Page 1 of Big Daddy to Go

1

Lexi

This is it—the big day. The day every girl dreams about. I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My lace wedding gown is gorgeous, but something is missing, and I can’t figure out what.

The dress hugs all of my curves—from my breasts to my hips and ass. It flatters and accentuates my full figure rather than diminishes it. If my mother had her way, I would be wearing an even tighter dress to make me look about four sizes smaller. But I’d feel like a sausage squeezed into a too-tight casing, and put my foot down on that one. I can’t afford to potentially faint from lack of air while walking down the aisle.

Besides, I don’twantto worry about my shape anymore. Mom spends most of her energy trying to turn me skinny, and that’s been getting on my nerves for years now. In fact, Mom has spent most of my life trying to change me, period–and not just my body. When I was younger, I was a rambunctious teenager with a ton of friends, but my mother still wasn’t happy. My feisty, outgoing ways seemed to embarrass Renee, who’s always been quiet and petite. Whenever I made a ruckus, she’d purse her lips and fuss at me to behave with more decorum.

Now at twenty-five, I don’t have a ton of friends like I did as a kid—just a few close ones. I’m still bold when I’m in the right company, but my fiancé, Jason, isn’t exactly social. He enjoys sitting on the couch and watching sports while smoking pot. When he isn’t doing that, we’re at high-society functions with his parents. The Peckhams give new meaning to the word “stuffy,” with their formal airs and fancy clothes.

For example, I went to a charity function with them once, and laughed too loudly, receiving stares from not one, butthreedifferent old women. Jason’s parents just about fainted before rushing over to apologize on my behalf. I didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. I was just being me.

As for the younger rich folks I’m forced to be social with, their noses are too far in the air to bother talking to me. They stare at me—more specifically, at my hard-to-conceal curves—like I’m a fat pig and they have every right to be disgusted. And I know they wonder how I snagged Jason Peckham, one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors, with the broad shoulders and charming smile. It’s my personality, ladies. No one wants an uptight stiff, no matter how beautiful you are.

As I continue to look over my appearance in the mirror, I try to figure out what’s missing. Mom’s pearls are draped around my neck. It’s something borrowed and something old—check. A gorgeous aquamarine birthstone bracelet adorns my wrist. Something blue—check. The dress counts as something new, so what’s missing?

I fuss with my hair, which is starting to curl despite the hair stylist’s best efforts to keep it straight. Jason prefers my hair straight and so does his mother, who on more than one occasion has mentioned that my hair is “unruly.” She’s right. My hair is wildly curly naturally, and trying to tame it is like trying to domesticate a lion.

Jason also tried to convince me to go blonde for the wedding, but I had to draw the line somewhere. The last thing I want on my wedding day is a bad dye job with brassy, orange-ish hair. Jason is just to going to have to marry a brunette, whether he likes it or not.

I admire my reflection for a moment, relishing the beauty I see within myself. I don’t notice my appearance very often, and I receive very few compliments from people in my life on how I look. Jason included. If anything, my husband-to-be tends to take my mother’s stance where it concerns me. He wants me thin and blonde and acting like a smiling idiot on his arm when we’re in public. In private, he wants me under the covers, in the dark, with him on top. That is, when he’s not so stoned that he falls asleep before we can even make love.

A flash goes off in my face as the photographer takes a photo of me. As I blink the bright light away, I remember when I first met Jason two years ago at an interior design showroom.

I was there picking up accent rugs for a client. Jason was shopping for an antique settee for his mother’s birthday. He was clueless, and I offered to help him—mostly because he looked like a gorgeous model. To show his thanks, to my surprise, he took me to dinner at a swanky five-star restaurant. The rest is history.

“I’m so jealous, Lexi,” my cousin Briana says.

I turn to look at the teenager, who is cracking her gum as she pushes her boobs up in her bridesmaid dress.

“Jealous? Of me?” I question.

“Duh. Jason is so hot and rich, and you get to marry him! That’s, like, every girl’s fantasy!” she squeals.

I laugh as I think of Jason’s thick jet-black hair, ice blue eyes, and chiseled face. He is a stunner, that’s for sure. Suddenly, the nagging feeling of something being missing overwhelms me again.

My mind flashes back to a couple of months ago.

“What are you doing?” Jason had asked as I sat on the couch watching an interior design show.

“This is the show that wants to feature me,” I’d gushed. “Isn’t it so cool? The designers on it have real talent too.”

I work as a junior designer for an interior design firm on the Upper East Side. The company underpays me and overworks me, but it’s a foot in the door. My dream is to go out on my own someday.

“Great, put the hockey game on,” Jason had said, blowing off the show and my accomplishment.

I looked over at him and sighed, frustrated. But I’d figured I could watch the show on the DVR another time. After I changed the channel, I scooted next to Jason and wrapped my arms around him.

“Lexi, I don’t want you on me right now,” he shoved me away, somewhat roughly.

A dejected feeling sat in the pit of my stomach as I looked at him.

“Your fucking poufy hair tickles me. I told you I like space. It’s a guy thing.”

I was close to calling off the wedding then, but then my mother popped into my mind. She wanted me to marry Jason and to secure our future by becoming a Peckham. I couldn’t care less about Jason’s money. Sure, it was nice, but all I’d ever wanted was to be loved by someone I was crazy about.

But sometimes, I wonder if Jason loves me. I have to remind myself constantly that like a lot of men, he’s just not good with intimacy. And also, some people express love differently. If Jason’s way of showing me he loves me is to ignore me, then he’s over the moon about me.