by Anne Marsh
“Oh, my God,” she announces in a voice loud enough to be heard from the street. Our audience sighs and murmurs. I feel like an Olympic skater who just finished a routine. Landed on his ass some, too, but that last jump was a triple-quadruple-million-point something with an unpronounceable name and now it’s time for the judges’ scores. Is the Russian judge gonna mark me down just on principle? Will I get enough credit for my last attempt to make up for all the time I spent with my butt planted on the ice?
She opens the card, and there are my three words in three-D. I LOVE YOU. I’ve even worked in a couple of bonus hearts just in case the message isn’t perfectly clear. Or colorful enough.
Her eyes widen and she traces her fingertips over the hearts. That soft, seeking touch penetrates somewhere deep inside me, as if the construction paper is a portal to somewhere special. The smile that starts in her eyes and spreads to her mouth, however, is all the special in the world.
“I love you,” I tell her. I don’t have to look at the card, not when I can look into her eyes. Her eyes say please, and yes, and no, you didn’t screw this up too badly. I’ve never been so grateful in my life. I pick her up and pull her onto my lap so her legs wrap around my hips and the small of her back is probably grinding against the edge of the table. I slide a hand there to keep her safe, because it’s okay if my knuckles take the brunt, but she doesn’t get hurt.
“I love you,” I repeat. “I want a chance to tell you that every day. I want to do all the things with you. I want to be there for you and with you and in you.”
The in you part comes from my dick, which has definite ideas about the logical next step in this conversation because Marlee’s pussy is pressed against me, and she’s hot and gorgeous and so, so close. “Let me show you, okay?”
“Right now?” Marlee sounds kinda dazed and more than a little doubtful. Pretty sure our audience is right there with her in expecting I’m about to stage an orgy or, at the very least, some kind of one-man SEAL strip show. As if. I’m all Marlee’s, and a very big part of me is hoping she never, ever shares her toys.
And that’s when I get my second great idea.
“Dance with me.” My voice comes out rough and low. I’m not a pretty boy, not smooth and charming. Fuck me, but I’m not even a good dancer.
I’ve got all these memories flashing through my head. Marlee and me at the Tiki Hut. Riding the waves. Hanging on her porch. And yeah—about a hundred different memories of us having sex. Making love. Us together in all different combinations. But this first dance is gonna be the one I remember when I’m ninety-nine pushing one hundred and everything else has sort of washed away. I take her into my arms and pull her close.
“We don’t have any music,” she says nervously.
What kind of store doesn’t have Muzac? I make a maestro-strike-up-the-band gesture, and sure enough, one of her audience does something on her phone and music fills the store. It’s the goddamned theme song from the Titanic, which isn’t quite what I had in mind.
“Everyone’s staring,” she whispers.
“Welcome to my world.” I tug her closer still and start an awkward twirl-shuffle-whirl around the crowded space. Should have fucking paid attention when they taught dancing in gym class, although I suspect this is ballroom dancing shit rather than the bump-and-grind I’ve watched at clubs. She feels… right in my arms, and it’s suddenly okay that everyone’s looking at us, taking pictures, and whispering to themselves.
“I love you,” I repeat, because I should have been saying these words for weeks and I have some definite catching up to do.
“You can’t dance at all,” she says, sounding delighted. “And I love you too.”
Today’s the day. The big day. The first of many watershed, red letter, God-I-can’t-believe-life-is-this-good days. I stand beside the exam table, holding Marlee’s hand. Today’s ultrasound day. The technician will be in soon, and we’ll get a sneak peek at our baby. Marlee had to drink an enormous bottle of water before we got here—something about a too-full bladder makes it easier for the technician to check out the baby? The magazines and books Marlee carts home promise that pregnancy is glorious, beautiful, magical. Take your pick—they’ve got hundreds of adjectives. Holding your pee while you wait for someone to swab goo on your distended belly doesn’t seem like a party to me, but the end results? Totally worth it.
Although admittedly I’m not the one doing the heavy-lifting here.
