His and Hers

It started accidentally. He saw her going into the cleaners with her wedding dress. He didn't know why he did it, but after she left, he went inside the cleaners, flashed his badge, and then took the dress. "Tell her you ruined it and offer to pay for it. Accept any price she wants. I'll pay for it."

"You mean CCPD?" the manager asked.

He told the manager, yes, it was for CCPD.

He didn't know why he wanted the dress, just that it was a beautiful dress that he never got to touch. He sat at his late father's desk in his childhood home. He had no clue as to why he took it to the study and not to his childhood bedroom, where he had slept for the past month and a half. He could not bring himself to stay in his apartment in Central City; some of her things were still there. And he just sat there, with his gun in his hand, waiting for… him? … them? No, so he got it together. He would just wait for them to come back since he was not the one on a honeymoon with her, and drank whiskey and thought about beating Barry Allen's ass, but he wasn't sure if Allen would wind up getting the better of him, again. He just concentrated on the annulment and acquiesced to his mother's pleas to stop drinking, to not disgrace their family further. So, he did. He was all annulment business for two weeks and when it was time for him—and them—to go back to work, he gave it a good try. On the morning of his first day back to work, he broke out into a cold sweat sitting in his car, and instead of driving to CCPD, he drove to where he could get aid and comfort, to Keystone, where his mother and his real friends still lived.

But the dress, he thought, looking at it. He took it in his hands. He brought it to his face. He inhaled the woman he never knew, her fragrance faint but it filled his nose with pleasant memories of how she smelled. She smelled pretty, he used to think. He grabbed handfuls of the dress. It was soft, the way her things were, the way she was. The dress yielded in his hands however, the way she never did. She was always so stiff, so uncomfortable, so sad. He thought it was because it was her first time. It was amazing and he was happy to discover that he was her first. But the first time was a disappointment for them both. Later that night, she explained about why she cried. She was thinking about when she was sixteen, and how she had these foolish expectations, because she loved… being sixteen. He didn't quite understand her explanation, but he accepted it. He explained that they were not sixteen and he promised it would be better next time. And it was. She didn't cry, but if he had to describe sex with her, it would be melancholy. Sex with a pretty girl who was sad. A pretty sad girl. They avoided it for a few weeks after the first few times, "to get to know each other better," she had said. Eddie sighed because it really never got any better. The other one was still in a coma and he thought she was still waiting on him. But what if he never wakes up? What if this is the way it is? He asked her to think about that, to think about what was best for her, to think about not sacrificing her young years to her sense of loyalty to the one in the coma, because how would he know that you've ruined your life for him, and if he's your best friend, would he want you to? And of the sex getting better? He convinced her and himself that it had and convinced her that their relationship was good. He convinced her that marrying him would be good, and when he woke up he convinced her that she could still keep the other one as her best friend. There was a way to have both, he convinced her. So, okay, all right, yes, but a short ceremony, and none of his friends will come and most of his friends are mine so it's just me and my dad that will have to do. Actually, he liked that. None of his friends, his mom and all of his own friends was how he actually wanted it.

It was ironic that they both wanted a short ceremony. It turned out to be the total of his wedding with her. He didn't care about the short wedding ceremony because he really wanted the after ceremony, the party, the "see what I got." He wanted the toast. He wanted everyone to say in unison, 'To Eddie and Iris.' Then he wanted the garter show, the conquest of the flashing brown-skinned thigh, rare in his Keystone circle. He even planned to say, "This is mine. Don't be jealous!" The first and solo dance with her he wanted. He didn't know why but he was looking forward to happily smashing wedding cake in her face.

It all seemed so unfair. He had been looking forward to coming back from his honeymoon with Iris to gloat, to gather the men, to show pictures, to show Iris's beautiful ass in a bathing suit. It turned out, when he finally went to CCPD, to retrieve his things, he had heard snickering behind his back, and it just didn't seem fair, it didn't seem right that he was the one that was the brunt of jokes, even though he had gleefully intended to do it to him, to Barry Allen, intended to let the juicy bits of his and Iris's honeymoon leak out to him. Intended for Barry to see the honeymoon pictures with the girl that he loved, she smiling and hugged up under Eddie, on a beautiful beach, under a brilliant sun. Yeah, he knew he had a mean streak in him when it came to Allen, or maybe just frustration, he tried to figure out which.

