(Elle)
TUESDAY
I wake up the morning after our family dinner feeling better than I have in days. There's a weird giddiness now that it's all decided and all happening so soon. In twelve days I'll be married to Noah, and not long after that we'll be parents; it would be terrifying if it weren't also thrilling. All these decisions and milestones and transitions that seemed unimaginable a year ago are about to become reality, and I can only giggle at the ridiculous pace of it all.
For once I'm the first one up, and by the time Noah joins me in the kitchen the coffee is made, the first batch of French toast is coming off the griddle, and I'm singing along to my phone.
"You're unusually chipper for this early." Noah comments warily.
"Why wouldn't I be? I have no classes to go to, no work to do, and for another few weeks, basically no responsibilities. And neither do you. So before adulthood comes barrelling at us, I say we enjoy our summer."
"I sense there's a plan for today that I shouldn't try to modify."
"Correct. Not that you'd want to, because once we've had breakfast we're going to the beach and doing absolutely nothing productive, we're eating boardwalk food for lunch no matter how much you try to convince me corn dogs and funnel cake aren't a balanced meal, and once it gets too hot we're seeing whatever movie is playing. If they're all terrible, we'll have to entertain ourselves some other way than paying attention to the screen. Oh, and Lee mentioned a friend of his is having a party tonight. With karaoke and vintage video games, so you know I'm not missing that."
"So you're going full high school for the day?" Noah laughs.
"Basically. Come on, it'll be fun."
"Karaoke with Lee's friends—definitely the hottest invite in town."
"He thinks that girl he met at the party this weekend is going to be there. We can't miss that."
"Am I allowed to mess with him?" Noah's eyes gleam.
"Within reason."
"Deal."
I keep expecting June to call or text with wedding questions, but she's true to her promise to take as much of the planning off our shoulders as possible and I don't hear from her all day. I know Mickey called June as soon as I got done telling her about our blitz wedding plans, so maybe between the two of them Noah and I really won't have much to do. I do wonder if I should care more about all these details we've blindly delegated to June. It's not that I don't care about the wedding, it's that trying to figure out what I want and how to make it happen by next Saturday is paralyzing, and I can't imagine not liking anything June comes up with. As long as Noah and I end up married and the people most important to us are there, I'm happy. Well, and cake. Maybe I should make sure June understands that cake is non-negotiable.
Hanging out in the shallows as small waves constantly push and pull past me is heavenly, even more so than floating in our pool had been. With the salt water supporting me, I feel less awkward and unbalanced than I have in weeks, and I'm tempted to spend the rest of this pregnancy immersed. I'd be so pruney my skin might never recover and I'd stink of seaweed and iodine, but it might still be worth it. I don't attempt to swim, I just hang off the side of a float while Noah keeps it from being pulled away by the waves, his height making him a convenient human pier.
Noah is telling me stories about a disastrous surfing trip, with missed flights and stolen luggage and miserable weather, and it takes me a minute to realize that he's talking about this February, that he and his friends were off on these adventures while I was panicking about being pregnant and trying to figure out what to do next. The brief flash of resentment I feel is entirely unfair; I'm the reason Noah had no idea what I was going through as he relaxed on vacation. Thankfully, my irrational frustration is quickly replaced by simple disbelief at how long ago February already seems.
Once the sun gets high, I retreat under our umbrella and catch up on podcasts while watching Noah get dragged into a beach volleyball match. Watching him play is always fun, and even more so after I notice two of the girls on the other team very obviously giggling and whispering about him. Well, very obviously to me, but apparently not to Noah, because when everyone takes a break between sets he walks right past them without noticing their flirtatious smiles. Flirtatious smiles whose collapse I greatly enjoy witnessing once Noah sits down next to me and I wave gaily to his admirers. The attention he invariably gets from women used to drive me nuts, but after all these years I've realized that the existence of other women in the world really isn't a threat to us compared to our own idiocy. It was never anyone else that broke us up, just us.
Noah stays only long enough to check in on me and grab another water bottle; I can tell he's eager to get back to the match and I don't want him missing out just to sit here with me, especially not when I'm more than happy to keep watching him play. I'm not convinced when Noah claims he'll be fine not being involved with a team next year. I know him, he needs a competitive outlet, and it's also clear how much he's enjoyed coaching these last two years. Which I get, because I miss being part of a team, too. I joined the intramural soccer club my first semester at UCLA, one small step on my slow climb to reclaim my college life, and last fall I'd finally felt back in the groove. Practices were scheduled to start up again after winter break, but by then I was busy freaking out about being pregnant and I quit without telling anyone why. I don't know how long it'll be before I'm up for soccer again, but I need to convince Noah that I won't kill him if he joins some kind of rec league, even if it means more time on my own with Dinah. I'm more likely to kill him if he doesn't and I have to deal with his antsy, pent-up self.
