ViennaMata

Claire

Whoever coined the term "morning sickness" was clearly an optimist—or a liar.

It's well into the late afternoon and I've vomited twice and had diarrhea once... the diarrhea might be from anxiety, but still, it all feels related.

We just left the hair salon and are headed back to the house to get dressed. Joy picked out a ballgown-style pink chiffon dress, and Aiden went for a black tux with a pink chiffon pocket square and bow tie. It was perfect.

Becca has been blowing up my phone for the last hour and a half. I'm assuming she's been informed about the wedding. I took a screenshot of my call log and sent it to Drew with the caption: "Make it stop."

Drew called me immediately.

"Hey baby, I'm sorry about that. She's been calling me all afternoon and I've been ignoring her, so I'm assuming she decided to go through you. I'll make it stop."

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and then asks,

"How are you feeling, baby? Still want to marry this idiot?"

His voice cracks into a self-deprecating chuckle, and I feel it in my chest—the weight of everything we've been carrying.

"I feel fine now. This morning and early afternoon were a little touch and go. I threw up three times and... and other stuff."

Let's not put the image of me blowing out my brains from my ass into his head on our wedding day.

"Let's just say it was rough, but I'm feeling better now. Joy got me some ginger ale, and Aiden did some sort of reflexology hand-foot-whatever massage. I think it took the edge off. Now it may just be nerves."

"You still want to marry your pregnant baby mama? Because if not, I'm sure Becca is about to show up to the wedding in a dress, ready to go."

We both chuckle.

Then Drew asks,

"Does Joy have one of your inhalers? I'll have one in my pocket too, but I want to make sure someone else has it just in case I'm not with you at any point—which I don't intend to be."

My heart flutters.

"She does, babe, don't worry. Are you going to text us the address of where to go?"

I hear him get into his car and start it.

"No address needed. It's at home." He grins through the phone. "Honestly, I'm amazed Aiden and Joy managed to keep you from noticing the army of people working out back. They've been sending me pictures all day. It's beautiful. Just needs its centerpiece."

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"Oooo you got really fancy! A centerpiece? So bougie, babe."

He chuckles.

"You're the centerpiece, Claire. You pull it all together. You're the most important part, and we'll all have our eyes on you. You're also the center of my world, so there's a correlation in there somewhere... it sounded deep in my head."

This is the Drew I know and miss—the one I can laugh about anything with, the one who makes me the center of his world, the one who would literally burn the cities down to find me if he had to.

I'm scared to enjoy it, just in case it all goes away again, but Drew knows me too well.

"Get out of your head, C. I won't hurt you again, baby. It's you, me, and Bean."

"Bean? Who the hell is Bean? Because the baby in this belly is Nugget. Like a chicken nugget."

He laughs.

"Baby, I'm pretty sure it's the size of a bean right now."

"Drew, it could be the size of Mount Kilimanjaro and I would still call it Nugget."

"Yeah, let's hope it doesn't get that big or your vagina will be a relic at the Smithsonian. Wowzers."

He would be worried about my vagina and not all the other organs a baby the size of Mount Kilimanjaro would obliterate. I mean, who needs vital organs if the vagina is safely displayed at the Smithsonian, right?

"Oh my gosh, Drew. My vagina will be fine. Perfect working order for you in about six to eight weeks after the baby is born—unless I end up needing a C-section. That's major surgery and anesthesia—"

Drew cuts me off.

"Whoa, did you say six to eight weeks? Is that a real thing? How will you live without Mr. Pickles that long, babe?"

This is who I'm marrying, ladies and gentlemen—a grown man who calls his penis Mr. Pickles.

And don't even get me started on why he calls it that.

(Because babe, he makes you pucker up.)

Maybe we should call off the wedding.

"Babe, both you and Mr. Pickles are going to have to deal. I won't have a problem, since according to you, my vagina will be safe and heavily guarded at the Smithsonian."

I hear Drew turn off his car and close the door—he must be home now.

"Oh, I can guard ole' Bertha just fine here at home, babe. I'm home. Gonna check on the wedding progress. I love you, Claire, and I'll see you at the altar."

He hangs up.

I stand up and head to the large bay window.

They made me get ready in one of the forward-facing spare bedrooms, which now makes sense if the wedding is happening in the backyard.

I'm excited.

I'm nervous.

And honestly, I'm just ready for this to be over.

I'll be Mrs. St. Claire.

Claire St. Claire.

It's weird... and slightly poetic.

Kind of feels like it's meant to be.

Or maybe... a really bad omen.

15.Claire

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