Page 108 of Harper

“I know you didn’t want to plan a wedding between bi-weekly trips up to Anchorage, but now that we’ll be home for a while, it’s perfect.”

Perfect?

To be clear, my feet have swollen to the size of Hobbit’s feet at this point in my pregnancy, and I have a beach ball-sized belly. I never had acne in my entire life, but I’m one of the lucky fifty percent of expectant moms who develop it in their second trimester. I also have non-stop heartburn, I’m constantly squeezing my ass cheeks to squelch farts, and I’m trying to stay ahead of an army of hemorrhoids but losing ground day by day. Add to these charming symptoms: a bladder that started to leak a few weeks ago, itchy skin everywhere, and restless leg syndrome that keeps me up half the night.

A wedding?

God, it exhausts me to even think about it. Not to mention…what would I even wear? A poncho and size triple-xl slippers?

Is he actually crazy?

“No,” I say, the word as definitive and final as possible.

“No…what?”

“No, it’s not the right time for a wedding, Joe.”

“It’s the perfect time,” he says. “We have six—”

“I don’t care if we have six months! Six years! It’s not the right time!”

I yank my hand away from his, shoving both in my parka pockets. My once roomy parka stretches over my belly like it’s vacuum sealed. I’m positive it won’t zip up in another week. I’ll need to order another from Amazon. Ugh.

“Harper, it’s off-season, which means we have our pick of places,” says Joe. “No one’s busy with tourists. Everyone we love could attend. It would be amazing.”

Tears prick my eyes at the half-comic, half-tragic image of myself farting all the way down the aisle and belching out my wedding vows.

“It would not be amazing.”

“Why not?”

I stop walking, standing still on the sidewalk until he turns around to face me.

“Joe! Are you joking right now? Look at me!”

“You’ve never been more beautiful,” he says, the words solemn and true.

“I know you think that,” I say, trying to be patient, “and it’s sweet. But it’s not accurate, Joe. Not at all.”

He puts his hands on his hips as a shadow passes over his face. “Harper, do you even want to marry me?”

“Not right now, I don’t!”

His face jerks back like I’ve smacked him. His eyes widen. His jaw tightens.

“Oh,” he whispers. “I thought…”

“What? That I’d want to walk down the aisle looking like a whale? No, thanks.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe to you! Not to me! The answer is no.” I cross my arms over my chest in a huff. “Absolutely not.”

“Not now? Or not ever?” He bites the inside of his cheek, which is a nervous gesture I recognize. His eyes search my face desperately, as though looking for some hidden message. I put my own insecurities aside and register the uncertainty in his expression, the growing worry in his eyes. “Do you really want to marry me, Harper? Because if you don’t, you should say that. Don’t lie. Just tell me.”

I feel confused by his over-the-top reaction, even as my brain races to figure out what’s going on.

“Joe, I’m not lying…” I insist, that word—lying—connecting all the loose ends in my head.

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