He ran the dress through his fingers, like he was weighing the quality of the fabric. If only she would have given him those things, those memories. "She could have divorced me later," he said aloud in his father's study. He could have understood it all that way. But this way….Suddenly his eyes filled with scrutiny and he stopped his fingers. He proceeded to inspect the dress. The back of the dress appeared to be soiled with a stain, a whitish-gray crusty residue, ruined from the inside out. "What's this?" he asked himself out into the stone cold quiet of his late father's study, because he already knew what it was. He said bitterly, "That bitch."

After that night of sitting in his father's study, really stewing over what she had to have done in his wedding dress—his wedding dress—he asked a favor of his best Keystone childhood friend.

"Are you sure, Ed?" his friend asked, standing taller than Eddie but just as blond, and wearing an expression of concern. You already know what to expect. Why do this? What are you trying to prove?" his friend asked.

"Just do that for me, okay. I'll owe you forever." Then he said to his friend, "I have to know. Now let me be." And he made himself a drink and holed up in his late father's study with her wedding dress.

Wedding Day

"It's like the way you move, Barry. Slow, and warm, even when I'm mad and cold as a bowl of ice cream, you stay moving like chocolate sundae syrup, warming me up wherever you seek me."

She was stretched out over him, in bra and panties, they both late for work and lying on the only piece of furniture in the loft, in front of a bank of windows where the sun poured in and flooded where they had planned on making their living room space. He looked up at her. "For real? You want a chocolate sundae instead of a wedding cake for our"—he whispered—"secret marriage."

She laughed. "Well, yeah. It'll be just you and me. We'll go to City Hall. We'll get married. Then we'll go get a great wedding dinner."

"Someplace where we have to make reservations, I hope," Barry said, still looking up at her, but now his arms traveled her back. Then his hand went to the nape of her neck, and he gently pulled her head down to his, where, before he kissed her, they just stared. After the kiss, she rolled over on the bed and he sat up. "The best and most expensive wedding dinner in Central City. Just for you, Iris," he said softly. "Where would that be?"

She kissed him again, then reached for her phone on the box of unpacked linen. "Let's Google it!"

He laughed. "Okay," he said.

A few weeks later, they stood in the vestibule of the Justice of the Peace, at City Hall, waiting patiently. It was cold and Iris's coat was buttoned up. The coat was off-white with a hint of a blush rose thread running through it, with three quarter length sleeves, girly and vintage, like Iris. Her hair was styled in soft deep waves that made her hair swing just above her shoulders. Her hat adorned a modest veil that cut off at her chin. One of her arms was looped through Barry's, as he stood hands in pockets of his opened coat, crisp white shirt exposed, a thin shock of deep rose running diagonally through his dark tie, and with his fresh haircut, he was looking like what he was, a man about to get married.

The clerk popped out from the inner chamber. "You'll be next," she said smiling.

Iris took in a nervous, deep breath.

"You okay?" Barry asked.

She looked up at him. "Yes." And smiled and asked him, "Do you know what you're going to say?"

"Yes," he said. "I've known since I was a kid. What about you?"

Iris reached into her pocket. "I wrote it down," she said, revealing a little folded note to herself. But then she said, "Barry," and placed her hand gently on his arm, "you know I wouldn't mind walking down the aisle to you. You know that, right?"

His eyes were soft in the afternoon's light in City Hall. "I know."

"If you want a real… a wedding where we show our commitment to each other in front of all of our friends, our family, and get your dad back to Central City…." Her eyes were still on him. "Then I want that too. I want what you want, is what I'm trying to say."

Her face through the vintage veil was open, honest, vulnerable, but her eyes sparkled seeing the open, honest, and vulnerable look in Barry's eyes. "This is what I want, Iris."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

It was time. The clerk opened the door. "Come in," the clerk said, smiling. And they walked in holding hands.