Watching Noah play and thinking about soccer and all the other activities that got pushed aside this spring does make me wistful. Sometimes I wish we were getting more time. That I weren't pregnant right now and that we could be settling into living together with nothing more complicated to figure out than how to divvy up household chores. The extra bedroom in our apartment would be my office instead of a nursery, and we'd be planning vacations and trips to see friends without worrying about how many vaccinations babies are supposed to get before you start traveling with them. But the wistfulness is fleeting, because there are two things of which I'm certain: that there's no chance we'd have intentionally decided to have a baby at this point in our lives, and that I'm thrilled that we are. It's taken me months to realize that, to get from panic to cautious optimism to confidence, but I did make it here. Sometimes you don't know what you want until it comes crashing down on you without warning.
There are two teenagers struggling to change a flat tire in the restaurant parking lot as Noah and I eat dinner, our patio table offering a prime view of their misadventures and bickering. The girl seems to be the only one who knows what she's doing, and finally she yells at the guy to back off and let her work.
"They remind me of me and Lee," I smile at Noah, swiping the last of his fries.
Noah snorts and gives me a look. "No, they don't. Or they shouldn't."
I look at him curiously. "Why not?"
"Have you been watching them at all?" Noah asks.
"Yeah, and they've been arguing non-stop. But also laughing hysterically. And don't you remember when Lee and I tried to change a tire on the Mustang and managed to break the jack before we gave in and called you?"
"Sure, but have you been watching him? Because I have. And if Lee had ever looked at you the way that guy looks at that girl, he would have actually killed me when he found out, not just punched me."
"You think he's into her?"
"Seriously, Elle, just look at him."
Noah might have a point. The guy does look pretty goofily happy for someone who's just been ordered to move his useless ass out of the damn way loud enough for us to hear from our table.
"I'm not sure she's into him, though. She looks pretty fed up."
"Shelly, how often do you make that exact face at me? Like, how often just this week?" Noah points out. I'm not sure if he intentionally called me Shellyjustso I'd make that face and prove his point or if it was a coincidence, but either way I guess I need to add one to the admittedly high count.
"Fine. She might be into him. But do they know they're hot for each other?"
"That's why I haven't gone out there to help. I think what we're witnessing here is an intensely awkward teen courtship ritual, and I'd hate to interfere. Besides, now that he's not getting in her way she looks like she's got the flat handled."
"Noah Flynn, secret romantic, smoothing the path for clueless lovebirds."
"Yeah, well, now hopefully you understand why those two really shouldn't remind you of you and Lee."
"Don't worry, you've convinced me."
"Except his mechanical ineptitude. That should remind you of Lee." Noah adds with a smirk.
WEDNESDAY
Wednesday I'm the one who sleeps in, waking only after Noah returns from his run. It's possible Lee and I were just a little too ambitious in our selection of karaoke routines last night. But it seems neither our ridiculous dancing nor Noah's constant needling managed to scare off Lee's crush, because by the time Noah and I headed home she and Lee were looking pretty cozy. I'll wait a few more hours before I start pestering him for details.
As tempting as another lazy beach day is, my weekly appointment with Dr. Kim is this morning. The visit turns out completely boring, which I guess is ideal at this point. Everything looks fine, nothing's happening yet, try to stay active, drink a lot of water, get enough sleep, and come back next week—exactly like last week's appointment. Our wedding news amuses her, even if she doesn't look terribly surprised, and she's glad to hear I'm not driving myself crazy planning. There's no ultrasound this week, but we do get to hear Dinah's heartbeat, which I always love. She's hanging out upside down just like she's supposed to, and while I don't appreciate the resulting rib kicking, I do enjoy knowing that she's basically mooning me every time I look down.
Dr. Kim reminds us that we still haven't scheduled a tour of the maternity ward or taken the hospital's childbirth class, and she's right, we definitely should. There just haven't yet been many days when we've both been in town and not otherwise occupied, but we'll squeeze it in somehow. After reading way too many books, most of them contradicting each other and all of them terrifying, I think my birthplan is basically show up at hospital, ask for the good meds. Still, it would be good to know where to go and exactly how soon they'll let me have that magical epidural.
