“Be sure and tell Mommy she’s really pretty!” Phoebe whisper-shrieks as she bounces onto the couch beside me. My eyes snag on the glittery heart on her cheek.
She says that every time Chloe puts on more than studio couture (her words—I don’t know what that means).
“Why wouldn’t—” Words die on my lips as Chloe emerges from the hall.
I didn’t think she could get more beautiful than she looked on our wedding day, but I guess when you’re deeply in love with someone, everything you like about them is enhanced tenfold.
My brain scrambles to catalogue every detail like they might vanish if I breathe too loudly. She never dresses like this—soft and bold all at once.
Her dress is all floaty tulle, like she’s a fairy princess come to life. The soft purple of it turns her skin sun-kissed, and reminds me of summer. As I drink her in, I note hundreds of tiny embroidered flowers that somehow make the skirt look like a Colorado field in July.
“Mommy, spin,” Phoebe urges with a wide smile, nestled into the couch cushions, absolutely vibrating with excitement.
Chloe obliges, sequins flashing in the light as she moves, like ice on the branches of our trees in the sun.
It’s warm for December, but I remember how quickly the weather turns here. The light denim jacket she’s wearing is a lot more practical for tonight than New Year’s Eve tomorrow,when the temperature will drop forty degrees with the cold front that’s coming. Tan cowgirl boots peek out from the hem, scuffed and loved-on at the edges. Layered necklaces glint at her throat, and stacks of Phoebe-made friendship bracelets already line her arms.
Thank you, Evie.
She purchased an obscene amount of beads this morning and they spent at least an hour before we went to the farm making some.
“What do you think?” Chloe whispers, her body half ready to run.
She’s crazy to think there’s any version of her that doesn’t absolutely wreck me when I see her. And I’ve seen a lot of versions of her in a short period of time.
Her hair’s in a loose braid over one shoulder, her dark waves threaded with deep purple clip-ins so close to her hair color, they feel like a shared secret.
Evelyn encouraged me to keep my cheerleading to myself as much as possible, but I can’t help the overwhelming way I want to urge her on. She’s had enough people keep her complicit in her own silence, and I love her too much for that.
I reach out, hook my fingers lightly under the end of her braid, then trail them up to her jaw so she has to look at me.
The way I would’ve before things felt like they could break apart.
“I think,” I say slowly, because this deserves the right words, “that my wife is going to steal the spotlight from the headliners.”
Her mouth curves, still a little wobbly around the edges. But for just a second, I’m back in our living room back home, reliving a similar moment where Phoebe chanted about her mom looking like a princess. And Chloe wore a similar expression, caught between disbelief and untainted happiness that said:I almost feel like one.
“I don’t think I’d go that far, but since your opinion is the one that matters—thank you.”
She smiles so big, her eyes shine with a gleam of tears.
I lean in, so only she hears my next words. “No, thank you. For marrying me, and loving me. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
Before she can say anything, Evie breezes through the room, a menace in black jeans, a fitted blazer over a shiny top, and boots sharp enough to double as a murder weapon.
“Come on, Squirt. They’re probably about to get real gross.”
Phoebe gives us a quick glance and races after my sister, a series of belly laughs trailing behind her.
“Your sister is ridiculous,” she says, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Maybe, but we probably should go. I give it about five seconds before one of them ‘accidentally’ honks the horn.”
She rubs her lips together and my eyes snag on the way they shine.
“Do you remember what I asked you this morning?”
“I’m still being too careful, aren’t I?” I wince.
