All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.

Word Prompt: Satchel

Plot Generator—Idea Completion: Strike while the iron is hot.

"Mummy," Charlie says, examining her pale pink fingernails. Normally I'm not into nail polish on littles, but this is a special day.

I lean closer to the mirror, inspecting my eye makeup. "'Mummy'? What is this, England?"

"Mummy, what's a satchel?" she asks, sounding suspiciously like Peppa Pig.

"A satchel's like a backpack," I say, laying on the British. "In fact, why don't you ask your Daddy - I'm sure he knows all about satchels from his time across the pond!"

Alice glides in, looking at me like I've lost it. "Why're you talking like Harry Potter?"

"What's across the pond, Mom?" Charlie's back to her old, American self.

"Um, it's England. Alice, where's my dad? He said he'd be here by now..."

"Talking Edward off the ledge, probably."

I stare at her reflection in horror. "He is not."

"No, he's not," she giggles.

"You're a real -" I mouth the word bitch "piece of work."

"Sorry, couldn't resist. Honestly, I've never seen a groom as relaxed as Edward. He's all about this."

I think back to our cheesy little Vegas commitment ceremony. Of course he's all in. We both are.

"Bells." My father rushes in, face red with exertion.

"Your ears must've been burning; we were just wondering where you were," I say, turning to look at him. "Is everything okay?" A thousand equally crappy scenarios flitter through my mind; I've catered a lot of weddings...I know how many things can potentially go wrong.

"No, no. Everything's fine. Your, uh, mother was being a little fussy with the caterers."

The irony. "Ugh, really? Where is she now?"

"Right here," Renee says, joining us. "And I wasn't fussy, Charlie." She rolls her eyes, finally looking at me. "I was suggesting. The cake looked -"

"You were telling the people doing the sweets table what to do? Nice, Mom," I laugh. My mom, man. What a handful.

Sighing, she comes to stand beside me. We stare at my reflection in the mirror, me, the blushing bride, and Renee, the dewy eyed mother. Very cheesy rom com movie. Cue the wedding montage.

"Anyway," she says pointedly. "I've waited for this day forever."

"I think that's my line."

"Shush, honey. Listen. I've been waiting forever for this and I just want it all to be perfect. And it is. It is! Esme's lovely. And I'm just...so happy. So happy for you. Edward's a good one. And good looking too." She gives me a rather suggestive look, which - along with the rambling - makes me wonder how much champagne she's had already.

"Yeah, he is," I agree.

She grins, turning so that she's looking at me directly, and kisses my cheek. "Congrats, honey. Proud of you."

"Thanks, Mom," I whisper, smiling. "Love you."

And I do. She's flaky and unreliable, and half the time I have no idea where she's flitted off to, but she's my mom.

"Love you too." She pulls Charlie into our mirror picture, hugging her close.

Alice clears her throat. "Okay, ladies. And gent. We're ready when you are."

When I think about the day I married Edward, memories and moments come back to me hazy flashes. Not because I'd imbibed too much, but because there were just so many of them. I think mostly about the flower strewn aisle and the handsome guy standing at the end of it.

I see the smiling, and at times teary, faces of the people I love most...and then a couple hundred others I don't know at all. It's overwhelming at first, more guests than I would've planned for or imagined on my wedding day, but it's not bad. It's just different. They're Edward's people - old friends, teammates and family members - and by the end of the night I feel like they belong to me, too.

I remember the sweets table, overloaded and bursting at the seams with sugary deliciousness. My cake tasting as divine as it looked. Tiny pink pig cookies for the children in attendance, compliments of my daughter's persistence.

Seeing Edward through the eyes of the people that have always known him, just by listening to the toasts.

Charlie dancing with Edward...and then with Grandpa Charlie. Me...dancing with Edward. Slow songs between the two of us, fast songs in the middle of everyone else.

Sometimes when I look at Edward, I see the hot guy in Rose's doorway nearly a year ago. He'll laugh at something someone says, or eye me from across the room and my heart will leap because wow. I caught a good one. But then he turns toward me, and those eyes soften, and I feel it deep inside...and he's way more than a sexy, inked soccer hunk. In fact, the way he looks pales in comparison to how great he is underneath it all.

