Smitten

I said to my mother back then, “I know you don’t approve of me living with my boyfriend, but—” And Mom cut me off to say, “Oh, honey. You’ve got an album to create together, on a short timeline! And it’s obvious you two are a match made in heaven. Of course, you’re living together. It makes perfect sense!”

I couldn’t believe it. Ya think you know someone . . .

Speaking of mothers, even though my biological one isn’t here to celebrate today, I’m not motherless at this party. I’ve got my two adopted moms in attendance: Fish’s sweet mother, Lorna, who’s treated me like a daughter since the day I met her. And, of course, my beloved Momma Lou. Louise Morgan. From the moment I met that delightful woman in Seattle, I absolutely loved her. From minute one, she made me feel every bit as much like a daughter-in-law to her as Violet and Maddy and the others.

From Mrs. Morgan, I let my gaze drift to my adopted big sister, Kat. She’s singing next to her husband, Josh, who’s holding their baby, Arabella, while Kat wrangles their two older kids.

From there, Keane and Maddy are standing next in line. And then there’s Colin, who’s holding the hand of Keane and Maddy’s firecracker, Billie. For some reason, Billie is obsessed with her Uncle Colin, every bit as much as her Uncle Zander, which is saying a lot. Billie follows Colin around, batting her eyelashes at him. And constantly, as she’s doing right now, demands to hold his hand. I’m not sure if Colin being here as Billie’s “date” means he’s single and ready to mingle again. I can’t keep track of Colin’s love life these days. Nobody ever seems to last very long.

Finally, when the crowd reaches the last notes of their song, I return my gaze to the man standing next to me. My hot boyfriend of two years. My songwriting partner and producer. My best friend and lover. The Goat Called Fish Who’s Hung Like A Bull. But Not Really.

Fish isn’t looking at me because he’s presently gazing down at his nephew, Jackson, who’s holding his hand and singing his little heart out. And I think, as I often do when looking at Fish, You’re my first, my last, my best, my only . . . love.

When the birthday song ends, Violet and I blow out our candles, eliciting cheers and applause. I wrap Violet in a hug and wish her a happy birthday, and she whispers the same to me.

Violet flashes me her most charming smile. “Would ‘Alfi’ be willing to give me a little birthday present?”

I know exactly what she means. During our tour, Violet never once missed a performance of “Smitten.” No matter what, she always figured out a way to be standing there, front and center, or in the wings, to watch the performance of at least that particular song.

“You want it now?” I ask. And when Violet nods effusively, I reply, “I’ll tell Georgie to announce us!”

I reach Georgie on the far side of the patio, where she’s presently enjoying a champagne-infused giggle with Mrs. Morgan. When I reach the pair, Mrs. Morgan hugs me tightly and wishes me a happy birthday. We chat for a bit. Mrs. Morgan gives me an update on her life and the “Seattle Branch” of the family who couldn’t make it today. I tell Momma Lou that Fish and I are in the middle of writing our second album and that it’s going to be even better than the first one.

“I can’t wait!” Mrs. Morgan gushes. “I love your first album. Especially ‘Smitten.’ I listen to that one all the time.”

“Thank you. Speaking of which, Violet just requested Fish and I perform that song as her birthday present.”

Mrs. Morgan expresses extreme excitement, as does Georgie. I ask my stepsister to announce the performance, since she’s been playing emcee all afternoon, and Georgina promptly beelines onstage and grabs a mic.

“Hey, everyone!” Georgina says. “We’ve got another performance for you!” The milling crowd quiets down. “Our birthday girl, Violet, has requested a performance from our other birthday girl.” Georgina’s hazel eyes twinkle. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Alfiiiii!”

Fish and I take the stage to applause. Fish grabs one of the acoustic guitars from its stand and briefly tunes it, while I grab the ukulele—the treasured one Fish gave me as a gift two years ago for my twentieth birthday. We approach our microphones. Say hello to the crowd. I wish Violet a happy birthday and then look at Fish. He winks at me—his way of asking if I’m ready to start—and I wink back, letting him know, yep, I’m good to go, baby. And away we go, singing our familiar, happy song about being in love and smitten—a song that never gets old to sing: