Your Husband
I immediately pull out my phone and send him a text.
Me: What’s going on?
Griffin: I remembered I have free will. Enjoy your breakfast.
Me: You know I hate surprises.
Griffin: But you love me. It balances out.
Me: That’s not how it works.
Griffin: It is. I checked with Jax and he said the math checks out.
Me: You’re the worst.
Griffin: I love you, too. See you in a few hours.
I take my breakfast on the hotel balcony because, like Griffin, I too have free will. He didn’t spare any expense when he booked our room. It has a panoramic view of the Aegean Sea that looks like it belongs on a postcard, vibrant blue waters fading into the distant horizon until the sky blurs into the water’s edge. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you could fall off the edge of the world if you travel far enough.
At noon on the dot, there’s a knock on the door. A beautiful woman in a white uniform with her dark hair pulled back into a low bun sets up a massage table in the main living space of our massive suite. What follows is an incredible deep tissue massage. By the time she’s finished, every muscle in my body has been tended to, and I feel like I could float off on a breeze.
The hair and makeup team arrives shortly thereafter with a garment bag in tow. “Your husband sent this up for you,” one of the women says.
When I slide down the zipper, my eyes catch on a familiar white robe with feathered trim and pearls on the sheer sleeves. My wedding robe. What exactly is this man planning?
The stylist works some kind of miracle on my frizzy hair, creating long Hollywood waves that cascade over my shoulders, one side swept back off my face. The makeup is a full beat, with a neutral smoky eye, rosy cheeks, and a light peachy-pink lip. I’ve never felt more beautiful.
As the makeup artist is packing up her kit, she hands me a note on honeymoon suite paper. My husband’s got jokes, it seems.
Angel,
I know you hate surprises, but I have one more for you. Answer the door when they knock.
Love, Griff
P.S. I wanted to write a Haiku but I couldn’t work all of the details into so few syllables.
I roll my eyes. Details? What details? This tells me nothing.
The knock comes, and when I pull open the door, I’m convinced I must be hallucinating. Standing on the other side are my parents. Dad’s in a simple tan suit, and Mom’s wearing a dusty blue satin dress with a pleated tiered skirt. They look incredible.
“Lina, my love. You look stunning.” She air-kisses both my cheeks and holds my hands to look me over. “You need to change.”
“I’ll be out on the balcony,” Dad says. “Take your time.”
“Is anybody going to tell me what’s happening? What are you doing here?”
“All in good time,” she says.
Mom leads into the bedroom and disappears into the closet. When she comes back, she’s holding a silk charmeuse mermaid-style gown with a corseted bodice, thigh-high slit, and shoulder drapes. It’s unmistakable now. This is a wedding gown, and I’m the bride.
I burst into laughter at the realization, my vision turninghazy as tears gather along my lashes. At some point, my mom produces a handkerchief and dabs at my eyes.
“No crying,” she says. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”
I glance up at the ceiling and fan my face. Once I’ve regained my composure, I stare pointedly at my mother. “Tell me everything.”