It felt so different when she said 'I do' the second time, although the second time, she actually said 'I will.' The finality of it produced the cheesiest grin on her face. Just no chill, all wide deep rose-colored glossy lips smiling and dark eyes sparkling, looking up at Barry. They both exchanged cheesy grins. In front of the Justice of the Peace, they exchanged traditional vows, mixed with words from their own hearts and from their own experiences of years of living with each other. When he took her hand, and slipped on his mother's rings, and she took his hand and slipped on the wedding band they had both shopped for, "the right band for you, the perfect band for you," she told him. They found one together. It was almost a simultaneous, "That one." On the expensive side, substantial, and when he tried it on, it began taking on a life that belonged to him and her. They both loved his wedding band.

The Justice of the Peace pronounced them husband and wife. Their witnesses were two clerks of the court who were accustomed to this sort of private affair. The officiant urged them to sign their marriage license immediately and it was like another lifetime, but having Barry bend his tall body to sign Bartholomew Henry Allen made Iris want to cry. She stood still, watching his script, normally scribble dibble, as she called it, but now nice and neat and legible so everyone will know that he was her husband. When he stood up straight, the pen still in his hand, he had this big happy, but wonderful, incredible expression, his green eyes clear, but like hers, fighting water. But then grinning, like two Cheshire cats. Like the cat who got the canary? He stepped aside. She went on her tip toes and kissed him on the cheek, then took the pen softly, gently, and it was her time: Iris Ann (West) Allen, in her careful, pretty script.

When he helped her with her coat, it was her husband assisting her. When she helped him straighten the knot in his tie, it was his wife's loving, gentle hands. Did a husband and wife walk hand in hand down the street as if they were on a first date? Everything felt so different to them both. He could feel it. Finally, the married man and woman got to the wife's car. It was new to Barry, but it was new to Iris. It was new to them both.

…..

It had been a month since they left the cabin, the start of winter and it was cold but Iris wore a printed deep rose swing dress, three-quarter length sleeves, a soft bateau neckline that dipped into a flirty V in the back, the double silk dress grabbing her waist and flaring out. It was the perfect dress in which to dance, and that's what she and Barry had planned to do later that evening. For now, they enjoyed the best wedding dinner in Central City. Beef Wellington and lobster, winter vegetables and champagne. She cut a small piece of the Beef Wellington and took it to her mouth.

"Do you like it, Iris?" Barry asked. He watched her chew, smile and say, "It tastes gorgeous, like my new husband." Then she laughed. "I didn't mean that you taste gorgeous," then she corrected herself, "even though you do. I meant you are gorgeous. Everything about you, Barry, is gorgeous to me."

He said, "We shouldn't be drinking champagne this expensive. It's gotten to you already." But he was loving her words—her words were more capable of making him drunk than the champagne, or anything Cisco or Caitlin could concoct.

It was cold outside, but cozy warm in the swanky restaurant that somehow Barry got reservations for, because this restaurant booked months in advance. The soft evening light played with the crystal everywhere, in the chandeliers, on the table lamps, on the flower vases, and of course the wine glasses and champagne flutes, some of it hitting the gold in the fine china. Iris picked up her champagne flute and took another sip. She looked around the beautiful restaurant. "Are you going to be one of those husbands who indulges his wife?" she asked, as she now watched Barry as he cut a piece of his Beef Wellington and took it to his mouth. He said, "This is good, and yes, I plan to indulge my wife." The glossy rose of Iris's mouth as she smiled at him enticed him. "I want to kiss you," he said. "But I'd ruin your pretty mouth." She leaned in his space and he stilled his fork and she said, "There's more where that came from," and the way she looked at him all soft and loving, a little vulnerable, because he knew she wanted their marriage to come out all right, to be happy, like he did. He was full of emotion, then, feeling sappy in love. He leaned into her offered space and gave her a safe, public, but relatively deep kiss, kissing her top lip, bringing her luscious bottom lip between his. She opened her eyes and said, "Thank you." Then she leaned back into her space. They didn't mean to spend so much time sitting there, talking, taking their time with their dinner, but their conversations seemed different now, more meaningful, they both felt it, and felt as if they could never do foolish talk again, as if everything they said mattered. Because to them, it did.

