Page 9 of Hampton Holiday Collective
Rhett
Irolloverinbed, groaning as my low back catches. According to the clock on my phone on the nightstand, it’s still early. The sun won’t rise for another few hours.
Gingerly, I rise out of bed and head to the bathroom in search of ibuprofen. Our activities last night probably didn’t help the situation, but they were more than worth a little extra pain. I’m still blurry-eyed and drowsy when I pop a few pain relievers and make my way back into the bedroom.
That doesn’t prevent me from stopping in my tracks and admiring my beloved sleeping soundly.
I haven’t been up for more than five minutes, and already, Tori’s splayed out in the middle of the bed, breathing steadily, her arms and legs starfished wide.
Some things never change.
And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
Our lives have transformed over and over again during the last few decades. The shifts have been sharper more recently, first with Maddie and Dempsey’s elopement, then with the losses of our parents. Job responsibilities have changed, and we’ve moved half a dozen times since Tori joined me in Virginia. Most days, life feels busier than ever. But there’s a single truth that lives in my heart, and that guides me through each day.
I’m more in love with my wife now than ever.
Regardless of our work demands or what the future holds, we’ll always prioritize one another and make the most of all life throws at us.
I crawl back into bed and rearrange Tori’s body so she’s still splayed out, but splayed over me.
Her touch is all I need. Her closeness is all I crave. Demons that once haunted me—a darkness I fought against for years—are meager and inconsequential compared to the swell of joy I feel when I hold my wife in my arms.
I sigh contentedly, then yawn and close my eyes.
This is how it was always meant to be. I won’t let a day go by when I don’t savor and appreciate when we’re together.
Chapter 8
Fielding
Mysister-in-lawgroansforseveral seconds, arms stretched overhead, enormous belly bumping against the edge of the table. “I’m stuffed,” she declares as her full-body yawn wanes.
“Oh yeah?” I can’t help but leer.
Maddie glares, but it’s my brother who scolds me.
“Did you really just make a sex joke about my pregnant wife at the Thanksgiving dinner table while your children play in the other room?”
Fair point. I shrug in indifference.
“Every party has a pooper,” I tease, rising to clear the table. “You used to be more fun, Little Wheeler.”
Dempsey curses under his breath in warning.
“I used to not be huge! Or swollen!” she counters, pulling herself up and revealing the girth of her stomach.
Is it possible it’s grown even more since dinner started?
“Hey, don’t get sassy with me. It’s not likeIdid that to you,” I counter, jutting my chin toward her baby bump.
Heat flares in her eyes, and my brother curses my name loud and clear this time.
“You may have not impregnated me, butyourstupid twin genes made methisbig andthismiserable!”
She’s not wrong.
Thankfully, I’m saved from the wrath of pregnant Maddie by my middle child skipping into the kitchen.