter. “Or how much I’d love to get you out of it.”
For a moment I smile and close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of his powerful body against mine. Then the band stops playing and my father steps up to the microphone. The room goes quiet.
“I hate to interrupt this wonderful party, but I believe someone owes me a dance.” He looks my way, stepping off of the small band stage and walking to the center of the room with his hand outstretched. “Daddy’s Little Girl” starts playing, and everyone clears space for us.
A nervous flutter starts in my stomach. This is actually a real wedding. The toasts were mostly about our families putting aside their differences. The best man’s speech was just Marc making sure everyone knew Montana is becoming his right-hand man—the subtext being, please don’t shoot him—but this? This feels different.
Montana lets me go, and I step towards my father. He steers me expertly onto the floor, spinning me with a laugh before pulling us together, the sudden move at odds with the calm tempo. Everyone is watching, some of them clapping.
“Not quite how I imagined this day,” he whispers against my hair.
I laugh, not sure if he means the baby, the fight, the groom switch or the fire. “Me neither.”
“I can’t say I’m not happy we found a solution that joined the families,” he admits. “But I’m sorry it happened the way it did. You know you’ll always be my girl.”
“I know.”
It’s not quite an apology, and now I’ll never really know what he would’ve done if things hadn’t gone so wrong. I’d like to think he’d have changed his mind anyway, but I’m not sure I really believe that.
“Do you forgive me?”
“Of course,” I say honestly. Holding a grudge against him would be as silly as blaming a wild animal for hunting its prey. “I understand.”
I understand that he has his priorities and I have mine. My father loves me, but he’s a DiFiero first and a father second. I love him, too, but I need to be myself first.
Part of who that is, is a mother—and okay—part of me will always be a DiFiero. Just maybe not as much as he’d like.
We glide softly over the dance floor, surrounded by friends, family, enemies and rivals. As we pass my mother, she raises her wine glass in a joyless toast and takes a deep gulp. She probably hates my guts right now, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s gained a tiny bit of respect for me too.
Except I’m pretty sure she’s trying to casually flip me off with her middle finger raised from the glass. Family, can’t live with ‘em, can’t seem to run far enough to find out if you can live without ‘em.
The song draws to a close, and my father leans close. “My offer still stands.”
His… oh right.
“You don’t have to shoot my husband, Dad.”
“You’d deny an old man his simple pleasures?”
I pull back to glare at him, but he’s grinning at his own joke. “Dad.”
“What? It’s what fathers are for, but you look good together. You and the troublemaker. I like the way he looks at you.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to deny it and remind him that this whole thing is a church sanctioned sham—but I don’t, and I’m not even entirely sure why.
Maybe because I like the way he looks at me too.
Our dance stops right at Montana, and my father hands me over. As the next song starts and people begin to dance again, we join them. Montana doesn’t spin me like dad did, but the way he pulls me close is downright possessive.
“You move pretty well, Massachusetts.”
“Surprised?” His hand strokes across my lower back, holding us together. “Dancing is just like sex, but with more clothes. I’d be more surprised if we didn’t move well together.”
Looking up, I find his deep brown eyes on me. They sparkle with humor, and something else. He looks as happy as I feel. After what seems like years of stress and a hellish last twenty-four hours, we are finally on the other end of the drama, and everyone’s still breathing. Maybe this can work after all.
A feeling bubbles up, one I’ve been trying not to pay much attention to but has been harder and harder to ignore.
I think I might be in love with my husband. What a time to figure that out, huh?
“Montana?”
“Yes, Felicity?” he says with a wink.
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“You think I’d forget the first time I met my wife? You practically saved my life.”
“I don’t know, you—”
There’s a boom, and the double doors from the entry hall slam open. “Everybody freeze and put your hands in the air! This is the police.”
What?
We stare at each other in shock.
The room erupts into chaos that puts the outbreak at the wedding to shame. Armed men and women in uniform pour in while our guests rush off in all directions like chickens that just spotted a hawk over their yard.
“This way!” Montana grabs my arm and pulls me through the crowd towards the kitchen. “We’ll try the back.”
We run into Marc on the way, dragging a confused Evie by the elbow. She squeaks as he spins her around. “I’ll take care of her, you guys get out of here.”
Montana nods as Evie and I gape at each other. I try to protest, but there’s no time. We burst into the kitchen, startling a room full of white-clad catering staff.
“Um, hi, we just need to…” I look at Montana for help.
“Run.”
“Yeah, what he said.”
The caterers stare at us like we’re nuts.