She felt that she had almost forfeited his love and felt as if she had to prove to herself first, that she was worthy of Barry. Let Barry tell it, it was the opposite. But being worthy of Barry meant sitting down and writing a letter to Eddie Thawne, apologizing with no qualifications, not a little bit of his fault, not a little of Barry's fault, not a little of her dad's fault, just her fault, one hundred percent for being afraid of her heart and betraying her heart because she always knew what was in her heart. She just plainly wrote that she loved Barry, that she always had, and the letter had nothing to do with Barry or her love for him, just that she was wrong to accept comfort in Eddie's arms because she thought Barry's were lost to her. It was clear, a real apology. She showed it to Barry, and he said, 'Yes, I think you should send it.' It didn't matter that Eddie never responded. He just needed to know that what she did was not his fault.

Eventually, the dessert cart winded its way to their table. "Here are the newlyweds," the waitress said with her evening smile. Then she picked up the small scaled but luscious wedding cake, and presented it to both Barry and Iris. It looked to be enough for two people. The butter cream flowers at the top and at its base reminded Iris of—

"Yes," Barry said, blushing. "Your Iris."

"My flower, my tattoo. Barry." And her hand went up to her mouth, she full of emotion. He had thought of a wedding cake after all, the butter cream flowers a re-creation of the flower in her tattoo. "I know you don't expect me to eat this now. It's more than beautiful. It's precious." She looked to the waitress. "Could you take a picture of our wedding cake?"

"Of course." She snapped several pictures of Iris and Barry's wedding cake, some of them she made sure she included the smiling couple. "Would you like to cut it?" she asked Iris. When Iris shook her head yes, eagerly, happily, the waitress set the small scale beauty onto the table, then handed Iris her knife. And Iris was carefully cutting the cake and the waitress was recording the moments of this very pretty and happy woman, cutting her very pretty wedding cake. The waitress held a plate while Iris slid a hefty piece onto it and gave it to Barry. Then she did the same for herself.

The waitress said, "Do you want to serve him a piece of cake?" Iris cut into her slice with her dessert fork, then carefully brought a rather hefty piece of cake up to Barry's mouth. He was reminded of the soup and how she fed him. He was a teen then, and loved her sustenance as he did now. The waitress snapped a picture. "How about you?" the waitress asked Barry. Barry cut into his cake but brought a rather modest piece up to Iris's mouth. The waitress's camera was snapping. "You two are so careful with each other. Don't you both want to do a little cake smashing? You know, face smashing?" the waitress laughed.

"I wouldn't dare," Iris answered. "Do you see that gorgeous face?" Barry blushed and said, "Cake is for eating."

"I'll e-mail these pictures to you, Mr. Allen." Barry thanked her and the waitress said, "Best wishes to the beautiful bride and congratulations to the handsome groom. And may I say, the ones who smash cake into each other's faces—well… I'm just glad you two didn't."

They sat alone for a few minutes, intermittently eating cake, talking, taking sips of champagne, chitchatting, sharing quiet moments without saying a word, some moments just watching each other and smiling shyly. When they had finished their meal and they both looked to the coat room where the coat check lady sat, finally, Iris asked, "Fifty years from now when we're old and gray will you still make me feel this way when I look at you?"

His words were soft and felt velvety to Iris when he answered, "I hope so, because what I feel for you will never die." And he slid his hand over hers. But then Iris said, "Who're you looking at?" He was obviously looking over her head. "I don't know," Barry said. "There's someone in that corner over there taking pictures of us."

"Maybe they're on some freelance assignment—taking pictures of happy couples in love."

Barry still scrutinized the corner. Then he said, "I don't know, maybe you're right." Suddenly he was upbeat. "Are you ready to dance, Mrs. Allen?"

"Mrs. West-Allen," Iris corrected him. "All right then, Mrs. West-Allen."

