Plight
Page 19
Looking down at my feet, I gave myself a split second for composure before looking back up, sucking in a deep breath, and noticing what looked like a lead dangling from her wrist. I squinted and followed its length until it ended with Pugly. A laugh burst from my chest when I took in the tuxedo that he, too, was wearing, a bowtie fastened to his collar, a top hat strapped to his head. For the tiniest of seconds, I felt sorry for the little dude. He looked ridiculous. But then I remembered the untimely and shitty death of my Armani shirt and my compassion waned.
Danielle turned around and handed the lead to Chris, her Bridesman. He took it from her and faux smiled, clearly unimpressed with his four-legged bridal partner. I couldn’t blame him.
Giggling, Danielle wrapped her arms around Chris and whispered something in his ear. He rolled his eyes, but a wide smile played on his lips when his eyes met mine and then Laura’s. It was one of those smiles I didn’t like. The I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile. My stomach bottomed, and I turned to my sister, my Groomswoman. Her smile instantly vanished.
“What was that?” I murmured.
“What was what?”
“That exchange between you, Chris, and Danielle.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered, smiling like a seasoned ventriloquist
“Lies. You lie worse than my wife.”
“She’s not your wife yet.”
“Matter of minutes, dear sis. Matter. Of. Minutes.”
“We’ll see.” Her voice was sing-song.
Turning to face her, my eyes were wide, almost fearsome. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She laughed and adjusted my collar. “Elliot, take it easy. Sheesh. I’m only mucking around.”
“Well, don’t. You’re supposed to be supporting me, not freaking me out.”
“You freak yourself out. Now stop it. Do you honestly think I would let anything stop you and Danielle finally tying the knot?”
I took in another breath, closed my eyes momentarily, and then let it out.
She patted my shoulders, happy with her collar readjustment. “There you go. Are you good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
I was lying and I wasn’t, because I was more than good but also obscenely horrified, also known as running on groom-adrenaline. In mere minutes, I’d be kissing and holding Mrs Danielle Parker in my arms, and that both filled me with joy and frightened the fuck out of me.
As she walked her final steps to the end of the aisle, I took in just how beautiful she looked in her lace, wedding gown. How it hugged her tiny body and trailed for a metre behind. Her hair was half up/half down, chocolate curls falling over her shoulders and lightly framing her beautiful face.
“You’re beautiful,” I mouthed.
She blushed, and so did I.
Jeanette let go of her daughter’s arm, lifted her veil, and kissed her cheek.
“Mum, stop crying or you’ll make me start.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m just … just … oh, you know.” She dabbed at her eyes and took Danielle’s hand, placing it in mine. “She’s always belonged to you and you to her, Elliot. Now … it’s time for you both to belong together, as one, not separately.”
“Thank you,” I said, kissing her cheek.
Sniffling, Danielle nodded and hugged her mother tight before letting go and taking both of my hands in hers.
The nerves skittering all over my body skittered away, and I winked, bringing one of her hands to my lips to kiss.
“You’re not allowed to do that,” she whispered, attempting to pull her hand away.
“I’m allowed to do what I want. It’s my wedding.”
“Ours,” she corrected. “Technically, it’s ours.”
I chuckled and was about to technically throw her over my shoulder when the celebrant spoke, reminding me we had some important business to tend to before I could do just that.
“Good afternoon, Ladies, Gentlemen, and adorable dog. I am Sarah Fisher, your civil celebrant, and I am authorised and honoured to conduct the marriage of Elliot Elijah Parker and Danielle Uma Cunningham.”
Chris chuckled and Danielle fired him a don’t-you-dare look — one of her best yet. He pursed his lips and clasped his hands in front of his body, instantly obeying her warning.
I was impressed.