Like an angel from above, Philmore floats in on a cloud of sweet smelling vape. “What’s up, lovebirds?” Someone in the main room screams. “You two in a hurry, I take it?”
“You could say that.”
“Brett! We’re pullin’ out! Time to haul ass.”
Brett pops up from behind a table with a cracker hanging out of his mouth. “Can do. We’re all loaded.
”
On the far end of the kitchen is a metal door, and the four of us race out into the loading dock. It’s enclosed against the unstable Chicago weather and feels like another dead end. The heavy garage door is closed, but from the sound of it, it’s obvious the cops are out there too.
There are several vans in the dock, but there’s no mistaking which one belongs to our cheese guys. Bright yellow and painted to look like a hunk of cheese, their van has The Daily Rind written across the side and their logo on the door.
“Get in the back,” Brett yells while tearing open the driver’s side door. “I’ll get us out of here.”
Montana and I climb in as fast as we can, while Philmore joins Brett up front. I crouch down on the far end, using a cooler for support. Montana pulls the door closed behind us and bangs on the side of the van. “Go!”
“Hurry up,” I yell, pointing out the back window as the loading bay doors start to roll up, exposing several pairs of black leather police boots, their owners just waiting for the door to open far enough for them to get underneath.
“Everyone hang on,” Brett shouts.
Montana crouches, pulling me with him and bracing himself against the side of the van. He pulls off his tie and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up.
“Stop that,” I snap.
“Stop what?”
“Looking all sexy. I don’t have time to be distracted.”
He laughs and slides a protective arm around my waist. “I dairy you to kiss me.”
Oh, he didn’t.
“What, too cheesy?”
I do the one thing I can think of to stop this insanity.
I kiss him.
46
Andrea
“You know what this reminds me of?” Philmore whispers to Brett. “Kandahar.”
Brett thumps good-naturedly on the back of the driver’s seat. “But this time we get to be the runaway food cart.”
Philmore gasps. “I’m not dumping our cheese as a distraction!”
“No, no, of course not. That Gruyere in the cooler is one of a kind. A few flash bangs would be handy, though. Remember Dahaneh?”
I send Montana a terrified look, but his crooked half-smile is more amused than worried. How that can be, I have no idea, since now that the door is high enough, officers in riot gear are pouring through the gap. Their shouts echo inside the loading area as they take position, covering each other. None of them have reached us yet, but that’ll change as soon as the van starts.
The large metal door stops with a clunk, fully open. Taking that as his cue, Brett starts the engine and throws the van into reverse. At the same time someone bangs on the side, making me scream in surprise before I cover my mouth in embarrassment. A stern voice barks, “Turn off the truck! Who’s in there?”
In response, Brett floors the gas. The van lurches backwards like it’s been ejected from the parking space. I think the police officer yells something, but it’s lost in the roar of the engine.
No one expects a runaway cheese van. The police scatter out of our way as we barrel through the narrow door and slide right out between two cruisers with inches to spare. Brett is either incredibly lucky, or he’s got a driving sense that borders on supernatural.
Montana tightens his grip on me and I hang on for dear life as Brett throws the handbrake while twisting the wheel, making the van teeter scarily while slide-turning. When it suddenly stops, I swear there’s a thump as the right tires reconnect with the ground. He releases the handbrake with a grinding noise and drives his foot to the floor. With a second lurch, the van complains loudly, but accelerates surprisingly fast. Only seconds later, sirens fire up behind us.
“Wouldn’t it have made more sense for them to surround all the exits at once?” My knowledge of tactics is limited to a few drunken games of Call of Duty back at college.
Montana snorts. “Are you complaining?”
“Not really, just wondering.”
He disentangles himself from me, standing up to get a better view out the back windows. “Fuck, they’re right behind us. Can’t this thing go any faster?” he yells over his shoulder.
“Hey, man, this is a cheese truck,” Philmore replies in a calm, almost bored voice. “If you were looking for speed, you should’ve jumped into the Ferrari.”
“What Ferrari?”
“Exactly. Hold on!”
Montana mumbles something under his breath before sitting back down with me, catching me up in his arms protectively. I wriggle up onto my knees and peer between the front seats. We’re rapidly running out of driveway, and there’s something at the end. A roadblock?
“Um, aren’t you going a little fast?” Images of us crashing and the van flipping and exploding like it would on TV flash through my head. My death might come any second, and all I can think about is how we’ll smell like grilled ham and cheese.
“Lean right!” Brett shouts, jerking the wheel around.
