Page 42 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

“Mingati,” I said.

“Already?” he asked. “We just got started.”

“Will it work?”

“Probably not yet.”

“Didn’t think so,” I replied right before taking a big bite of sandwich.

We had a campaign safe word.

I wished he’d been around to hear me mumbling it the next morning when I was being stuck with pins whileMorgan Ashleycomplained about my size and how his designs were meant for a “streamlined figure.” Okay, so I had hips and a bit of a tummy. Sue me. Wealth certainly didn’t buy kindness.

Yesterday, when Candice said the car would be there promptly at ten—truth bomb. I woke up way earlier than necessary, dressed and waited in the living room, deciding to not allow myself to use the bathroom after 9:30. Some might call it an overreaction, but Robert threatened my mom over an anonymous vote. I shuddered to think of who he’d hurt if I was late. My nerves calmed with seeing Jupiter in the car.

The hour to Burlington made for an informative ride. My sister-in-law told me all kinds of stories about my husband. For instance, he had a speech impediment growing up. Many kids do, but his parents found it embarrassing, thus sent him off for an intensive eight-month therapy program at six years old. Parents of the year.

Morgan Ashley, the superstar designer, used his NYC studio for celebrities but kept a Burlington shop for his rich political clients who didn’t want to associate with anyone in the entertainment industry. I was told he’d grown up here. This should’ve been an exciting time for me to get a custom dress made by one of the biggest designers in existence. His designs showed up on red carpets around the world, but the man had the personality of a bear with diarrheaandhemorrhoids, and the patience of a pissed-off copperhead. I just wanted to go home.

After far too many hours, he took a step back from me, looked at his work, and declared with a flip of his hand in the air, “It’ll just have to be good enough.”

My chin jutted back. I wore a size ten. Okay, so I wasn’t Pen, Sierra, or Jupiter thin, but I’d hardly consider myself overly large. My husbandlovedmy curves. And really, how great could he be if he couldn’t work with any body type?

When he finished with me, the day got even better—not—to all hisoohing andaahing over Perfect Jupiter, his muse. “So beautiful!” and “My masterpiece!” Yes, we know. Jupiter, good. Gloria, bad.

After that self-esteem boost, she had the audacity to ask me out to lunch. I eyed her up and down. “I don’t think I’m eating ever again.”

“That’s maybe not the best course of action,” she said. “My brother would hate it. Aside from the whole death thing, he’s a fan of your curves.”

“Death would kind of suck.”

“It’d put a real damper on your marriage,” she teased.

I sighed. “Fine. I won’t give up food completely.”

“Don’t let him get to you. Morgan’s an asshole—a highly talented asshole, but an asshole nonetheless.”

“Says the size two.”

“I’m a Parker woman, I’m not allowed to have them.”

“Have them?”

“Curves.”

“I’m a Parker now, too.”

“You’re a Parker married to Blake. It’s not remotely the same.”

Folding my arms over my chest, I cocked a hip and Jupiter Parker became the next recipient of my most incredulous ‘really?’ glare. I hardcore,hardcoreglared.

“Listen,” she said, “I’m not going to pretend I’m nice or even a relatively good person—but I like you. My brother is happy with you around. Given that Brock is Robert Junior in all the ways, Blake and I had to stick together. I love my brother. You love my brother. Very,verydifferently, thank God, but still.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I know. And let’s face it, eventually, you and Blake will pop out a couple of urchins of your own. And you’ll really need me in your camp. You’ll be connected to the Parkers for life.”

“Urchins?” I asked, snickering. “You mean children?”

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