“Both Elliot and Danielle know that from this day forward they promise to love one another in sickness and in health, for better and for worse, for as long as they both shall live. They promise to give each other strength and nurture all that allows them to seek unique destinies and goals. They will be unselfish, understanding, kind, and loyal …”
The celebrant trailed off as I focussed solely on Danielle, her big brown eyes glossing with emotion, her pastel pink lips trembling as she clamped them shut. Memories of all the things the two of us had been through together started flicking across the forefront of my mind like a movie reel. Her kindness and ability to so easily distract me when my father passed away, to learning how to ride a bike together, to climbing trees, eating food we’d pinched from our cupboards, and holding each other as we shivered through a life-changing storm. But through each of those flickering memories, one kept reappearing, one that involved a Cheezel and a lifetime of promises.
“Elliot and Danielle, before you are joined in marriage in my presence and in the presence of these witnesses, your family and friends, I must remind you of the solemn and binding relationship you are about to enter. Marriage, in accordance with the law in Australia is the union of a man and a woman to the exclusion of all others—”
“Which is a crock of shit,” Danielle added angrily.
Some of our guests gasped, unsure of what she was referring to, so she quickly explained herself.
“It should be the union of a ‘person and person’ to the exclusion of all others. Love isn’t gender specific, and neither should be marriage.”
I smiled as our family and guests applauded her statement.
Danielle, too, smiled and gripped my hands tighter. “But let’s continue.”
The celebrant nodded, a pleasant glint in her eye. “Yes, let’s. Please face each other and hold hands.”
We did what she said, excited smiles on our faces, until Chris started cursing under his breath at Pugly.
“What … are … you do— Pugly, stop it. You’re tying my legs together.”
Chris huffed and gave up, allowing Pugly to wrap him like a present.
“Right, again, let’s continue. Elliot Parker, do you take Danielle Cunningham to be your lawfully wedded wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and respect her? Do you promise to share all that life has to offer; your hopes and dreams, achievements and disappointments from this day forward?”
I squeezed her hands in mine. “I do.”
“And do you, Danielle Cunningham, take Elliot Parker to be your lawfully wedded husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and respect him? Do you promise to share all that life has to offer; your hopes and dreams, achievements and disappointments from this day forward?”
She squeezed my hands, too. “I do.”
“Both Elliot and Danielle have chosen their own vows today. Elliot, would you like to go first?”
I nodded and cleared my throat. “I first fell in love with you, Danielle, when I was eight years old. You were kind and caring and had the cutest button nose, apple cheeks, and dark brown, chocolate curls for hair. The second time I fell in love with you was when you ate my Cheezel ring and said you’d marry me. The third time was in a butterfly house. The fourth, on a Merry-Go-Round. The fifth, when you ate my Cheezel ring again. The sixth … now.”
Tears streamed down her face, so I caught some with my thumb and wiped them away.
“And I will continue to fall in love with you, because that is something that will never stop. I was put on this earth to love you.”
“Wow,” she said with a laugh. “That’s a tough act to follow.”
A low hum of
amusement sounded and blew with the breeze.
“But I’ll try.” She took in a deep breath and blew it out. “Lots, you once told me you wanted to be my firsts. And you were. My first best friend, my first true love, my first kiss, and my first broken heart. But from this day forward, you’ll also be my lasts. My last best friend, my last true love, my last kiss, and my one and only heart. You’re my firsts, lasts, and everything in between. You’re my complete circle … my Cheezel.”
I sobbed like a near happily married baby, and I didn’t care. I was her Cheezel and she was mine.
“Now, who here has the rings?” Sarah announced, looking at me.
I glanced at Laura who was once again displaying that I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile, except now it also said, and-you’re-about-to-find-out.
Furrowing my brow, I mouthed, “rings” to her.
She shrugged and gestured toward Danielle.
Danielle clapped, excitedly. “Puglyette, I mean, Juliette has the rings.”
Puglyette? Juliette? What the fuck?
Hearing the coos of our guests, I looked up to see a pug puppy being walked down the aisle by my brother-in-law. She was wearing a pink dress with two wedding rings attached to her little bow.
“Meet our daughter, Lots.”
Pugly barked.
Puglyette barked back.
And Danielle squealed and clapped again.