"I'm ready when you are, "Iris said smiling.

It was a small jazz club with a big dance floor and with must-have reservations. The club was smart and clean and not for teens. The ensemble played Earth, Wind, and Fire. Quiet conversations, clinking glasses, quiet velvet laughter filled the air. Iris loved everything about the club. It was a far cry from the West's living room when she was teaching Barry how to dance.

They were sixteen and she started to let him go out with Becky and embarrass himself, but he pleaded, and it took everything for her not to run upstairs and cry her eyes out because he didn't know that he was more than a best friend to her. But she set down those rules and they were both living by them. So, she swallowed hard as he took her hand to a slow tune. She said, "No." And she came in closer. She was in his chest and looked up at him and he was looking down at her, he full of expectations, anxiety, and something else. "Hold her this way." She helped him bring his arm around her waist. "Closer," she said, feeling his tall body lean into her, then over her, his long arms figuring out what to do with her, how to hold her, until his arms seemed to figure out her curves, and he was hugging her and she was hugging him and her eyes were closed, and she instructed, "Close your eyes," and he replied, "They already are." And their dancing got just a little bit closer. And they were dancing until the music stopped, and he had to say, "Iris, the music stopped. Thank you." And she opened her eyes and said, "Huh? Oh yeah. You're welcome, Barry." He went upstairs, commenced doing homework, got confused, and forgot about asking Becky for a date.

Seven years later, Mr. and Mrs. Allen sat down at a choice table with yet more champagne, and a platter of winter white truffles, oysters, and strawberries and raspberries, close to the ensemble and to the dance floor. Barry whispered in Iris's ear, "This table has been reserved for the VIP couple."

Her eyes sparkled. "You and me?" she said.

"Uh huh."

"She said, "Barry, how did you arrange this? Who do you know?" Then she turned around and there was one of their high school friends standing behind her looking down on her with a big wide grin. "Tuey," she said. "You work here?"

"I DJ here on off-nights," he said. "But this isn't an off-night. This is a special night," he said, still with his grin. "And look at you, Mrs. Allen. Yeah, Barry told me."

She stood up and gave him a big, happy hug. "I'm so glad to see you," she said. Over Iris's head, the two men grinned at each other. He was the couple's first friend. Not Iris's first friend, or Barry's first friend, but the couple's first friend, because Tuey had guessed, had known since high school how Barry felt about the girl he had to go live with. It wasn't Barry's fault he couldn't court her from across town from his parent's house, and Tuey understood. With Tuey, they could laugh at Tuey's jokes, Barry and Iris could flirt with each other, while sitting beside each other cracking their own jokes and hitting each other's arms, touching each other's hands, Iris not resisting when Barry would hold on to her hand a few moments longer. When Iris let go of Tuey, their friend said, "Yeah, I knew this day would come."

Then he went over to the jazz set. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Barry Allen, my favorite couple, just got married. What's your song, Mrs. Allen?" She went over to Tuey and whispered it in his ear.

This one is for the newlyweds. Everybody, stay seated. They get first dance.

And it was no slow, sad, at last I found my man song, but the quick, upbeat and happy 'I Like the Way You Move,' so Iris pulled Barry onto the dance floor for their first dance and started to shake her butt in front of him, making him blush, but in a learner's happiness, and she was dancing with Barry, and being Barry, he quickly caught on to the moves, to the rhythm, he sinking in her smiling eyes, her flirty mouth as she mouthed the words, I like the Waaay You Move. His arm went around her waist and he couldn't believe he successfully twirled her in his arms, the beat commanding him to hold her a second, then he rewound her out onto the dance floor. He heard clapping and laughing, but sweet laughing, amazingly warm laughing, like 'You did it, white boy.' Yes, he was learning, but he was a pro at loving her. Iris winked at him, her mouth parted, teeth even and white, showing in her flirty smile. Then she moved into his arms, still dancing. I Like the Waaay You Move. I like the way, I like the way, I like the waaay you move. He pulled her close, with his little jazz two-step, making it up, according to the rhythm, and how he felt, how she made him feel, how she made him move. In front of everyone, but no one. Then she put her arm around his neck and brought his ear down to where she could whisper to Barry, "I love you, my husband." He brought her closer to him then and whispered, "I love you, my wife."

