“Wow, well, Cathy, that’s some story to tell your grandkids, isn’t it? But what makes it even better is that our producers have just told us that there are online polls discussing how nice a butt Ms. Harrison has.”
“What are the results?”
“99. 89% have said they’d give a yes vote for her if there was a butt of the year competition. I don’t think she saw this coming!”
“I doubt she saw any of this coming, John. I wonder if Mr. Beauregard knew that the whole country would witness the slideshow proposal?”
“Well, if he didn’t, he knows now!”
Oh, shit. I’m a dead man.
Looking up, I saw Jose walk slowly into the living room, eyes attached to the screen that was still showing some of the photos from last night, except with certain areas edited out. I waited for her to look at me before talking, using that valuable time to think up a way to get out of the big shit hole I’d unknowingly dug myself in to.
When she finally looked at me, I spoke before she could say a word. “Mace organized that bit of it, so I had no idea everyone would see those photos. I’d wanted to get Jarrod to sing a romantic song while I proposed, but his idea seemed way cooler.” When she didn’t say anything back, I went with the one thing I knew would save me… well, in the future. I was a dead man walking right now. “I quadruple dog dare you to marry me.”
She’d forgive me in about fifty years, and until she did, I’d just have to make it up to her. I might give her a couple of hours before I get near her again, though, just in case.Chapter 22Jose
Two months later…I was an awful, shitty human being. I couldn’t think of where I wanted to get married and how I wanted to do it. The only thing I’d been able to decide on was our wedding bands and my dress and shoes. What bride does that?
Hearing Tabby puking in the bathroom, while I lay on her bed reading a bridal magazine, made me snicker. Apparently, someone had partied a bit too hard on the night that I got engaged, and I was going to be an aunt in just over seven months’ time. “You know, if you drink ginger ale,” hard heave from the bathroom, “it helps your stomach. Eating saltines does, too!” Another hard heave came from the room, making me swallow awkwardly. “Someone told me about this turmeric and condensed milk drink when I was pregnant, but I never tried it.” Oh, that one was a productive heave, poor woman. “Do you want me to make you some toast? I can hold back the butter.”
“Stahp,” she croaked, and then heaved again. She had morning sickness on steroids, it was what had made her take a pregnancy test two weeks ago when it all started. I’d had a stomach bug at the time and had been puking with her, so I’d taken one, too. Ah, it was a major sister bonding moment, both of us staring at the sticks we’d peed on, waiting for those results. I’ll admit only to myself that I was a bit disappointed when mine came back negative, but in the future we’d get this moment and celebrate after it, just not now. Plus, the exciting thing was – it wasn’t my boobies and vagina being ruined by the wrecking baby ball, so congratulations, Tabby!
The sound of the toilet flushing was a relief because I was one of those people who heard puking and had to do it, too. A barf companion. Looking up when the door opened, I winced when I saw the state of her as she walked out of it and headed toward the other side of the bed.
“Dude, you look like hammered shit.”
Holding up a hand, she face planted on the mattress, and mumbled into it, “Don’t talk about shit, please. I’ve just had my face where that stuff goes to party, and I was hella aware of it. My stomach also reacted violently to the thought of Dave sitting there, shitting his heart out, so let’s not revisit.”
Flicking to the next page in the magazine, I muttered, “Lengthy explanation, all you had to do was say shut up.”
“Shut up.”
Closing the magazine and throwing it on the floor in frustration, I threw my head back onto the pillow. “Why is this so difficult? I should be able to just decide on a place and the details we need, but I can’t picture it. It’s like I’m wedding defective or something.”
“Mexico?”
“Veto.”
“Vegas?”
“No.”
“Mars?”
“Go say hi to the poop in the toilet,” I snapped.
Not saying a word, she lifted her hand and smacked me as hard as she could, right on my left tit. Men say getting hit in the balls hurts, and I don’t doubt that it does, but equally being punched – or in this case slapped – in the tit and nipple is absolute agony, so I screamed my ass off.