“Isn’t she just adorable?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, my heart pounding in my chest over the insane surprise Danielle had orchestrated together with knowing my shirts will never be safe again.
She squatted down and picked up the cute little ugly dog/bat, Puglyette licking and squirming like crazy.
“Hello, my beautiful girl. Did you miss me? Yes, you did. Yes, you did. Come and meet your daddy.” She placed her in my arms. “Here, hold our princess while I untie the rings.”
If you’ve ever held a fish out of water or a hose with full water pressure, then you’ll understand what it felt like to hold Puglyette.
“Okay, it’s time to go to Uncle Chris and be a good girl with your brother.” Danielle took her from me and carefully shoved her into Chris’ arms. She licked his face and nipped his nose.
I liked her. She would definitely be a daddy’s girl.
Handing me her ring, Danielle composed herself once again and nodded to Sarah.
“Okay, Elliot, as you place the ring on Danielle’s finger, please repeat after me: With this ring I marry you and offer a symbol of my everlasting love.”
I did as I was told, repeating what she’d said as I slid the ring onto Danielle’s finger.
“And, Danielle, as you place the ring on Elliot’s finger, please repeat after me: With this ring I marry you and offer a symbol of my everlasting love.”
Danielle did the same, sliding my wedding ring onto my finger. I looked at it for a minute, sunlight catching the platinum band and illuminating its brilliance, its purpose … my purpose.
I smiled and twirled it twice.
“Ladies, Gentlemen, and adorable dogs, Elliot and Danielle have declared before me and before you all that they will live together in marriage, they have symbolised it by joining hands, taking vows and by exchanging rings; therefore, I declare them both to be Husband and Wife. Elliot, you may kiss your bride.”
Pulling Danielle to me, I caressed her cheeks, leaned in and kissed my wife … my life.
Thirteen years. That’s how long Dean and I have been married. Thirteen years of ups, downs, forwards, backwards, whirlywhirls and somersaults. Whatever the obstacle we’d faced during that time, we’d nailed it. And not just nailed it; we’d MacGyvered the arse out of it.
Our matrimonial knot was tied in front of friends and family in a large Catholic church before God on a scorchin’ hot December afternoon. Skin was tacky. Napes were damp. And underneath my dress I’d had a makeshift steam oven between my legs that, had I baked a cake in, would’ve put Betty Crocker to shame. But despite the awful heatwave we’d experienced that day, I’d still rocked my white halter-neck, taffeta wedding dress like nobody’s business. Yep, Natasha Jones — that’s me — had been the most beautiful human-meringue to have ever lived.
The perfect bride at the perfect wedding to the perfect man.
Smiling as I drove my car into the driveway of our house, I thought back to that day and to just how far Dean and I had come. Like most couples, we’d started out by working our arses off to save for a deposit on a home, soon after becoming proud owners of a gigantic mortgage. We’d parented a cat and then a dog — our safe and happy furry test subjects successfully proving that we could try parenting a real baby human. Enter said baby human number one: William, who was born two years after we married, followed by baby human number two: Thomas, three years later.
My boys.
I loved them.
But they near destroyed my vagina.
How the tunnel of Tash still operated after pushing out those beasts was beyond me, and yet it somehow did. In fact, it was scheduled to operate later tonight. That’s right … bring on anniversary sexytimes. Bring on a candlelit dinner, a full body massage, a hot steamy bubble bath, schnappies and a fuckalicious fuckfest with my man. Bring on the rarity that is a childfree evening. Bliss.
Grinning devilishly, I got out of my car and skipped to my front door, waving at my neighbour before pausing and pulling out my phone to check my hair and makeup on the selfiecam. I’d performed a rearview mirror beauty touch-up at the traffic lights and had even sprayed some deodorant on my armpits for added effect. And just because it was our anniversary, I’d de-fuzzed myself the night before.
All of myself.
Yes … Tashy’s clam was no longer bearded.