They stayed in a world of their own as the other guests joined them on the dance floor.

…..

It was dark in the loft when they walked in. Barry turned on the low dim lights. Iris immediately took off her shoes. There was still more champagne waiting for them. They went to their bar. "No barstools," Iris said. She stood and smiled and watched Barry. She seemed shorter without her shoes, or he just seemed like the tallest man to her now. His trim physique, his broad shoulders, his long legs in the dark and expensive wedding pants filled her with a happy expectation that she kept to herself even as she enjoyed it. As he stood behind the counter, he pulled the champagne from the ice bucket. He was commencing with the wine key. He said, "I hope you enjoyed yourself with only me tonight."

She said, "I wouldn't have had it any other way. Thank you, Barry. The best day of my life."

He smiled across the counter at her. "Mine too." But Iris said, "Also, we had Tuey, the best DJ and videographer in Central City."

Barry had a kitchen towel over the cage and the cork. "Oh, so you saw him taking pictures of us. And that dance video will be coming in the mail, I'll bet."

Iris smiled quietly, shyly even, and said, "We'll be seeing it." Iris watched Barry as he untwisted the cage, then twisted the bottle. She watched the bottle start to loosen from the cork, watched it start to freely spin. Then he slowly pulled the cork away from the bottle. Then a gentle pop, then he poured them both a glass. He brought the glasses of champagne around the counter and stood beside her and she drank from his glass and he drank from her glass, then they kissed, tasting each other's happiness, their lips exchanging each other's warmth and smooth to the touch, tasting each other's champagne and its sweet memories enticing them.

They took the champagne to their bed, sat the glasses down on the unpacked box of linen. Then she turned her back to him and said, "Help me with the zipper." His arms went around her first, then he leaned down and kissed her where the neckline of her dress dipped, on her naked back, then pulled her closer into him. Her arms came up to caress his, his mouth on her neck, she feeling warm, safe, loved. "Barry," she whispered, out into their empty loft. "Let's feel like this forever."

The Detective

The detectives were in one of their late father's study. And after a while, Eddie felt himself fortunate. He really was lucky. He got his old detective job back, and with a hike in pay, because of his good work at Central City Police Department. And Keystone City Police Department felt like a comfortable sweater, and even if his pals knew of it, they didn't tease him about Iris, nor talked about the "marriage situation" behind his back. He felt protected there.

His friend rapped the desk with his big knuckles. "I've got twelve hours on this so you're liable to see anything. Just warning you," his friend said. Before Eddie clicked on play, he told his friend, "I wanted to know why she did it, but she's since written me a letter, and you know, I knew everything in the letter, but… sometimes people disregard what they see… with their own eyes."

"She sent you a letter? That's good. You want to call this off then?" his friend asked, pointing to the flash drive Eddie had just inserted into his laptop.

"No, because that night when she didn't come back," Eddie said and laughed with an irony, "I almost didn't let her go. I just had a feeling. I was afraid to let her get in her car and drive off, and when she did, I immediately called the guy and made him promise not to hold her up. He promised to send her right back. Let me tell you, when an hour passed and she was not back…." Eddie sighed. "And she's a good girl," Eddie said. Don't get me wrong. I had to pry her away from STAR Labs. I don't know, now looking back, I should have left her there."

"But she was cute and contest jewelry."

"No. I didn't think of her like that, not like our stupid college conquests. You should have seen her sitting there beside him. I think I felt that I wanted a woman to sit like that beside me if I ever got that sick."

"She was conquest jewelry, Ed, admit it. Especially since her guy was out and couldn't stop you."

"No. They pretended to be just friends. That was my opening, my advantage."

Eddie pressed play and sat back in the chair. His friend leaned against the desk. "If it gets too raunchy," his friend said, "I'll stop it."

"She's not raunchy," Eddie said.

