Page 12 of Jensen

He stops, hands in the pockets of his linen suit. This is his first look at me in my wedding gown. Warmth stirs, confusing me. Maybe I do love him. Maybe love just feels like anxiety and dread. I give him a brave smile, sweet, like the frosting on the wedding cake in the dining room next door.

He holds out his hands. I go to him, placing my palms in his. He leans down, kissing me discreetly so he doesn’t mess up my makeup.

“My wife,” he says. His eyes drop to the silk over my belly. “My son.”

I just smile. I’ve always imagined my heart as a porcelain tea cup, easily breakable, and right now, there’s a fine crack in it.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“We’ll do the ceremony, then pictures in the Magnolia grove.”

Turning my head, I look out at the rows of trees. Again, I see myself running through them. Leland touches my chin, turning me back to face him. He doesn’t like when I give anyone or anything more attention than him. He’s going to hate it when I have a newborn sucking up all my time and energy.

Through the door, I hear a cello playing, my mother’s footfalls in the backroom. She comes through and starts scolding Leland for seeing me early. They laugh, joking with each other as she pushes him back into the living room.

I’m frozen to the ground, my flowers sticky in my hot fingers. If he hadn’t gotten me pregnant, I really would disappear through the back door.

My gut is telling me Leland isn’t safe, not after what he did.

So I don’t run. Instead, I say my vows in the living room, surrounded by Caudills and their friends. Smile on my face, I dance with him for the first time. I cut the cake and let him feed me a forkful. Sugar melts on my tongue. His face is blurry like a bad dream. I endure all the comments made by his drunk friends as he carries me up the spiral staircase. And I let him fuck me, still in my wedding dress.

He sleeps. I lay on my side and cry without making a sound.

I barely know this man. We slept together for a few months, I wasn’t even serious about him. Thenboom—all my choices went right out the window. All it took was a misunderstanding and a little blue plus sign.

Now I’m his wife.

The next morning, he’s gone at the crack of dawn. Slowly, I push myself up, knowing I have about a second. The sickness hits me, and I’m up, tearing across our enormous bedroom to the marble bathroom. I skid on my knees to the toilet and grip the edge.

Bile and water comes up. My vision wavers, heat and cold rolling over me. Then, it’s over. That’s the least I can say about this pregnancy. Once I throw up the minute my eyes open, the sickness is done.

Slowly, I push myself to my feet and turn on the shower. I smell like Leland, like his musky aftershave with notes of orange. It’s no wonder, he was all over me last night. Stepping into the shower, I lean my head against the wall, and let the water wash him away.

Hunger comes with a new craving every morning. This time, it’s for home. I want to be back in our trailer at the edge of the woods in the holler, the river glittering at the bottom of the hill. My heart is sick over never seeing those white-washed walls or curtains made from salvage shop sheets again. I’ll never wake up to my open bedroom window, paint shards on the sill and wrens peeping in through the shades. I’ll never walk into the kitchen and smell ham soup simmering on the stove.

My stomach clenches. A powerful craving for that soup, the texture of the beans, the saltiness of the ham, washes over me, all poured over sweet cracklin’ bread.

God, I need some cracklin’ bread right now. I could eat an entire pan of it.

I get out and dry off, putting on a plain white sundress. It’s got thin straps that hang off my shoulders and a little flare at the hips. I wrap my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. Then, I walk out into the enormous hallway.

I pad barefoot down the hall to the top of the spiral staircase. There’s a maid wiping down the steps. I pause at the top awkwardly.

“Can I slip by you?” I ask.

She shoots to her feet, folding her hands. “Go right ahead, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” I say, offering her a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Georgie, ma’am,” she says, dipping her head. She’s pretty, with wavy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I wonder where she comes from, the way she speaks reminds me of myself.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Della,” I say. “Could you point me to the kitchen? I’ve never found it coming from upstairs.”

Her brows knit. “Can I get you anything?”

“Just directions to the kitchen.”