Page 44 of Resistance Training
M y husband sparkles when he steps into the light.
And so do I.
It’s early evening in the middle of May.
Almost exactly ten years since the day our friendship suddenly ended the first time around.
This time around, we are best friends, lovers, workout buddies, Cheat Day artisanal-ice-cream enthusiasts, Asshole Book Club members, cat parents, housemates, and partners in marriage.
If only miserable eighteen-year-old me knew how happy Bradley and I would eventually be together and that we would have—objectively—the most perfect wedding ever.
Bradley had to talk me out of doing a destination wedding in Forks, Washington, or any of the filming locations for Twilight , which by the way, includes towns in Oregon, in and around Portland.
But I have no complaints about the location of our Twilight -themed wedding in Portland.
At an evergreen-filled botanical garden wherein we recreated the forest-wedding scene in Breaking Dawn: Part One , and my dad walked me down the aisle to a quartet playing “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri.
My dress is a not-exact replica of the one Kristen Stewart wore in the movie, because that is still the prettiest damn wedding gown I have ever seen, but I am a grown woman with curves.
My neckline plunges. My hips stretch the fabric like round yet firm divas.
And speaking of asses—the open lace back of my crepe satin gown was tailored to ensure maximum booty sculpting.
My goal was to make Bradley almost jizz in his pants in front of all our invited family and friends, while also making him proud because he locked me down and continued to oversee my hourglass-shape workouts after we got engaged.
If a bride can’t torture her groom with a boner-inducing dress on their wedding day, is it really worth not eating banana cream pie for an entire month just so she could fit into said dress? I think not.
My husband wore a tux with a long jacket like the one Robert Pattinson wore in the movie, and he was not happy about it, but he did it.
Because he loves me. And because I promised to let him do unspeakable things to me on our honeymoon if he did.
Granny Sparks had a lot of complaints because she couldn’t see his butt while he was standing up there, and honestly, I get it.
But for the reception, we’ve recreated the Twilight prom.
Our millionaire friend Larry, who is now officially Brad’s investor in the new senior-focused gym location and officially Cindy’s husband, pulled a few strings.
We were allowed to have a big white gazebo built in the event area, covered in lights and vines, and that is where my husband and I are now standing.
It was my idea, of course, because prom is an important rite of passage. I didn’t want him missing anything.
Brad has changed into a regular black suit and tie, his dark hair swooping up to the heavens with Cullen-like broody verve, his gluteal curves visible in those pants and a shorter suit jacket.
I did not go so far as to wear a cast boot, but I am wearing a very pretty cardigan over my blue prom dress and Converse sneakers.
We’ve both got glitter makeup all over our faces now and amber-colored contact lenses, but we didn’t for the ceremony.
The DJ starts “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” by Iron and Wine, and my supernaturally handsome husband smirks at me and says “Shall we?” as he holds up his hands.
I do my best to look all quivery and demure yet also bold and confident in my love for him as I say, “You’re serious?”
“Oh, why not, wife? Why not?”
We slow dance, just the two of us, under hundreds of little white light bulbs, as eighty of our guests stand around the gazebo, drinking and watching us, among hanging paper lanterns.
Our first dance together as husband and wife.
With all the hopeful energy of our youth, all the experience from our time apart, and all the love and trust that can only come from choosing to verb each other every single day since we came back together.
“I want you,” I whisper to him. “Always.”
“Forever?” he asks broodily.
“Forever.”
He dips me, staring deep into my intense doe eyes. The flash of the wedding photographer’s light bulb goes off as he gently kisses my arched neck. There is cheering. There is whooping and hollering. There is very loud sisterly sobbing.
I’ve got the most badass ragtag team of bridesmaids, with a combined age of around a thousand and fifty years old. Aubrey, who is pregnant and cries almost nonstop, Marlo, my friend from work, Cindy, Mabel, Dolores, and Gwen. Because I finally won her over, as I knew I would.
When Brad lifts me up again, we’re smiling, but the joy is laced with the bittersweet. What if we had actually gone to prom together ten years ago? Would we have gotten married sooner? Would we have a kid by now? Would we have dated and then broken up for good?
As if reading each other’s minds, we both shake our heads. Because what is the point of thinking like that? It is the bitter that makes this joy so sweet. We have each other now. We might not live forever, but we will grow old together. Old and hot, with joint mobility and excellent bone density.
Part of me wishes we would go to our ten-year high school reunion in August, just so we could rub it in everyone’s faces how hot my Brad is now.
But neither of us really enjoyed high school so much as we enjoyed each other in high school.
So, we’ve already had the reunion that really matters.
Good Form has agreed to be a sponsor of the event, though.
The image that will accompany his ad in the memory book is a photo of us in our sexiest gym clothes, flexing as we flip off the camera. Because fuck you, high school dicks .
A week before Brad proposed, Aubrey had already sent me twelve options for small houses within our assumed combined budget, in a neighborhood that was exactly halfway between Good Form and my office.
We ended up buying the perfect little house, which is where Hairy Styles and Bella are probably curled up with each other right now.
And we have custom-made floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along two walls of our living room.
Our books intermingle on those shelves, and Brad Mitchell, who goes less and less by Mitch nowadays, bangs me against them at least once a week.
At dinner, for the toasts, the Asshole Wedding Club rules were that everyone had to name at least one thing they didn’t like about us, even though they loved us.
Criticisms ranged from way too good looking to not very good at being illiterate.
The one thing I don’t like about us is that I still haven’t figured out a way for both of us to see each other’s butts at the same time, except in pictures.
But every single day, it’s my intention to get to the bottom of this.