It was twelve hours of Barry and Iris's wedding day. And he wasn't some freak, some voyeur. He just wanted to see how she treated him, and what she saw in him and he wasn't being sarcastic, he wanted to see what about him that made Iris love him, and he wanted to compare Allen's day to his own, because as yet, he hadn't been able to forget his day. He asked his friend, "Who'd they think you were at City Hall?"

"No one even noticed me."

They were standing in the inner hall, waiting. She had her arm wrapped around his, and Eddie tried to remember if she did that to him. On the day of their wedding, she was so nervous, so frazzled. At one point he really thought she was going to faint. Yes, she was nervous, but he thought that once he got her into the reception banquet room, he would change that, make her calm down, make her happy, make her smile, make her whisper in his ear, as she was doing in the video with Barry Allen.

"Ed, what are you looking at? They're just standing." But his friend did not know her the way he did. "Look at them. Can't you see they're doing more than just standing? Oh," Eddie said. "You caught them coming out of the chamber? They're married here."

"Yes, Ed."

Eddie's friend followed them, to inside City Hall to outside City Hall, watched them take the steps down to the street. "He used her car," but did not say aloud what had stuck in his craw, that they were holding hands and looked happy.

"I see you got them at the restaurant."

"Yeah, and I had to pay someone to breach that restaurant, because I didn't have a reservation. That was an expensive breach."

Eddie noticed the quality dinner, that it was coincidentally similar to his and hers: Filet Mignon and Stuffed Lobster. Eddie had been so upset that his mother on the spur of the moment decided to send his guests to serve themselves, to make it a buffet instead of a sit down, so Eddie could excuse himself to "attend to his bride" who they were saying was sick in the wedding suite. Eddie needed to clear his thoughts from that miserable dinner. He fast forwarded through this dinner, but stopped at certain parts where Barry placed his hand on Iris's, when she spoke to him and he laughed this opened face happy laugh. And he caught himself counting how many times they kissed each other, and for some reason, he was relieved that he kissed her more than she kissed him. He watched Iris cut their cake. It was a small cake, but it was obvious she got pleasure out of cutting it and serving Allen, where she was absent for the cutting of her and his own very substantial cake. In the end, the caterers cut his and her cake and served their guests. It seemed he was the only one to notice that Iris was not there. 'She's very sick up in the suite with a migraine headache' seemed to be enough. Maybe if they had known her, if they were more than just his and his mother's friends, they would have asked more about her. Knowing all of this, finally, Eddie was at a point where he could criticize Barry. He said to his friend, "He's too square to smash her face with the cake." That made him feel better.

"Oh, I see they went there to dance," Eddie said.

"Yeah, I'm impressed. He spent a fortune that night. Drinking three hundred dollars a bottle champagne and she was drinking it—giddy as hell."

"Iris doesn't really drink," Eddie said, looking to his friend with authority.

"Okay, Ed."

"Eddie turned back to his computer screen and watched intently. "Who's the heavy-set black guy—the guy that Iris hugged."

"From what I heard, he's a friend. He said he DJs there sometimes."

"What's she saying to him?"

"I don't know, Ed." But suddenly to guy makes a statement to the club, that it was their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Barry Allen and that no one could come on the dance floor while they danced their first dance, and Eddie's stomach felt like it tied in knots. They danced alone on the dance floor for awhile. It was not the slow dance that he had planned, to get her in his arms, to showcase their union. It was upbeat and flirty, and she was flirty, she was flirting with him as they danced so everyone could see glimpses of their intimate happiness. Wavy hair bouncing and moving to the swing, dress spinning, as he spun her into him, then out onto the dance floor for everyone to clap and take notice of the tall white guy and the petite brown-skinned girl. This was not, at times, the grumpy and impatient C.S.I. This was a guy who had awakened from a lightning strike, a nine months long coma that should have wrecked his body but kept it in prime shape, and a man determined to take back his girl. And on top of that, there was something else that bugged Eddie: Barry Allen could dance. Eddie turned to his friend, and his friend said, "Yeah, I think they had fun that night."