Since giving birth, my window of horniness had shrunk from a floor to ceiling panel to a porthole on a tugboat … a toy tugboat. I’d gone from yee-haw to yee-naw and, quite frankly, I normally couldn’t be bothered. Sex was boring. A chore. And I hated chores. It also involved getting naked — something else I hated.
Don’t get me wrong, my husband was hot, and I loved him. In the years we’d been together, he’d barely changed, physically, whereas I had. My boobs had become droobs. My arse resembled a tail. I had flabdominals and bat-wing arms, and the bags under my eyes could hold a week’s worth of shopping. Everything I possessed was loose and tired, but that was motherhood.
Despite loving and being attracted to Dean, and despite my teeny tugboat porthole of horniness, I just wasn’t all that interested in meaningless do-it-for-the-hell-of-it sex anymore. There was nothing remotely exciting about it. Nothing spontaneous. And at the end of a long exhausting day, the last thing I wanted was a whole five minutes of belly flab flabbing while having to act out an orgasm worthy of an Academy Award.
Except for tonight!
Tonight was different.
I’d planned on digging out my sexy nightie, one that hid the bits I wanted kept hidden. I’d also picked up some wine and donuts, and we had “Love Actually” on DVD. It was perfect. Romantic. And did I mention there were no kids?
Pulling a duckface at my phone and running my tongue across the top row of my teeth, I nodded in approval before turning the key to my front door, stepping inside our entrance hall and nearly having a fucking heart attack.
“SURPRISE!”
“Shiiiiit! What the ff … fig tree is going on?” I screamed, clutching my chest and staring wide-eyed at my sons, both William and Thomas in battle stance and pointing sword-shaped balloons at me. Yes, balloons, as in air-filled latex objects from hell.
“Prepare to die, mother,” William declared, stepping forward.
The balloon neared.
I backed up.
“Yes, prepare to die a horrible death, evil wench.”
“Thomas!” I scowled at my youngest spawn. “Don’t call me that.” What the hell is going on? Where are my candles, rose petals and smooth sounds of Lionel Ritchie filtering from the stereo? Where is Dean?
“But … but …” I shook my head in bewilderment. “But why?”
He stepped forward again, this time pointing the sword-balloon directly at my chest. “Do not speak, or I shall slit your throat.”
The balloon made a hellish-like screeching noise as it molested my skin, causing my heart rate to elevate and an ear-piercing squeal to leave my mouth. I hated balloons. Despised them.
I was a proud Globophobic.
“Get that thing away from me!” I screamed, swatting it and then making a dash for my bedroom.
As I ran past the kitchen, two insane children hot on my tail, Dean sprung out from behind a wall, causing my bladder to lose some of its contents. Jesus Christ, for the love of Depend!
I wasn’t sure whether to clutch my chest or vagina, therefore focussed on my husband who was dressed in a white shirt and grey tights, his outstretched arm wielding one of the boys’ non-balloon toy swords.
“Halt, you heathens,” he announced dramatically, chest puffed, his arm guiding me to stand behind him. “How dare thee cause m’lady such distress?”
The boys both stopped suddenly and stared dumbfounded at their father, taking in his attire and unusual choice of words.
“What’s a heeven?” Thomas whispered to William.
“I don’t know. I think it’s Robin Hood speak for bad guy.”
Thomas scrunched his nose and nodded. “Oh. Dad’s weird.”
“You are no match for us, girly man,” William declared, aiming his balloon at Dean.
Girly man? I couldn’t help it and giggled. The whole scenario was crazy.
Dean widened his stance and held his arms out, defensively. “Hey! There’s nothing girly ‘bout what I’m packing.”
My gaze dropped to ‘what he was packing’, which was beautifully accentuated in tight cotton Lycra. Pronounced. Snug. Confronting. The sight had me clamping my teeth around my lip and, as unusual as it was, I wanted that package. I wanted it in between my legs, rubbed across my face … I just plain wanted it.
Staring at his bulge, it occurred to me that it would remain out of reach, because children murder sexytimes. This always happens.