Philmore grabs his oh-shit handle as casually as if it’s just a turn on the subway. I shove my feet up against the cooler on the opposite side of the van, with my back braced against Montana’s chest. His grip is so tight around my chest it’s painful. I’m not going anywhere unless he is too.
For a moment, it’s like we’re floating. We might actually have gone fully airborne for a moment, a feeling that’s reaffirmed by the heavy thump as we barely veer around the barricade. A small wheel of Brie slides from a shelf and bounces off my head.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Worst amusement park ride, ever.”
The van bounces and creaks as we go straight off the curb onto the road. A plastic-wrapped lump of something or other slides from another shelf and hits the floor with a wet sounding thump.
Behind us, the sirens grow louder, while inside, it suddenly smells like someone unleashed a chemical weapon. The stench seeping out of the bag is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It’s like a palpable cloud of locker room funk, stinky feet and forgotten leftovers. My stomach lurches and my lips clench as I try to stick to small, shallow breaths.
Montana, only a few inches away, senses it right after me. There’s a very distinct moment of transition from his face looking agitated but controlled, and a microsecond later as every muscle pulls down into a hideous grimace as the smell makes its way to his nostrils. He recoils, turning his head, but there’s no escape. His growl is choked. “What the fuck do you have back here?”
“My Epoisses!” Philmore, Mr. Unflappable, shows the first sign of panic. “Keep it safe!”
The van turns and the cheese slides closer.
“Oh-my-God-I’m-going-to-puke.” My fingers dig into Montana’s thighs as my morning sickness makes a sudden and triumphant return.
“Just breathe, you can do this.”
“Breathing is exactly the”—I have to stop and swallow to keep from hurling—“problem.”
Montana tries to kick it away, but ends up with a bag of stinky cheese stuck to his pointy dress shoe. “Fuck!” He shakes his leg, smearing it everywhere.
“Stop helping!” In desperation, I turn my face into his chest and pull his suit jacket around my head. His chest shakes. “And stop laughing!”
“Sorry, this just isn’t exactly how I pictured my wedding night action.” The van makes a sudden turn. “But you can’t deny that your world is getting rocked.”
“You’re lucky I love you, or I’d open a couple of these buttons and use you as a barf bag,” I mumble miserably into his shirt.
His arm goes hard around my back. “What?”
Take it back, take it back. I can’t use the L word until I know what he really thinks. “I said I’m going to use you as a barf bag.”
“Left!” Brett shouts.
Wrapped together, we slide across the floor of the van, leaving a smelly track of cheese behind us. We’re going to have to burn this dress to get rid of the stench, I just freaked my new husband out, and by the sound of the sirens and honking, we’re in serious deep shit. Though even tha
t probably doesn’t smell as bad as this cheese.
I can see the headlines already. DiFiero Dairy Fiasco. There’s no way this arrest photo isn’t going to go viral. Hopefully Evie and Marc got away, at least.
“Right!”
We slide back the other way, Montana carefully cradling my dejected body. Even under the strange circumstances, he has the presence of mind to protect my stomach. It’s all about the baby. Why did I let myself forget that?
There’s a loud crash that sends us spinning. Glass shards and metal rattle as the van shakes after the impact.
“What the fuck was that?” yells Montana.
Brett checks the side mirror. “Ford Taurus, Chicago Police edition.” He lets out one of the saddest sighs I’ve ever heard. “We’re might lose the cheese.”
Philmore pats him on the arm. “I know.”
“And for what?” Brett wails. “He won’t even answer her!”
Wait, what?
“Well, are you going to say something?” Philmore turns an accusing look to Montana.
“You guys are nuts!” Montana says, looking at him like, well… he’s nuts.
“No, we’re romantics,” Brett says, looking at us from the rearview mirror. “Now let’s see if I can get us the hell out of here so you two can get with the program.” He brings his eyes back onto the road, just as he spins the wheel to tear around a corner. “If I remember correctly, this road is going to put us right onto the—”
I hang onto Montana for dear life until the G-forces ease off. “Onto the what?”
“Well, fuck.” Brett’s exclamation is resigned.
Pulling myself up by the back of Philmore’s seat, I peek out the windshield. Wherever Brett thought we were going, I don’t think this is it.
In front of us is a long dock, pointing right out into the murky blue expanse of Lake Michigan.
Oh no.
The sound under the wheels changes as the van hits the dock. “I take it back, this is nothing like Kandahar,” Philmore tells his partner with amazing calm.
