She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking left and right.
“There’s not enough leg room.”
I tapped my lap, folding the paper and tucking it under my arm. “Put your feet on me. Problem solved.”
“No, not for that. Oh shit. Fuck. I mean … this is bullshit,” she scoffed, rubbing at her forehead.
“Please continue.” I sat back. “I love it when you whisper sweet nothings to me.”
But she didn’t. She waited until we were exactly at the halfway point between the United Kingdom and the United States. Beneath us, there was nothing but the giant, deep expanse of the Atlantic. All that kept us in the air was a tiny metal tube and faith. And suddenly, I realized exactly the analogy she was trying to make.
That marriage was about giving and taking.
About making concessions and meeting each other halfway.
“Okay. Don’t hate me if I screw it up. Or if I can’t get up or anything. This baby is messing with my center of gravity.” Belle plucked a square velvet thing from her purse and stood up, before crouching to one knee and groaning in annoyance.
I sat up straight, every bone in my body screaming at me to pay attention.
Everyone in business class turned their sleepy gazes in our direction.
“Devon Whitehall, you’re the best man I’ve ever met by leaps and bounds. I have been in love with you from the first moment our gazes met. I want to grow old with you, to be with you through thick and thin, to have your last name. I know I’ve been … difficult the past few months, but I promise I’m a changed woman. Please, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”
“Yes.”
There was more to be said.
But for now, this one word seemed to sum it up.
People clapped from the seats beside us. One woman took a picture of the whole thing on her phone. But somehow I couldn’t care less if we wound up being on the cover of a tabloid.
“Oh, Dev.” Belle covered her mouth with her hands, tears welling in her eyes. “This is awesome. Now can you please help me up?”
“Did you know that when a male and female anglerfish mate, they melt into each other and share bodies forever? When the anglerfish bloke finds a willing participant, he latches and fuses with her. He loses his eyes and a load of his internal organs until they share a bloodstream.” Devon strokes my hand lovingly, peering at me from his seat by my hospital bed.
“Wow,” I say dryly, holding my breath to stop the pain. “Sounds familiar.”
I turn to Nurse Pretending She’s Not There, who beams at both of us like she’s just given birth, popping my chart back onto the edge of my bed. “I just felt another contraction, and this one was baaaaaad.”
So bad I thought my stomach was about to rip in two.
“When’s Doctor Bjorn coming?” Devon demanded, spurring into action. “My wife is in pain.”
“Your wife is not the first woman ever to give birth,” Nurse About to Get Punched notes mildly. She moves to re-fluff the pillows behind me. “Two different doctors came in for a checkup and said everything is perfectly fine. Doctor Bjorn is dealing with some light traffic. He’ll be here in a few minutes. You can always opt for an epidural.” She peers down at me, shrugging.
“Are you kidding me? I want this kid to know how much I suffered for her and hold it over her head for eternity.”
She laughs.
I don’t know why.
I am not kidding.
“Sweetheart, we’re fine. You’ve still got time,” Devon coos, stroking my hair out of my face. It’s all nice and romantic, and yet I’m about to push an eight-pound human out of me without any drugs. I slap his hand away. “Go get me Doctor Bjorn.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Whitehall.” He cannot speed out of the room fast enough, and I remain with Nurse Looking at Me Like I’m Crazy.
Devon and I married each other shortly after we came back from England. It was a small, intimate ceremony in Madame Mayhem. The bridesmaids wore red lingerie and garters and couldn’t say shit about it. My wedding—my rules. Sam Brennan almost punched the walls down in the room when he saw his wife ushering me across the aisle in lingerie.
Things have been really awesome between us. Almost too awesome. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and think, Today is going to be the day I screw this up and bail on him. Or more often than not, Today is going to be the day that he leaves me. That he finally understands that I’m too damaged, too broken, or simply too much.
But somehow neither of these things happen, and I finish my days in the same way: draped over my husband, sharing our stories and experiences from the day, watching TV, laughing, and unveiling piece after piece of one another.