Marlee squeezes my hand. “What if the baby’s not healthy?”
She’s been running through the possible outcomes of today’s appointment since she woke up. At four a.m. Something about pregnancy has turned her into a rooster. She pokes me, I make coffee (decaf for both of us since Marlee has decreed every suffers in the great caffeine blackout), and then we watch the sunrise.
Pretty fucking awesome, right?
Plus, there’s pregnancy sex. Marlee is horny all the time, and that’s even better than sunrises and coffee dates (way better, if I’m being honest). She jumps me when I come home from work. Before dinner. After dinner. Sometimes in the middle of the night. And since she’s pregnant and this means she gets whatever she needs or wants, I deliver. My dick’s gonna be sore by the time Mini-Us makes a grand appearance into this world, but I’m a lucky man.
Yes, that big shit-eating grin is mine.
The technician bounces into the room. She’s wearing fuchsia-colored scrubs and a big smile. I’ll bet these baby-bump inspections are the good appointments. Checking out internal organs, skin masses, screwed up lymph nodes, cancer, tumors… the list of other stuff you use an ultrasound to check for is long and unhappy. No wonder Jane—I sneak a quick peek at her nametag—is smiling. Statistically speaking, we’re the most likely to leave happy customers. But what if we’re not? What if the baby’s broken? He or she could have a hole in the heart, deformities, missing part. There are a million ways for today to go wrong, and there’s nothing I can do. I shift, trying to get comfortable, to talk myself down, but the world narrows to Marlee and the soft, round curve of her belly. The technician blah blah blahs, and I can’t focus.
I have to know.
If there’s something wrong, I need a plan.
That’s my baby and my woman, and I won’t let anything bad happen to them. I’ve got this. I just have to wait for the technician to do her thing and then she’ll give us the good news and we’ll go buy something pink or blue.
But what if it’s bad news?
“Vann?” Marlee squeezes my hand as the technician eases her T-shirt up and squirts some clear goo on her belly.
“Yeah?” I think I might have a heart attack. Or an aneurysm. The world’s disappearing, going black and fuzzy around the edges. Hold it together, sailor.
“It’s going to be okay,” she promises and gives my hand another squeeze.
We’re pretty certain that Marlee is twenty-one weeks along, which is supposed to be the perfect time for an ultrasound. The technician starts doing her thing and I wait. Impatiently. She’s smiling, which is a good sign. Unless smiling is something they teach them at school. Kind of like a flight attendant—keep smiling even if the plane’s crashing hard. Don’t let the passengers know What if this is the kind of job where just anyone can waltz in off the street, charm the pants off the interviewer, and be put in charge of the ultrasound wand? I mean, it’s not like it’s hard to wave a wand over someone’s belly.
I could totally do it.
The technician flicks a switch, the screen lights up, and… whoa. Black. White fuzz. Pulsating bits. I have absolutely no idea what I’m looking at. The wand moves. The screen changes. I need a map, a Rosetta stone, diving intervention.
Help.
“Everything looks great,” the technician announces.
Thank. Fuck. I suck air into my lungs and pretend I wasn’t way too close to passing out.
“Now it says on your chart that you’d like to know whether you’re having a boy or a girl.”
Jane is s
uper perky. That’s reason number two why I could never be in charge of the ultrasound wand. I’d probably kill somebody before lunch.
“Yes,” Marlee says and squeezes my hand again. We debated the pros and cons of the Great Gender Reveal for days—and I won. Marlee thought it would be fun to keep it a surprise. I, however, am the kind of person who snuck down the stairs as a kid, unwrapped my Christmas presents, and then re-wrapped them so no one would know I’d snuck a peek. There’s no way I’m waiting nine months to know which pronoun applies to the Mini-Us.
“Okay, then.” Jane beams at us and starts moving the wand again, staring intently at the screen. It’s like driving blind. Or flying one of those bomb-dropping Air Force planes where the pilots are a bunch of teenagers in a facility in the Midwest. “Well, I’m not seeing a penis.”
She drops that bombshell like it’s no big deal. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t have one and so doesn’t know what she’s missing? How do I help our baby adjust to missing equipment? Speaking as a guy who’s extremely fond of his dick, this is a big problem. They don’t sell books in the baby aisle about no-junk situations. I’m certain of this because I’ve bought every book out there. Our bedroom is a fucking library of parenting wisdom.
“Do you see the hamburger?” Jane ups the wattage of her smile. I don’t care if she’s flashing me her high-beams. That question made zero sense.
“We’re having a girl?” Marlee squeals like the word hamburger makes all the sense in the world.
What. The. Fuck.
“Break it down for me,” I suggest and Marlee reaches over and pats my hand.
“Girl parts look like a hamburger. The labia are the bun and the clitoris is the meat.”
That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.
But… we’re having a girl. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this happy. Marlee’s smiling, Jane’s smiling, and this is one of those moments you want to freeze so you can take it out and enjoy it daily for the next sixty years or so.
I lean forward. “Thank you,” I whisper against Marlee’s ear.
Not that thank you even begins to cover it. This baby is wonderful, amazing, so fucking perfect I’m gonna have to pretend those are allergies making my eyes tear up and not all these feelings I’ve got for my girls. I love our baby girl, and I haven’t even met her yet.
The technician pops out of the room to print our photos, I help Marlee off the table so she can run to the bathroom, and then fifteen minutes later we’re out the door.
We’re having a baby girl.
“You.” My voice comes out all hoarse and rough, as if those tears in my ears have migrated straight to my throat. “I love you and you’re fucking amazing.”
Marlee squeezes my hand. She’s beaming like a lighthouse, lit up from the inside out with her own feelings. We’re gonna be parents and partners, and there’s no better time than now to ask my question. I open the passengerside door to my truck, help her get settled because it’s one more excuse to touch her, and then go around to my side. This is one more thing that I love about being a couple. We’ve got patterns, routines, sides. I sit and sleep on the left; she’s my right-hand gal.
I reach behind the seat of my truck and produce a gift bag. Yes, I did go full-on girl. I have a gift bag and tissue paper.
“Got something for you.” I hand her the bag and she peeks inside. “If you put them in the ground now, they’re gonna flower when the Mini-Us makes her appearance.”
“Oh, Vann.” Marlee clutches the bag. See, since she prefers her flowers to have roots, I can’t just hand her a dozen long-stems. Instead, I’ve picked out a bag of lily bulbs—something called Stargazer that’s big, pink, and over the top spectacular according to the picture on the front—so she can grow her own bouquet. I snuck a peek and those bulbs look like mutant onions with long, snaky threads of roots. They’re guaranteed to grow according to the Walmart lady, though, so I plan on buying another dozen every year for our baby-versary.
“Got one more thing,” I tell her and fish in my pocket. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ve lost the ring. I shoved it in my jeans because I’m not taking a chance on security in this parking lot. It would be just my luck to have someone smash my windows in, grab the bag, and take off. I set the little velvet box in her hand and curl her fingers closed over it. “You’re my wingman and my best friend and the best thing that’s ever fucking happened to me. Now we’re gonna be a family of three, and I’ll always be here to look after you both, but I’d like to do something for the two of us first.”
I release her hand and, yeah, I might be holding my breath as she pops the top of the box. Picking out a ring isn’t an easy business. First there’s the subterfuge with trying to figure out her ring size, and then there’s the million choices. Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but the jeweler damned sure isn’t mine. In the end, I picked a round opal surrounded by dozens of tiny, winking diamonds. It’s beautiful, just like my Marlee.
“Will you marry me?” I ask.
And then, fuck yeah, I hold my breath—not that she hasn’t already stolen it. Ring or no ring, baby or no baby, I’m one-hundred-percent Marlee’s man. I gave her my heart long before I gave her a ring, and no diamond can change that.
“I love you,” she says, and somehow she’s in my lap and we’re hanging onto each other, kissing, in the front seat of my truck. “Yes.”