Eddie fast forwarded the video to when they stood outside of the club. They left the club huddled up, his arm around her shoulder, her arm around his waist. They were talking and laughing and kissing while walking across the street. "Damn, I like his game," his friend said, then looked sheepishly at Eddie. "Sorry, man."

"That's okay," Eddie said. "I asked for this." Then he let out a sour laugh.

Finally, he saw them inside Barry Allen's loft. After all of his efforts of trying to get Iris away from that guy, it was Barry Allen's home where she had gone to live. But Eddie was amazed at his friend. "How did you get this? You breached his home? How?"

"I'm a better detective than you," his friend quipped. "You know I'd have to kill you if I told you how."

Eddie ignored the comment and watched his computer screen. They were standing by their bed. Her back was facing him. She turned around and her hand went up to his cheek. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her while his fingers went down the back of her dress until it fell open, unzipped. His hands went to her shoulders and her dress fell, exposing her shoulders. She came away from his arms, stepped out of her dress, then carefully placed it on an unopened box of their things. They undressed without speaking, unknotting his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, unzipping his pants. They were naked and held each other as they went down onto the bed.

"He took this from me," Eddie said, breaking the silence. "And he gets to have her again. My wife, his wife." He did not cry, just took a gulp of his whiskey.

Eddie wanted to, but could not bring himself to fast forward through their just-married play, their heat-filled give and take with each other. It finally registered that they were both naked and both were stretched out on the bed, the sheets, the blankets pulled back, legs entangled, the camera catching the sparkle of her wedding rings as her hands went around his neck. He wanted to turn away, but Eddie steeled himself to see Barry's long, pale body mount Iris, her cinnamon arms and legs accepting his mount, her wandering arms and eager legs wrapping around him, to watch Barry Allen have sex with Iris, who was now his wife. Eddie was just a little hurt, a little sad. But he knew that he was also jealous. But he was becoming entranced, because now she was on top of him. Eddie was amazed, because she never moved so much, she never kissed so much, she never participated like the Iris on his computer screen. Did he feel her mouth at his throat, her hands through his hair, her tongue traveling the length of him? His friend turned away. "No more for me. Sorry, Ed."

"I know, I know, it's just that she was always so sad when she had sex with me. I decided to give her time, to take her time. But when he woke up, so did she. What I discovered was that I was not him. That was the whole thing." He turned to his friend. "But I was determined, you know. Did you know they hadn't had sex with each other before me?"

"No. It looks… otherwise."

"When I found that out, I was more determined than ever to keep her." He took another swig of his whiskey and said, "But she didn't invest herself in me. I can see now."

"Ed, stop. And the next girl you get, think love, not sex and investments okay? Just love." His friend got up, stepped away from the desk, to the serving cart. "I need a drink."

Eddie's friend watched him from the other end of the room, turning his whiskey glass up to his face intermittently watching his friend and his reactions from the woman who had married him first.

Finally, Eddie removed the flash-drive, oddly enough, the right way, so as not to harm the contents. Then, not aware of his contradiction, he dropped it to the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. She wasn't his anymore and she was actually married to the guy in the video, but still, he wouldn't want anyone else to see her naked and crawling all over Barry Allen. And maybe, there were other reasons, but he pushed those feelings way into a part of his soul that he kept locked up.

"It's ironic," Eddie said to his friend from across the room. "I see this guy with Iris, she's on top of him and he's got his arms around her and his hands are roaming all over her and the only thing that I can't get out of mind is…."

"Is what?" his friend asked from across the room.

"His wedding band. Crazy, huh? Not Iris laying naked with him—his wedding band." Eddie shook his head, and said, "I don't know. So much to think about."

Eddie got up from the desk, then met his friend by the door of his father's study. His friend hit him on the back. "Let's go get us a steak."

Eddie said, "I guess so."

"Ed, what's there to guess? You saw it. He's crazy about her."

Eddie turned back to the crushed flash drive and was glad that he had destroyed it. It would only eat at him because he would watch it again. And again. He said, "Let's go get that steak." And he followed his friend out of his late father's study, trailing, saying softly, "His wedding band."