Don't Kiss the Bride

“No, like groomed you or brainwashed you into having Stockholm syndrome or some kidnapping shit.”

I frown at him and reach up to fluff my hair. “I don’t even know what that is.”

He shakes his head. “Never mind. Maybe go put some more adult shoes on just for the ceremony. She’ll be the first person to see us together as a so-called couple and…”

Now I get it. He’s worried how we look together. Other than living in the same house, we’re never together. But I can see how we might look a little bit mismatched to some people. I personally don’t care, but maybe he does.

“Okay,” I say. “But I don’t think different shoes are going to make me look older.”

I go back up to my room and change into the only pair of shoes I have that I think will look adult enough to satisfy him—a pair of black, four-inch pumps. I’ve only worn them once, and that was to a Halloween party last year when I dressed up as cat woman. Megan convinced me the heels would be sexy.

But when I get back downstairs, Jude does another double take when he sees the change of shoes.

“What now?” I ask. “You’re still making a face. I’m sure white heels would be better, but I don’t have white. I—”

Putting his hand up, he stops me from launching into a rambling shoe discussion. “It’s okay. Really. Black is fine. They’re just…” He stares at the shoes. “High.”

I blink at him as he stands. “Um, that’s why they’re called high heels.”

“They’re fine.” He smiles, but that little muscle in his jaw is twitching. And he’s still looking at the shoes. Actually, I think he’s looking at my calves. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You look great. I’m gonna go get dressed.”

I plant myself in the chair he just got out of and look out over the backyard, which looks like an autumn painting. The leaves are changing now—all reds, yellows, and oranges scattered across the grass. Squirrels are skittering around among the acorns and twigs, providing amusement for Gus, who’s got her eyes glued to them.

Living here is even nicer than I thought it would be when I moved in three weeks ago. It’s quiet and peaceful. I sleep better here than I ever did at my mother’s house. Maybe because I feel safer, less anxious. Sharing a house with Jude is comfortable—he’s never made me feel nervous or unwelcome. He’s quiet and independent. A bit broody. But he’s also got a teasing, playful side. I find the mix appealing. I think, though, what I admire most about him is his consistency. He goes to work every morning, comes home and eats dinner, watches TV, then goes to bed. On weekends, he works on the house, or plays pool with a friend. We usually eat dinner and watch a movie together. Growing up, my father was in and out of the house like it had a revolving door. His hours were always different. Sometimes he worked nights, sometimes days. He went out often with his friends to bowl or grab a beer. Many nights he didn’t come home. I never knew when I’d see him—sometimes weeks went by without seeing him. If he ever made plans with me, he usually forgot or had something come up at the last minute.

And then he moved into the camper, which was the beginning of the end.

I also greatly appreciate being able to sleep with my bedroom door open if I want to, and the luxury of coming and going through an actual front door. My days of window climbing are over.

I turn when I hear Jude come down the stairs and enter the room, and this time, it's my turn to do a double take.

His hair is tied in a man bun—the first time I’ve seen it that way. I’ve never been a fan of that style on men, but it looks damn good on him.

So does everything else.

Black on black on black.

A black button-down shirt has taken the place of his usual tee or sweatshirt. The top four buttons are unbuttoned, showing off a glimpse of the tattoo in the middle of his chest. Black jeans and black biker boots. A black leather bracelet with a thick metal clasp twists around his wrist. My heart jumps when I notice the fourth finger of his left hand doesn’t have his sterling skull ring.

Sudden warmth races through my veins.

Soon, I’ll be slipping a ring onto that finger.

He’ll be slipping one onto mine.

This man standing in front of me will legally be my husband.

And I’ll legally be his wife.

Tingles travel up my spine.

Words like mine and his float through my head. Words I shouldn’t be thinking of, because they’re a sham. Not real. But sometimes, they sneak in. I wonder what it would feel like to be someone else’s special person. To have them be mine.