David went through an entire spiritual journey to figure out who he wanted to be.
“Slinky dog fucking rocks,” he mused. “Being Rex would be sick, but he’s a scaredy cat.”
“What about Mr. Potato Head?” Jack had offered up.
“It wouldn’t feel right without a Mrs. Potato Head,” he said, shaking his head.
“Whenareyou going to get a Mrs. Potato Head?” Ellie asked pointedly.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I guess I’ll know it when I meet her.”
“We should have done Peter Pan instead,” Griffin laughed. “Since David isn’t ever going to grow up.”
“I resent that,” he said jokingly, but for a brief moment something like hurt flickered across his face.
In the end, he landed on being one of the little green aliens, and to be honest, he fucking nailed it.
The final piece of our puzzle was Erin, who made the cutest Hamm anyone has ever seen. She may hate me for it someday, but I couldn’t resist the tiny pink pig costume from the second I saw it.
Trick-or-treating took infinitely longer this year, since my perfect angel baby now insists on walking herself everywhere. But watching that little spiral tail bounce with each waddle made the painstakingly slow pace more than worth it.
“What a night,” Jack grunts, removing his helmet and shrugging out of his wings. “Why do I feel like it’s going to keep getting more exhausting every year she gets older?”
“Are you sure you still want to go to this thing?” I ask, shaking my curls loose from their braids. “We don’t have to, you know.”
Apparently Tyler decided to have his own party at the station, with the chief’s blessing.
“The only rule,” he announced, “is that you cannot wear your uniform and come as a ‘fireman.’ Get creative, boys.”
Since I've spent years subjecting Jack to my elaborate costume schemes, I let him take the reins with the costumes for the party. So here we are, stripping out of our cartoon costumes and into black-tie outfits, transforming from Pixar characters into James Bond and Vesper Lynd.
“I promised Tyler I’d be there,” he sighs. “Plus,” he adds, stepping back and looking at me hungrily. “I’d do just about anything to stare at you in that dress for a few hours.”
“Wouldn’t you rather see me out of it?” I say sweetly, making eye contact in the mirror as I apply bright red lipstick. “I think this fabric is perfect for crumpling on the floor.”
His face goes taut with a pained expression, a war in his mind clearly raging.
“You’re diabolical,” he groans, stepping up behind me and running his hands down my body against the silky black fabric. “I willdefinitelybe taking you out of this later,” he murmurs, kissing my neck. “But for now, I plan on showing you off.”
“More like I’m showing you off,” I say, spinning around and grabbing the lapel of his tux jacket. “You look mighty fine in a tux, Jack Robbit.”
“The name’s Robbit,” he says in his best Sean Connery impression. “Jack Robbit.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be Daniel Craig?” I giggle as he peppers my face with kisses.
“The Connery accent is more fun,” he says with a grin. “But you better not tell anyone I did that.”
“You know I’m going to,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “How am I supposed to pass up that opportunity?”
He groans as my shoulders shake with laughter, then focuses on tying his bowtie. We take a final look in the mirror, and hot damn, do we look good. I’m on the cusp of begging him to ditch this party so I can have my way with him, when he says the magic words.
“Do you wanna stop by the diner before we go? Grab some fries and a milkshake?”
“We’ll be the most overdressed pair to ever set foot in that greasy wonderland,” I say, already heading for the front door. “But of course I do.”
In the car, he nervously drums his fingers against the steering wheel before I grab one of his hands and place it in my lap. He grips my thigh, running his thumb over the skin that’s exposed by the high slit in my evening gown.
“It’s just a party,” I say soothingly. “We don’t have to stay for long.”
