It’s like I’m at an extended slumber party with my best friend. We have fun together. We always have. We talk about our days, laugh over the memes we’ve sent to each other during any hours spent apart, sing along to our favorite songs when we’re in the kitchen, and snuggle up in companionable silence while watching our favorite shows. Owen’s cuddly and flirty, which is not outside his norm, but since the tender church-kiss he pressed against my lips on our wedding day, we haven’t kissed again.
He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, the crown of my head when we watch TV, or the tip of my index finger when I pointed it at him during an argument about the real meaning behind the last season ofLosttwo days ago—but never my lips.
Which is fine.
Gretchen and I are Just. Fine.
I get to wake up to my own personal barista, usually shirtless, because nothing is fair in this world, and if Owen’s in his natural habitat, he simply cannot abide garments on his upper body. Then, I make sure he takes his pain medications and anti-inflammatories, along with his morning protein shake, while he feeds and caffeinates me before I head to work. It’s a good system. A rhythm we’ve always had but seem to be perfecting within the parameters of our newly formed label and closer proximity.
A few days this week, Owen has stopped by after his first physical therapy appointment to have lunch with me at work. He’s brought flowers and food and every bit of excitement to the normally sleepy salon. And when he heads to practice, to offer emotional support to his team, I’m left to share every juicy detail of newlywed happiness with my coworkers—which Cindy withthe mermaid hair is absolutely delighted to hear, and Gretchen, my incandescently happy goblin, is overjoyed to divulge and embellish when necessary.
They have especially loved to hear how, in his spare time, it’s Owen’s absolute honor to rub my feet before he carries me, one-armed, to our bed… early… because we simply must spend all our time there.
Mom and Jerry left for their Las Vegas honeymoon a few days after our wedding, so I’ve been extra busy with my clients and hers, taking on every cut, color, and blowout I can manage before the show—and Owen’s and my pseudo-honeymoon—starts. Setting the extra cash cushion aside has given me peace of mind, knowing I’m about to be out of work for potentially the next eight weeks and may come out of this thing with no cash prize to show for it.
But at the end of every busy, gossip- and hair product-filled day, I find myself restless to head home, where I know myhubby—again, his words, not mine… though, admittedly, I don’t hate it—will be waiting to make dinner with me, exchange stories from our day, and do all the normal, monotonous tasks that feel somehow enchanting when we’re doing them together.
It’s honestly strange how little things have changed between Owen and me since last Saturday afternoon. I had been so afraid of declaring my vows—to love and cherish, honor and obey, to encourage and walk beside Owen for all the days of our lives. Worried that I wouldn’t be able to uphold those promises, knowing the majority of marriages aren’t sustained on empty words and idealistic fantasies.
But as Owen recited his vows, holding my hand, laser focused on me and, miraculously, not the spectacle around us, it felt natural to respond. To promise him all the things that I know I’ll always feel for him, married or not. Because at that moment, and every moment before and after, it’s always been Owen and me.Babe and Ruth. I may be unsure about so much in my life, but staying true to those promises feels a lot like slipping into those perfectly soft sheets of mine—simple and safe and an absolute privilege to partake in.
This morning, I’m painting my nails at the kitchen counter with Owen’s exquisite, vintage-inspired, coronet cluster ring around my finger. My mom, who considers herself a gem expert at this point, says it’s of heirloom quality. Whatever that means. Jerry, the man who loves to call himself my stepfather and boasts of the value of his opinion in that regard, agrees.
From all of the attention the ring has received, I’d say, Owen didrealgood.
The round, middle stone—a sapphire that reminds me of the color of Owen’s deep blue eyes—is surrounded by smaller round diamonds that only make that center stone all the more breathtaking. It’s sparkly and beautiful and timeless… and somehow familiar. Almost like I’ve seen it before but can’t place where. Owen says he’s had it for a while, and I haven’t pressed him about it. Like if I ask too much, he’ll suddenly decide he needs to hold onto this particular ring for his real life and not squander it playing house, temporarily, with me. And if that delicate balance breaks, what else might give way in this crazy, wonderful agreement of ours?
“Big day today,” I say, blowing on my wet nails and partaking in one of my favorite marital pastimes thus far, memorizing the sculpted lines of Owen’s bare back. He’s objectively beautiful, and now, as his bonafidewifey, I’m permitted to look but not touch—per our agreement. I will fully admit to myself and me alone, that my husband’s got it goin’ on.
Gretchen concurs. With praise hands.
Owen hums his agreement but doesn’t turn around, too busy scooping coffee into the espresso cup thingy and wedging it intothe big silver slot that I imagine filters the water through. He’s basically a magician. A shirtless, extremely fit magician.
And I, his appreciative bride, am a lucky, lucky girl.
I switch to the other hand and focus my attention there. No time to ogle my husband when we have our first marriage counseling appointment followed very closely by our first appearance on national television. No big deal.
“So, are you nervous?”
“About the show or counseling?” he asks but still doesn’t turn around.
“Oh, the show, of course. Counseling-schmounseling is what I always say. No big deal.”
I am, in fact, terrified of counseling. Although Owen’s dad agreed to marry us at the last minute, he insisted we meet with Evan Lovett, a local church pastor, for marriage counseling after the wedding. Sessions that Gary, a retired pastor, always required pre-wedding as an officiant. But, especially after the fact, he figured we might not feel comfortable meeting and discussing marital… things… with him. Truthfully, meeting with Pastor Lovett is so much more intimidating. The man works for Jesus. Vocationally.
Owen chuckles to himself and finally turns around, holding my favorite mug in his hands. It’s got Kevin Costner’s silhouette printed on it and says,“If you brew it, I will yum.”I got it for Owen as a Christmas gift the year he showed me the movie,Field of Dreams, and it just makes me giddy every time I see it.
Could be the mug. Could be the man. Who’s to say for sure?
“You’re a dirty, little liar.” Owen sets the steaming mug in front of me, then kisses my temple. “And here is your dirty chai. It’s just a chai with espresso. I think you’ll like it.”
I take a sip, and, dang, it is delicious. Everything this man does is.
“What if Pastor Lovett asks intrusive questions?”
Owen runs his hand along my shoulder blades, setting my skin on fire, before jotting off to his bedroom and answering from there. “Come on, Brooke. You like Evan,” he shouts from the other room. “He’s cool, we’ve known him forever, and he’s meant to ask questions.”
“I do like his preaching,” I argue, sipping my drink, feeling my nerves double. “And I know he knows us, O. That’s kind of the problem. What if he can tell we aren’treallymarried?”
