"We’ve been busy," I remind her. "I was the only vet at the practice for over a month. I worked seven days a week." When I passed the exam, I stayed at the emergency clinic. They hired me full-time, and I can’t tell you how much I loved it. But I knew that there was no way I would be able to move up, so two years after that, I got the opportunity to open a practice near my hometown with two other vets.
The three of us never expected it to become as big as it did. We were so in demand that we outgrew the little place we rented after six months and bought our own land and built it to our liking. "Michelle had her baby early, and Roy broke his foot. What did you want from me?"
"You’ve been engaged for six months, and she has yet to move in," Presley states, pointing at all the boxes starting to collect dust.
"She had a lease, and she couldn’t break it," I repeat the same thing I’ve been telling my mother and anyone else who asked about why she wasn’t living with me. "And she didn’t want to leave her roommate high and dry."
"I just find it crazy that you are marrying someone you haven’t even lived with." She sits up. "It’s insane to me. What if you get on her nerves, or she gets on yours?"
I take another gulp of coffee, hoping she doesn’t see that I have had the conversation with myself over and over again. "It’ll be fine. It’s a learning curve."
"A learning curve." She gets up and laughs. "A learning curve is getting bangs. Moving in with someone is a huge deal."
"Aren’t you supposed to be calming me down on my wedding day and telling me that everything is going to be okay, instead of making me second-guess it?” I ask her, and she just shrugs.
"Fine." She rolls her eyes. "It’s a great idea that you didn’t live with each other and the longest you spent in the same house at one time is two weeks because you were both on vacation and stuck on an island."
I pfft out and laugh all at the same time nervously. "She stays over all the time," I say, and she puts her hands on her hips.
"I bet you one hundred dollars that she doesn’t even have a toothbrush here." She puts out her hand for me to smack it.
"Mom said I’m not allowed to take any money from you," I say, refusing to admit that she is right, and also it goes to say I also don’t have one at her place.
"Presley," Shelby calls her. "You are in charge of making toast." Shelby then looks at me. "You"—she points at me—"over easy or scrambled?"
"Either is good," I reply as Presley walks into the kitchen to help my sisters with breakfast.
Today is my wedding day, I think to myself, leaning over and putting my coffee cup on the little table that will soon be leaving. Married, I let the word sink in. It feels like just yesterday we met, and now we are getting married. The nerves start to kick in my stomach. The feeling slowly climbs up, and the pressure starts in my chest.
"Come and eat," Clarabella calls from the kitchen over her shoulder. I grab my cup, getting up and zigzagging toward the kitchen. Grabbing one of the plates on the counter, I fill it up with eggs, bacon, and sausage.
I walk over to the little dinette table I have off to the side, pulling out a chair. My sisters join me a minute later. "Your last meal as a single person," Clarabella says, sighing.
"Can we not make it sound like I’m having my last meal before I’m executed?” I say, grabbing my fork, and the three of them laugh.
"You ready for today?" Shelby asks as she takes a bite of her toast.
"The question I should be asking is are you guys ready for today?" I look at them. When it came to planning the wedding, I left them in charge of it because they were the professionals after all. I had no idea what I was doing, and if a decision needed to be made, they called Jennifer.
"Everything is going to be perfect," Clarabella claims. "I double-checked everything last night before I went home." She smiles at me, and then her phone rings in her hand.
"Private caller," she says, swiping on the phone. "Hello," she answers, and I can see it happen all before my eyes. "What are you talking about?" Her face goes white as she looks at my sister. "Oh my God, we will be right there." The way her voice sounds, you know that it’s not good. She’s already out of her seat, and so are we when she looks at me. "Don’t freak out," she says, and I don’t know if she is telling me this or herself. It really feels like it’s the calm before the storm because as soon as she says the words, chaos erupts: "The kitchen is on fire."