I laugh inwardly—yet here I am. Her daughter, who adores the command and guidance of an authoritarian man. If she had a Clay Butcher, knew what it was like to feel safe, allowed to be eccentric and raw, she would bend to the intoxicating pull of a strong leader as well. She would have been like me.
But she lost her way…
Early motherhood, poverty, and drugs took hold of her. If she had a Clay Butcher to call her own, perhaps she would have been the nurturing figure I always longed for—always present, loving, and playful. I can envision that version of her, tender and attentive. I’ll paint that false memory into existence.
Make it real.
Make it mine.
I lift my phone—she didn’t have a fancy phone like me—lazily looking at the display, swiping through the rehearsal dinner Pinterest board. That was the easiest to plan because it’s all Clay-centric—cigars, moody colours, wood, edible gold chocolates—which I love. I love making it all about him. Then I swipe to the wedding board.
Peach Juliet Roses.
Gold invitations.
Peach bridesmaids’ dresses.
My dress!
My sleepy gaze lingers on the wedding dress of my dreams. Ivory silk clinging to the pretty Parisian model’s frame, long sleeves, a high neckline, a mature, modest dress that I hope the Family will approve of, delicate beadwork, pearls in a line down the back. Six months’ worth of waiting. Of measuring tape against my skin. Of fabric swatches mailed across oceans. I have only felt the mock-up dress against my body.
My phone suddenly vibrates in my palm, night-mode quiet, a notification dropping from the top bar. I squint at it, reading the words.
Bronson?
Group Chat?
Sir?
Wedding Talk!
My cheeks lift as I tap the notification, fingers eager against the screen, heart picking up pace. The chat expands, filling my display with a blue bubble.
Bronson: Welcome to my wedding chat!
Fawn: Hi!!!
Bronson: Hey Fawn! I know he doesn’t seem like he’s much fun, but he used to be. I swear it.
I try not to jig with glee, aware of Ash finishing his snack and drifting in and out of slumber.
Fawn: I am all ears.
Bronson: He has always been an arrogant son-of-a-Butcher. Found out I had a knack for cooking. Thought he could do better. Tried his hand at dinner one night, showing off in front of the Family. The pasta ended up chipping an eighty-year-old Nonna’s dentures.
Sir: They were al dente, mate.
Fawn: Hi, Sir! You’re in the house! Just down the hall! This is so cute. We have never done this.
Sir: I’m pleased you’re pleased.
Bronson: Al dente? More like al dente in her dentures.
Sir: Careful.
Fawn: Eeee! More!
Bronson: Thought he could beat our old Don at Blackjack! Started counting cards. Basically Sicilian suicide.
