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Helen's gaze slid over to me, those familiar eyes all-seeing, all-knowing.
Her gaze slipped to my belly then back to my face, a smile toying with the edges of her lips.
Because we both knew.
Helen had won another bet.
I was going to make a father out of Nixon.
In approximately seven and a half months.
Which meant Helen would continue her winning streak.Nixon - 1.5 yearsWe threw the wedding together in about two weeks' time.
Reagan wanted to have wedding pictures where she wasn't showing too much.
And I wanted to do the right thing and make it official before we brought a kid into the world.
Thankfully, between the Mallicks and Rivers, Krissy, and her parents, there really ended up being nothing for us to do but get up, showered, dressed, and show up.
Which was good because Reagan had barely been able to stay upright for an hour put together without needing to run to the bathroom.
Already skinny, she'd lost a couple pounds due to the morning sickness.
We were counting down the days to the second trimester when, hopefully, the sickness would go away, and she could start enjoying her pregnancy.
And when she wasn't enjoying it, yeah, no one was enjoying it.
Let's just say that an unwell Reagan made Mal seem even-tempered and sweet.
"It's so hot," she grumbled, fanning herself with a baby magazine she'd brought with her in the short car ride from our place to the wedding.
"Babe, it's like seventy degrees."
Yeah, as soon as that was out of my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to say. And the sound that came out of her wasn't entirely human.
"Here, I'll crank the air up," I offered, closing my vents and aiming the others directly at her.
"Why are we having a wedding at a beach?"
"You love the beach."
"What if I need to throw up?"
"I'm sure the girls have bought some fancy-ass trash can for you to do so in."
"The minister is going to know I'm pregnant. Before the wedding."
"Nah. We'll just tell him you're wasted," I offered, making a choked laugh escape her as her hand flew out to smack my arm. "Hey, I am just offering helpful alternatives here, babe."
She gave me a small smile before resting her head back, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry I've been so surly lately."
"Figure, you signed up to deal with my surly ass for the next, what, sixty-something years if we're lucky. I can put up with your surly ass for another seven months."
"That sounds fair," she agreed.
"It's just an hour on the beach. Then we are back to the Mallicks' for the reception. You can change into your comfy clothes, and throw up in peace there if you need to."
"What a romantic wedding day we're having," she said as we pulled into the lot, our family scattered around, waiting for us. "Morning sickness and lying to a man of God."
"Wait," I said, grabbing her arm before she slid out to follow the girls to get changed. "Here. Wear these," I demanded, reaching for a case, handing over her heart-shaped glasses. "Got my mom with me," I said, showing her the quarter. "You have Sammy with you."
She gave me a big smile then.
And, sure, she threw up twice on the beach. Into a fancy basket lined with a plastic bag. And, yeah, the minister either knew she was pregnant or thought she was a really bad drunk. But the pictures were beautiful. The marriage was official.
She was mine.
After an hour laying down back at the Mallicks', she got back up looking and feeling a lot better, nibbling on some plain crackers, sipping flat ginger ale, but enjoying the celebration, opening gifts.
"Okay. Last one," she declared, getting up, going behind the couch where I was sitting, picking up something wrapped in white paper with gold wedding bands. Big, but not heavy. "My wedding gift to you," she said, smiling bigger than she had in a long time, excited about whatever it was.
My hands went for the paper, suddenly very aware of all the eyes on me as I ripped it off, pulled it away.
To find the goddamn devil painting I thought we'd luckily lost in the move of houses.
But nope.
There it was.
"I tracked down the original artist," she declared, practically bouncing in excitement. "Which was no easy task because she had sworn off painting about five years ago. But I found her, and I got her to agree to fix the painting."
"Babe, why the fuck would you have her give the devil a ghost to hang out with?" I asked, staring at the creepy fucking duo, one leering at me, one looking into my soul.
"She painted a peach tree!"
"Babe, that's no peach tree. It's a ghost. A Dickensian ghost with his cloak open and souls trapped inside."
Reagan dropped down beside me, running her finger across the canvas. "Bark, leaves, peaches."