“I love you, too,” I vow and then I kiss her, she kisses me back, and I’ll be holding her to those promises for the rest of our lives together. Whatever comes next, we’re in it together and I’ll always be her one best SEAL.
And coming July 5th, 2016 in a special, limited-time 99-cent boxed set… not one, not two, but three ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights stories (one each from Anne, Zoe, and Kat), including THE TROUBLE WITH SEALS. Rohan MacCarthy is the SEAL with a plan, but convincing Hindi Alvarez to sell him her island may be Mission Impossible. Hindi’s quirky, frustrating, colorful, and… smoking hot.
HINDI
It’s surprisingly difficult to win a wet T-shirt contest. You need assets I hadn’t considered when I signed up.
Boobs.
Butt.
Balance.
The first two gifts are Mother Nature-given and there’s not too much I can do to augment my birthday presents from her at this late date. Ordinarily, I’m perfectly happy with what I’ve got. Since winning this wet T-shirt contest, however, means the difference between stopping in at the grocery store and loading up on food versus driving past and making do with tonight’s rather skimpy dinner buffet (peanuts and cocktail fixings I’ve snagged whenever the bartender glanced away), I’m motivated. Right now, if I had a gift receipt, I’d trade my size Bs in for a pair of double Ds. I’d add a curve and some sass to my ass, too, or at least spring for a pair of smoking hot Dasiy Dukes.
I’m Contestant Number Four.
I’m also broke, barefooted, and… I mentally search for another B word. Bawdy? Beautiful? Bold?
Bold works for me. It’s what I’d like to be.
I have arrived at a point in my life that I’ve decided to call empowered. If you were looking for synonyms, however, I’d also volunteer broke, shameless, and why the fuck not? Wet T-shirt contests get a bad wrap from the feminist crowd, but I’ve always been more of a live-and-let-live person myself. Until tonight, I’ve never felt the urge to compete, but I’ve also figured it was none of my business why other women chose to do so. And if hot guys—maybe of the US Navy SEAL or Marine Corps persuasion—wanted to do their part for women’s rights and feminism, I’d be happy to watch while they gyrated their way down a bar in a wet T-shirt. That’s the best kind of equal rights, and the right to be obnoxious, cheerful, sexual, good-natured pervs has to be part of what they fight for overseas.
It’s also nice to know that we live in a country with a complex judicial system that has a million rules and laws—but all of which say that the penalty for my stolen white T-shirt will be relatively mild (rather tha
n, say, having my hand chopped off in a public place) if I’m unlucky enough to get busted. It’s a sad fact of life that, boobs and butt aside, I actually do not possess the necessary costume to participate in a wet T-shirt contest. My white cotton Hanes size XXL wife-beater is purloined. Stolen. Boosted. One hundred percent not mine.
When I pulled over for a pee stop earlier today, I parked next to a Jeep pulled over by the side of the road. The shirt was hanging over the rollbars, but the shirt’s owner was nowhere in sight. His decision to take a swim or a walk on the beach without safeguarding his possessions seemed like a sign. A giant take me, use me sign. It’s not even like I could pull a Hermione Granger and leave money under the chicken coop (or on the dash) for my stolen loot because of my state of complete and utter brokenness. Besides, what’s the going rate for a used shirt?
The current contestant performs a complex cheerleader/stripper combo move that I have absolutely no hope of emulating. She has enormous boobs, and if I had the cash to bet with, I’d double down on the fact that she’s really, really ruing the lack of bra support. The scoop-necked, white tank top clings to every generous inch of her girls and she looks spectacular.
“Give it up for Bree.” The cheerleader contestant sashays down to the far end of the bar to pose with the other two contestants for the title of Ms. Tiki Hut Tits. Yes, that’s the job title I’m competing for. Since it comes with a paycheck, I’d be happy to win. A thunderous cheer goes up from the forty or so assembled bar patrons (all male except for the odd girlfriend), along with more than one pornographic suggestion. Ms. Cheerleader smiles and waves as if she’s already the winner and someone’s popping the Titty Tiara (yes, that’s what they call it) on her head.
