Don’t worry, I have photos. I’ll print one out on the office computer and post it here for all to see. -Candice
19
JONAH
A few daysafter my wedding, two things happen that completely change my life.
One: Winnie shows up with her things and moves in.
Two: The money from her trust clears and I pay off my mother’s medical debt in full.
The first one has me on edge. Currently, Winnie is organizing her clothing in the closet of the larger bedroom, because it has, and I quote, “the best lighting for trying on outfits.” I’ve resigned myself to sleeping on the twin bed in the spare room. I’d be ashamed to have my wife—realorfake—sleep in such a tiny shoebox of a room. Besides, my guitars and desk are in there, so I’ll make it work.
But I’m used to living alone, and I’m a man who likes my space.
The second thing makes me feel like a thousand-pound weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I didn’t realize it was there most days, but now that it’s gone, now that the account balance online reads $0.00, I feel lighter than I have in months.
I’m going to tell my parents about the wedding first, and then once they’ve accepted it, let them know about the medical bills being paid off. I’m sure they’ll be suspicious but what’s doneis done. I probably need to bring Winnie over there for dinner soon, too.
I walk into the bedroom to ask her about it, and find Winnie grabbing an armful of dresses and shoving them into the closet.
“How do you manage to wear all of those, anyway?” I ask.
Winnie whirls around, clearly startled by me. “It’s rude not to announce yourself,” she sniffs.
“And it’s also rude to take up three-quarters of the closet space without asking.”
“You weren’t using it, though!” she protests. A lock of dark hair escapes her ponytail and falls across her face. She blows it out of the way and glares at me. “Besides, I left some of it at Candice’s. I knew better than to expect it all to fit.”
She looks around, surveying the mess she’s made. There are piles of clothes on the bed, and shoes scattered on the carpet. A heap of lingerie is sitting on one of the pillows, and I have to force myself to look away.
What does my wife look like, wrapped in black lace? What about in red?
“I’ll make sure it’s neat, I promise,” she says, smiling at me.
“Why do you have all of this anyways?”
Winnie sighs, and perches on the edge of the bed, facing me. “As I mentioned before, brands send me things. But also, Iloveclothes. Like really, really love them. I can sew too, you know, and I’m decent at designing my own things. I didn’t have much freedom with my parents, so shopping became sort of like therapy. I’d spend my nights hunting down pieces online, and sorting through auction listings. That’s how I found my fur coats.” She pulls one off the bed next to her and holds it up. It’s sable brown and short, like something an old Hollywood starlet would have worn.
It dawns on me that Winnie is a collector. Not of garden gnomes or ceramic plates or stamps, but of clothing.
“How come you were so excited to wear jeans?” I ask, because this part still confuses me.
She gives me a confused expression.
“It’s something you said the second time we met. You told Candice and Beau that you were excited to wear a t-shirt and jeans. Which confused me because, well, you know.” I gesture at my basic outfit composed of just that.
Understanding dawns on Winnie’s face, and then her smile falls, just a bit. “My mom dictated what I wore. For social media and pageants, but also in my everyday life. She didn’t think jeans were appropriate for me to wear.”
“Why the hell not?” I bark. Winnie winces a bit, and I realize that I spoke too loudly. “Sorry,” I add in a gentler tone. “It’s just that jeans are appropriate for just about everything.”
“Come here,” she says, patting the space next to her and taking out her phone. When I sit down next to her, she shows me a photo. “This is what I used to look like.”
The woman in the photo is blonde, with hair that falls in soft curls, and tanned skin. She’s wearing pearls and a light blue dress, and has a Miss Alabama sash across her chest. Her thousand watt smile shows each pearly white tooth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“This barely looks like you,” I say, glancing between Winnie and the photo.
“I know,” she says. “Orange fake tan, bleach, and dressing like you have a stick up your ass will do that.”
