She places her hand over mine, stopping me. “I can afford my own stuff.”
“Let me spoil my wife on our anniversary.” I pull my platinum card from my wallet, and in the process, a photo strip falls to the floor.
Angie’s breath catches as she stares at the worn paper with deep creases from being folded up in my wallet for so many months.
She crouches low to pick it up. “Where did you get this?” Her voice quivers.
“You dropped it outside the hair salon last spring.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“I would’ve held onto any scrap of you I could find, Angel. I wasn’t sure you’d want to keep me, but I knew in my bones you were meant to be mine, even if all I’d ever have is that night in Vegas and those photos to remember our time together.”
She cradles my face and pulls me down for a languid kiss. “I love you. I’m really glad you found me at the hotel bar that night.”
I snatch the photos from her hand and slide them back into my wallet. “I guess what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas. And thank fuck for that.”
Angelina
Motherhood is beautiful and joyful—everything I ever hoped it would be—but somewhere along the way, it robbed me of my identity. I haven’t felt like myself in months, since long before I gave birth to Jessie.
As my body changed, I started losing little pieces of myself. When I wasn’t wearing my scrubs, I’d taken to walking around in athleisure or Griffin’s oversized shirts. My feet swelled so much that I could only wear orthopedic shoes that weren’t particularly aesthetically pleasing.
It’s not that my entire personality was wrapped up in my physical appearance, but the overall discomfort stifled my self-expression. By the time I had Jessie, I no longer recognized myself in the mirror. Messy buns and oversized shirts became a uniform of sorts.
Griffin, as attentive as he is, must’ve sensed I needed this—a day to myself, to reclaim the Angie from before. A reminder I’m not just a mom; I’m a woman too.
After my hair appointment, I head out to the strip mall. My first stop is the shoe store. Now that my feet aren’t swollen anymore, I can wear heels again. I pick out several pairs ofpumps and a pair of sandals that’ll be perfect for our trip to Greece, along with some more comfortable options for walking around the cobblestone streets of Rome.
After that, I head down to the plus-size boutique and rifle through the racks of clothing. Silk, satin, chiffon—so many textures I haven’t worn since my body started changing. I spot a knee-length leather skirt and grab it in my size, along with a floral maxi dress for the beach, and a new swimsuit, too.
I’m just about to head to the dressing room when I spot a mannequin wearing a perfect pair of distressed jeans and a flouncy baby blue top with a puff sleeve that ties between the breasts.
“Could I try that on?” I ask the clerk.
“Of course. What sizes do you need?”
“I think I’m a size twenty-six in jeans, and a 3x top, but it’s been a while. I just had a baby, so I could be way off.”
“No problem! I can grab a couple of different sizes for you to try.” Her voice is cheerful, not in the usual customer service this-job-is-sucking-the-life-out-of-me way, but in a way that tells me she’s genuinely happy to be here. It’s refreshing.
She grabs several sizes of each item and leads me into a changing room. Admittedly, I’ve never loved trying on clothing in store. I always feel hot and sweaty, worried I might get stuck in something too tight, panic ensuing when I do. Luckily, I make it out unscathed. In fact, I emerge from beyond the curtain still wearing the baby blue outfit. “Could you cut the tags off for me? I want to wear it out.”
“Absolutely. That color looks gorgeous on you!”
“Thank you.”
She snips off the tags, and I pay for all of my items, feeling more like myself than I did when I wandered in. Having spent way more on myself than I intended, I take a stroll through the baby boutique across the hall.
At the front of the store, there’s a display of infantswimwear. A bright red one-piece that looks like a strawberry immediately catches my eye. It even comes with a matching hat with a stem. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Jessie’s a chunky girl, so she’s a few months ahead in the sizing chart as it is. I grab the next size up, hoping she doesn’t have some crazy growth spurt before the trip. With a brand new swimsuit, several sundresses, and a few new sleepers in hand, I head back out onto the thoroughfare.
As I approach the exit, a familiar gruff baritone stops me in my tracks. “What are you doing, Angel?”
Griffin is standing in front of the photo booth, his hands in his pockets. His hair is impeccably styled like he just got a fresh blowout, and he looks damn good in a pair of Wranglers and his usual button-down.
“Still have free will,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