The way he looks doesn't matter at all. It's the way he looks at me.

Sometimes things fall apart so that they can come together in better ways, and sometimes it takes years. Disappointments - Edward's injury, my failed relationship with Tyler - have the potential to transform into triumphs if only we're patient.

I tell him his on our wedding night, when we're falling asleep.

"I know," he whispers, kissing my hair. "I know."

It doesn't take long for news of the wedding to make the rounds. I mean, it was a huge wedding, and Edward's just famous enough that certain media outlets care what he does. Sometimes. It's always weird seeing blurbs about him or highlights of games he's played on the sports channels.

It's especially surreal when I'm mentioned. We're on our honeymoon when Rose emails me a link to an article in an online sports publication. There are details about the guest list and venue beside an older shot of us at a game together in LA last December. Being the wife of a professional athlete is actually different than being the girlfriend of one. It's occasional, but people in the most random situations recognize me, recognize us. It happens more in places like LA or New York, where celebrities matter. It's rarer in Seattle, thankfully.

I'm making popcorn for movie night when the doorbell rings. I frown at the clock; it's eight thirty. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I walk to the front door and squint through the peep hole.

A pretty blonde in an expensive looking red coat stands on the other side. Puzzled, I step back and start to unlock the door, right as Edward catches up. "Hey; who is it?"

"I'm not sure..." I swing the door open "Hi, can I help you?"

The blonde grins widely, her eyes straight going over me and right to Edward. Before either of us can say anything, she smiles and whips open her coat. "Hey, Edward."

For a split second, I'm so flabbergasted that I just stand there. Then I slam the door and spin around, gaping at Edward.

"Who the hell is that?" I sputter right as he laughs, "Was she...naked?!"

"Completely." I check the peep hole, but our flasher has retreated, scurrying back toward the sidewalk.

I start to open the door so I can give her a piece of my mind, but Edward grabs me, stilling my hands. "Bella-"

"No, Edward - she obviously wants a reaction, so let me strike while the iron is hot!"

Full on belly laughing, he wrestles me away from the door, pausing to double lock it.

"Do you know her?" I ask, watching through the window as the taillights disappear.

"Thankfully, no."

"Why isn't this bothering you more?" I ask, starting to giggle. It's just all so ridiculous and random. "She's obviously a complete psycho fan."

"Exactly. She's nuts." He laughs, shaking his head, and then we're both hysterical, collapsing on the couch.

"Has that ever happened to you before?" I ask, slightly indignant despite my amusement.

"Have I been flashed?"

"Yes." I gesture toward the door. "I mean, in that context. She, I mean...that was a proposition."

"A couple times." He clears his throat. "In hotels, usually."

"Ew."

"Yeah."

"How do they even know where we live?"

"Public records, I guess. Groupies can be cunning."

"Ugh. Maybe we should invest in tighter security."

"Beyond an alarm system? We could invest in an invisible fence...maybe a pair of pitbulls..."

I throw a pillow at him, satisfied when it glances off his face. "I'm serious."

"Okay, okay." He lobs the pillow back. "Tomorrow."

"Good." I stand up. "Popcorn?"

"Yeah, what happened to that?"

"I don't know - why don't you ask your little friend out there?" Smirking, I return to the kitchen, where I toss the thankfully still-warm popcorn into a bowl. I pop two beers open, and then, at the last minute, strip down to my birthday suit.

"What do you want to watch?" he asks, flipping through the movie channels.

I set his popcorn down and step between him and the screen. "I don't know; what do you want to watch?"

sorry this is late. super sleepy last night.

special thanks to the sweet, lovely reader (you know who you are! thanks, lady!) who shared this flasher story with me. this actually happened to her when she was dating a prof athlete. truth is stranger than fiction, man. i just had to use it, lol.

no, we will never see the flasher again. this was purely gratuitous.

thanks for reading! love you guys!

xoxoxox