Page 59 of A Storybook Wedding

“Hey. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“No worries. How’d you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” I lie. It was extremely hard to fall asleep with CJ lightly snoring beside me. Then, when I finally did, I dreamed I was quite successfully seducing her. “You?”

“Really good,” she says, stretching.

I wish she would quit it with all that damn stretching.

“Well, bathroom’s all yours,” I announce, pulling a fresh pair of boxers out of the drawer. “I’ll make the bed.”

“’Kay,” she says, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and setting her feet on the floor. “Thank you.”

I go through the other drawers and pick out the rest of an outfit: jeans, a white T-shirt, a sweater, and warm socks because my feet are freezing. By the time I’m done selecting my clothes, CJ’s closing the door to the bathroom.

I get dressed while she showers. I make the bed and review my notes for my workshop this morning. I don’t love that CJ’s in a workshop with Alice Devereaux beginning today, given how well she did in my workshop last semester. I swear, if Alice upsets her, I’ll kill her. It’s one thing for her not to like me—and I still have no idea what bug crawled up her ass and laid eggs there—but it’ll be quite another if she fucks with my wife.

I’m sitting at the desk getting my stuff in order for the day while CJ gets herself ready—hair and makeup take her awhile—but when she emerges from the bathroom, she looks adorable in a pair of form-fitting jeans, a tight black shirt, and a chunky wrap sweater the same shade of blue as her glasses. We don’t say much as we put on our shoes and she drapes her name tag lanyard over her head. She packs up her backpack, and I casually mention the fact that I’m heading into town at lunchtime if she needs me to pick anything up for her.

“I’m good,” she says. “What did you forget?”

“Oh, um,” I begin. “Just deodorant. I’m almost out.”

“You could always use mine if it became a dire situation.”

“Thanks.” I smile, hoping she can’t tell that I’m lying to her.

We go to breakfast, walking hand in hand like we often do now that we’re here. Her hands are little and soft, and I love the way her fingers wrap around mine with intention. She’s never loose or wobbly; everything she does seems very much on purpose. We eat. We drink coffee. She checks the time, and then she leaves. I plant a kiss on her cheek before she goes, because married people do that. She smells like coconut, lime, and sharpened pencils. I smile when my lips touch her face.

I spend my morning leading my workshop, and then an Uber comes to pick me up at the entrance to the retreat center at 12:15 p.m.. I would ask Maggie to drive me to town, but I don’t need her trying to shove her goodies in my face with her book-inspired Wanna get lit? tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination. Seriously. That’s her getup today—that and an unzipped hoodie sweatshirt. In the dead of winter. Anyway, if she drives me to town, she’ll try to poke her nose in my (proverbial and also probably literal) business, and I don’t need to be the subject of any more gossip than I already am.

Instead, I head to town for the appointment I’ve scheduled at Gold Diggers. I’m quick about it; I know what I’m looking for, and I find it pretty fast. I tell the Uber driver to wait outside so he can drive me back as soon as I’m done. I pay him a good tip for the inconvenience. I’m back at the retreat center just as lunch is finishing up.

While students and faculty are milling around or filing out of the dining hall and into the brisk December air, I see CJ at the buffet, making a sandwich. I come up behind her.

“You didn’t eat with everyone else?” I ask.

“No, I did. I was making this for you. I wasn’t sure if you ate in town.”

I smile. “I didn’t actually. Thank you. What’d you choose?”

“Turkey and cheese?” She lowers her voice. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

“That’s perfect. Come on. Let’s go back to our room. I want to hear about your workshop.” I take the plate from her.

We head upstairs, her with the massive backpack and me carrying the sandwich and my laptop bag. I let us in and set the sandwich down on the desk. She plops down on the bed.

“So how was Alice Devereaux?” I ask.

“Honestly? She was interesting. She’s definitely scary, but my submission didn’t go first this time around, so it wasn’t as awful as your workshop.” She giggles. “No offense.”

“None taken. What did she do that was scary?”

“Nothing in particular. She’s just so serious, like she is the absolute authority on writing. This is the workshop on publishing, so I think she’s expecting next-level work. Naturally, I’m terrified that when she gets to my submission, she’ll think it’s garbage and humiliate me.”

“Well, first of all, your writing is the furthest thing from garbage, so I wouldn’t worry about that. But also, that would be extremely unprofessional of her. What did you submit anyway?”

“Pages one hundred seventy-seven through one hundred eighty-eight of my manuscript.”

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