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She rests her hand on her baby bump. I place my hand over the top of hers. The baby kicks and it feels trippy without the edible. I can’t believe that Lyndsey and I are going to be parents.
“I feel floaty, do you think the kid feels floaty in there?” I ask.
While pregnancy tracker apps refer to our growing child as a variety of fruit-adjacent euphemisms, we’ve been referring to them as “the kid,” like they’re an old-timey actor in Western movies. It fits, somehow.
“I don’t know, maybe,” Lyndsey says.
I yawn, and she hefts herself off the couch, offering me her hand, “I think you should get some sleep.”
“You’re a genius, Lynds,” I mumble.
“Thank you, babe.”
“And, I love you.”
Lyndsey surpasses a grin, “I love you, too.”
We get married in January on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean.
Violet is the ring-bearer. She gallops down the aisle with her massive paws, sitting politely at Lyndsey and my feet as Priya says, “And now, the rings!” Violet nudges Priya’s hand with her nose, she’s been practicing all week.
Priya unclips a small box from Violet’s black velvet collar, revealing two rings. Mikki is sobbing audibly. Abigail blows her nose loudly. I look over to see Michael and Allison trying and failing to keep it together.
Allison and the rest of the bridesmaids are wearing short lavender dresses, with matching shawls. It’s in the mid-fifties, not cold but still not hot. Thankfully, it’s a sunny day after a week of rain. We can hear the ocean lapping at the shore in the distance.
I look over at Lyndsey. She’s radiant, wearing a long vintage lace dress from the ‘70s, with a deep v to show off her now ample tits. A crown of gardenias sits on her head, she looks like a goddess. She and Allison found her wedding dress while thrifting one day, by some thrifting miracle, it fit. All Allison had to do was let the bust out a little bit.
I’m wearing a black silk suit with a lavender tie. Apollo and Henry are wearing matching ones, we look quite dapper, or at least more so than we did when we met as acne-ridden teens.
I can see my mum in the front row, holding a handkerchief in a ball in her hand, dabbing the tears from the corner of her eyes. I’m sure that, at the reception next month? She’ll waste no time telling everyone that she’s a grandmother.
“Vincent, take your ring,” Priya instructs. Thanks to the power vested in her by the internet, Priya’s pulling double duty as a bridesmaid and the officiant.
I take the small gold band and smile up at Lyndsey while Priya talks about love and commitment and Lyndsey grimaces as Priya refers to us as “two vagabond souls who found each other on the road.”
I slip the ring onto Lyndsey’s finger. I promise, firstly, to keep my promises. I promise to love her and our kid, to collaborate with her, and to stand by her side as we grow and change.
My voice breaks, tears are streaming down my face, I don’t try to hide it. When it’s time for Lyndsey’s vows, she’s also sobbing.
We promise to love each other, and when Priya says it’s time to kiss the bride, I swoop her back with a flourish and our lips meet. She threads her fingers through my hair and we kiss with gusto as our friends and loved ones cheer us on.
Lyndsey
Spring
I love being married. I love how kitschy and seamless it feels to have a kitchen full of congratulatory toasters, and matching towels with Violet’s face on them.
I love telling people that I’m married and feeling weirdly sophisticated when I call Vince my husband, though he’s Vince. I love the sound of my new name (we were going to hyphenate, but Vince Vynse-Exter was too much of a mouthful).
I’m not a huge fan of being pregnant.
I know, it’s the miracle of life or whatever, but who knew it would be so sweaty? I’m not glowing, other than the constant sheen of sweat that covers my forehead. It’s impossible to sleep because I can’t get comfortable, and the minute I do get comfortable, I have to pee.
None of my jeans fit, and every “maternity” section is convinced that motherhood equals easter-egg pastels and the most unflattering cut shirts I’ve ever seen. I live in a pair of overalls and old men’s work shirts, plus leggings.
Every morning, I open my dresser drawer and gaze lovingly at my favorite pair of jeans, remembering how the holes hugged my kneecaps so perfectly, how they accompanied me through countless tours.
I ripped the crotch once on accident in Arizona, and I patched it myself with a sewing kit, it survived until I hit five months and no amount of begging would close the top button.