I talk Noah into hiking up to the Hollywood sign after lunch. I'd failed to convince him to go on Sunday night, on our way home from the diner, but today he can't claim that we're too tired or that I'm too likely to lose my footing in the dark. Plus, I remind him that Dr. Kim just said exercise is a good thing as long as I pace myself. Noah has only himself to blame that hanging out under the Ls is how we celebrate milestones, and getting engaged is definitely one of our bigger milestones.
The weather cooperates beautifully, a scattering of clouds shielding us from the sun just long enough to reach our destination before clearing. I may not be walking fast, but I'm still riding that wave of giddy energy from yesterday and it's satisfying to prove to Noah and myself that I can still easily handle this hike. We end up arguing about which of us has the worst taste in movies all the way up the path and it's nice not to be talking about anything serious for once. I mean, all those serious conversations we've had lately were necessary, and I'm more than happy with their outcomes, but it's also fun just to hang out.
My giddy energy runs out as we eat the snack I'd packed, and I fall asleep curled up on our picnic blanket. Noah is unfailingly amused by my current inability to make it through the day without a nap, but it's honestly getting ridiculous. Last week I fell asleep sitting up while Lee and I were at lunch, and that jerk took pictures of me. At least he woke me up once he'd gotten the pictures, so I wouldn't get a stiff neck. Today I'm comfortable, though, my head propped on Noah's leg, and I happily doze in and out of sleep as he plays with my hair. I vaguely hear him talking to a pair of older tourists who've stopped to take pictures, and as best I can tell through their accents they're giving Noah baby advice. The woman sounds wistful as she tells Noah she used to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, too, just like your wife. Noah doesn't correct her, and I guess there's really no reason to. It's weird but wonderful, hearing myself called that.
THURSDAY
There are a few wedding planning tasks I can't delegate to June, and chief among those is dress shopping. I guess I don't have to buy anything, it's not like we're having a big traditional wedding requiring a beaded white ball gown, but there are some traditions I don't want to skip. And anyway, even if I didn't mind wearing a regular dress, I'd still need to go shopping because there's not much in my closet that still fits.
Of course, that turns out to be exactly the problem with wedding dress shopping, too—there just aren't a lot of options designed for someone currently smuggling a very large watermelon. Pregnant brides may be the oldest wedding tradition around, but apparently not practically-full-term pregnant brides. Mickey keeps reminding me that I can have a nicer dress the next time I get married, and while those comments make the saleswoman look askance at us, they actually are comforting. I'm not sure what kind of wedding I'd plan if I weren't working on deadline, but it's nice to know that anything we find ourselves regretting we can fix when we have a bigger celebration next year. Still, though, this wedding is the one that counts, and I'd rather not hate what I'm wearing.
But I do hate what I'm wearing, is the problem. Or, at least, I've hated every dress I've tried on so far. I'm getting close to giving up as June helps me wriggle out of yet another disaster and Mickey goes to harangue the saleswoman for having brought me yet another obvious dud.
"Do they make formal muumuus? I don't even care if it's white at this point. I just need something that won't make me look like a sparkly sausage." I complain, flopping back against the dressing room couch in frustration.
"Elle, none of those dresses made you look like a sausage." June assures me, but I know she's lying. My options seem to be stretchy fabrics creating the aforementioned sausage look, or the other extreme, drowning myself in a full-skirted mountain of fabric wide enough to accomodate my belly.
"Maybe a toga," I continue, ignoring June. "Is it too late to make this a Greek theme? I could wrap myself in a giant white sheet, find a nice sparkly clip to hold it in place, and just be done."
"We'll find something, Elle, I promise. Here, let me fix your hair." I don't share June's optimism, but I may as well take a break while the saleswoman gathers her next collection of monstrosities. I scoot closer to June and let her braid and coil my hair back into the bun that removing the last dress had pulled loose. It's been ages since June did my hair, and I can't help but relax as her fingers twist and work their way through my hair.
I almost asked June not to come today. She's always so careful never to step into my mom's role uninvited, never assuming, and for a brief moment, when she asked if I wanted her help dress shopping, I almost said no. Somehow I feared having June there for such a traditional mother-daughter moment would feel worse than shopping with Mickey alone. But I'm so glad I didn't say no. June's not here instead of Mom, she's here as herself, and she'd probably be here for this moment even if Mom hadn't died. Even if the groom weren't Noah.
