Page 35 of Bound to a Monster

Except that’s not happening.

I shoot a few pictures I took of the wedding last night to my girl group and get a flood of replies.

Gia: That looks incredible!! Holy crap!!!!

Sophie: Not at all jealous and mad that I wasn’t invited.

Gia: Get over it Soph!!!!

Frannie: Cool view.

Sophie: And here’s Franny Panties texting like a boomer again.

Frannie: It’s a cool view, I refuse to apologize.

Carmie: I really hate none of you were there tbh, but I didn’t have much say in the matter.

Gia: How’s the gorgeous husband doing anyway? You two hump until your parts got rugburn?

Frannie: Disgusting.

Frannie: But did you?

Carmie: We slept in separate rooms.

Sophie: Disappointment of the centuryyyyyy.

Carmie: Now I’m packing up my room and having a minor existential crisis.

Carmie: What am I supposed to do now? I’m married to a total stranger and I’m supposed to somehow cohabitate with him?

Gia: I’m so sorry but you’re doing good.

Gia: You’ll get through it.

Sophie: You definitely will!

Frannie: Or we’ll kill him for you. Slowly.

Gia: FRANNIE!

Sophie: Don’t put that in writing!!!

Frannie: What? We will!

I toss my phone aside and hold up my old fencing uniform. Half my old gear is scattered across the floor. I balance my foil and kick my mask with my toe. I haven’t worn it in a while—Dad stopped letting me go to fencing lessons and forget about joining a club or something like that—but I know I could squeeze into it if I wanted.

But what’s the point? The girls think I’ll survive and move on, but what else are they supposed to say? I haven’t told them about the baby yet; otherwise, I have a feeling they’d be storming over here to make sure I’m still hanging on.

And I have no clue if I am.

There’s a knock at my door. It cracks open and I look up, expecting to see Luca, but instead, Dad lingers there, frowning in at the mess.

He looks tired today. Bags hang under his eyes. The skin around his mouth is loose and wrinkled, and his hair is going gray. He used to be big and trim, but there’s a tire around his middle these days, and he doesn’t seem motivated to do anything about it.

My father’s getting older.

But the edge hasn’t gone away. His mouth is pressed into a hard line. I know what he’s thinking. “I’ll clean it up, don’t worry.”

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