I'm feeling Frary/Kennash/everything vibes today in lockdown/self-isolation times... Enjoy.
Seventeen.
Seventeen was the age that Mary was certain, so goddamn certain that she was in love. What wasn't there to love?
Blue eyes.
Blonde, wavy hair.
Kind smile.
Goofy conversations.
Warm hands.
Oh, God.
She had it so bad.
Prior to her realisation, they had begun dating at the end of summer the previous year. She had been dancing between him and his half-brother for a few months before that. But seventeen is when they can proclaim that they were official.
Until one danced away into the arms of her best friend resulting in a one-night stand, unexpected pregnancy and termination, and awkward conversations between the four. Eventually, they eased around each other and Mary realised that it was him all along.
Sure his brother had blue eyes, great hair, a kind smile, great conversations that stimulated her intellect, warm hands and all but he wasn't him. There was something more with him.
With him, she had comfort, safety, certainty, the good and the bad days, the terrible arguments leading to amazing makeup sex or cuddles if they weren't feeling intimate after their blow-ups. He'd hold her when she cried about how crappy her mother was or how much she missed the father she never got to know.
Everything was easier with him. Everything tasted better with him. Everything felt right with him.
He was the light in her darkness, the warmth in the cold, the smile on her face.
Her rainy days and her sunny days.
Even without needing her to say something, he would always know what she wanted. Be it space, a drink, food, a hug to comfort her when she was feeling low, a foot massage, a back rub or even an unspoken 'I love you' where she could see it written all over his handsome face.
He could be the ugliest man in the world but to her, he would be handsome because of his beautiful soul.
Twenty-three.
At twenty-three, she was irrational.
His father had passed away so unexpectedly - aggressive cancer.
He'd disappeared for a week.
No one knew where he was except his half-brother who was also too bereft to consider anyone but him and his family.
It reminded her and her best friend that they weren't family. Outsiders. Spectators in their boyfriends' lives.
When he returned, he looked worse than he left their home in.
She smelt the perfume, the unfamiliar scent of flowers and strawberries.
She'd placed her hands on his shoulders, directed his unfocused eyes to hers and see nothing but sadness and pain. And...
Remorse.
She'd ask who she was. Where they met. If he'd stayed with her for the whole week.
He wouldn't reply, merely breakdown into sobs and she'd hug him despite feeling her heart shatter into a million pieces. She'd hold him and then the anger would build and she'd shove him off, slapping him and cursing him.
She'd ask why he didn't just come to her, why he had to seek comfort from the arms of another woman. She'd demand he not touch her when he tried to explain but she wouldn't have it - he cheated and using his father's death as an excuse was revolting.
That night, she'd pack a suitcase, stuff it with as much as she could take and leave.
Texts upon texts and missed calls upon missed calls.
All ignored.
Hidden underneath the covers of her borrowed bed, she'd feel the sheets be pulled back and her best friend staring down at her, unamused. Her best friend would rant, rant about how she couldn't stop him and how she almost punched him for her until he admitted something that was quickly confirmed by his half-brother.
Mary would learn that he didn't do the crime.
The perfume was his and his half-brother's father's sister's perfume. Their Aunt Charlotte had come to France to grieve with the family, comforting the children and wife alike.
He'd stay in his old bedroom all week, starving himself, crying and cursing God for taking his beloved father away from them so soon until his strict aunt forced her way in and comforted him.
That same aunt came to corroborate the story, also meeting Mary in the process.
Mary agreed, she'd be terrified and submit to this aunt herself because the woman was no-nonsense like his mother.
She'd return home and they'd make love in the process of his grief, resulting in what would be their first miscarriage and the hopeful decision to try properly, and not take this loss to heart. It wasn't to be.
Twenty-four.
At twenty-four, going twenty-five, after their third miscarriage, she was surprised by her house transformed into a garden. Flowers littered the stairs, the doors, the windows...
A watery smile had played on her lips when she finally found the culprit for such a romantic gesture.
Their bedroom.
The bed had roses spelt into 'I Love You' and there he was, waiting in their en-suite bathtub, the bubbles up and running, two flutes of champagne, the bottle itself in a bucket of ice.
He got out, the water sliding down his toned, muscular frame and he almost slipped, much to her amusement. All this effort to get down on one knee and present her with a ring, officially claiming her as the love of his life and his future.
Yes.
So many yeses.
And sex. A lot of it.
Twenty-seven.
At twenty-seven, she stares down at the little yawning creature in her arms. Pink, shut-eyed, mouth-wide creature.
A kiss is pressed onto her forehead and she looks up into blue eyes before looking down into... blue eyes.
"Happy anniversary," he whispers into her ear. "Ten years since we made things official."
She scoffs. "Happy anniversary to you too, handsome."
"He's so beautiful, Mary."
"We did this," she replies easily, warmly, happily. "I was thinking James."
"James Henry?"
Mary nods. "Yeah." She stares into their son's eyes. "You look like a James Henry, don't you? Do you like that?"
Francis grins, pressing a kiss onto her head. "It's better than being called 'Baby Valois' for the next week. It's already taken us a week to finally agree."
Mary giggles and nods. "Sorry, I'd just had four stitches and was not in the mood to debate names with your mother, sisters and aunts. Oh, and we can't forget your beloved grandmother who came all the way from Italy with her sprained hip and bunions."
"She made an effort, at least," Francis replies, chuckling himself.
"Yeah, after stuffing us full with pasta."
Francis looks down at her lovingly. "You're the best thing to ever happen to me. You know that right?"
"I do," she whispers, blushing furiously. "I love you."
"I love you too," he replies, meeting her lips with a kiss. He places a hand on their son's head. "And I love you too, little guy."
"'I love you too, Daddy!'," she says in a babyish voice that makes her husband laugh loudly. "Hear that? He loves you too."
That's when she knows she'll be alright.
She has her husband, her baby son, a wide smile on her face.
Francis is everything to her, he is her beginning, past and her future.
"Francis?"
"Yes, my love?"
"You're the best thing to happen to me too."
He really is.
He's the air that she breathes.
He's her always.