The saleswoman still hasn't returned, and I'm debating a quick catnap on the plush couch when Mickey sweeps back into the room bearing a victorious expression and a single dress draped over her arm.
"This is the one. I found it. Here, try it on, but I already know you're wearing this one." Mickey announces as she hangs up the dress.
I'm slightly more willing to trust Mickey—she at least has been honest about the awfulness of everything I've tried on so far, unlike June's tactful faint praise—but I'm still skeptical that there's any dress out there that I'm not going to hate.
I haul myself up from the couch and slip off the satin robe the shop provided to wear between dress fittings, watching Mickey gather up the skirt to lift the dress over my head.
"Close your eyes and don't look in the mirror yet, let me get you zipped and adjusted first." Mickey pulls a handful of fabric clips from her pocket, and I'm starting to wonder if she banished the saleswoman and told her she was taking over. I humor Mickey, keeping my eyes shut as she fusses with the length of the straps and snugs the bust slightly. Whatever I'm wearing, it's not nearly as heavy as some of the earlier disasters, and it doesn't feel clingy at all.
"Okay, now you can look. The length isn't quite right, but that can be fixed. Now, tell me I'm a genius."
And she is. The dress is simple, but in the best way. The matte silk is closer to a pearly grey than white, ruched tight to form the bodice and then flowing loosely from the empire waist to just below my knees. A delicate web of silver embroidery with just a few scattered crystals spans the bodice, barely visible but adding a slight sparkle. I'm still pumpkin-shaped, there's no getting around that reality, but somehow in this dress I don't mind. There's no stretchy fabric clinging to my belly, but also no heavy layers trying to hide it. I might even be willing to call the light swishy skirt flattering. There's something familiar about the dress, though, and it finally clicks as I take a test twirl.
"It's the same dress you made me buy for the baby shower, except... wedding-ier." I realize.
"You mean the dress you swore would look terrible until I made you try it on? And that you ended up loving? Yes, it is. And you're welcome, again."
"How did you find this?" It looks nothing like any of the dresses the saleswoman showed me.
"Easy. I showed them a picture of your baby shower dress and demanded it in white. Which this isn't, quite, because it's actually a bridesmaid dress, but silver looks amazing on you."
"There are maternity bridesmaid dresses?"
"Probably, but this isn't one, it's just a regular dress that happens to have a high waist and a loose skirt. That's why the length is all wonky in front, but they've promised me their seamstress can fix that and make the other adjustments in time for the wedding. Now, we're done, right? Because this is the dress."
"She's right, Elle." June's been silent until now, but when I turn to face her she's beaming. "It's perfect for you and perfect for a small wedding."
I stare at myself in the mirror again. I have to admit I do love the dress. I love how it looks on me and I love how the fabric feels, and I love that it has just enough sparkle without feeling ridiculous. I'd love it even if the alternatives hadn't all been hideous.
Mickey looks smugly triumphant when I grin at her and give the dress another twirl.
"I owe you one. Another one. Another one in a very long list of debts that I'm not sure how I'm ever going to repay."
The dress is really the least of those debts; I've tried to imagine what this year would have been like without Mickey, and it's not an appealing thought.
"Well, I could go Lee's route and tell you that the sincerest form of appreciation would be to name that baby after me, but... Lee's a weirdo and I don't actually want to inflict Michelangela on anyone else. So instead, just promise me you won't make me wear anything awful for your next wedding."
Mickey hates her full name even more than I hate mine—she swears her parents must have been high when they decided to name her after Michelangelo, except feminized. They aren't even remotely Italian, she likes to remind me whenever she rants about it.
"Deal," I promise her.
"Have you guys settled on a name yet?" June asks after Mickey goes to get the seamstress to mark the alterations.
"Ugh, no. I'm starting to think we'll just call her Baby until she can pick her own name."
"That bad?" June laughs.
"Your son has the world's most boring taste in names. No offense."
"At least you two are picking it together. It was made clear to me early on that naming Noah after Matthew's father wasn't up for discussion."
"What did you want to name him?" I ask curiously.
"Oh, I don't know. I didn't give it much thought, since I knew I wasn't going to win that battle. Probably Patrick, for my favorite cousin. That's what I planned to call Lee, until he showed up and the name just didn't suit him."
I try to imagine Lee as a Patrick or a Rick. Yeah, no, I can't see it either.
"That's what we keep saying, too—that we need to meet her before we name her. But it would be nice to agree on some possibilities."
"You'll know the right name when you find it."
I just hope we find that right name before Dinah can yell at us herself to hurry up.