New York Nights
Page 71

As I walked down the path of petals that led to the altar, I looked over the small crowd: Aubrey’s parent, a few of my coworkers, Mr. Bach and Mr. Greenwood, and a group of dancers from Aubrey’s cohort.
I didn’t attempt to invite anyone from my family. I didn’t see a point in asking them to come, or pretending that we had any type of relationship for the sake of a wedding.
“What took you so long?” Jessica tilted her head to the side as I took my spot next to her. “I told you that this is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.”
“I told you that you could wear a dress.” I looked over her tailored tuxedo.
“I wanted to commit to playing the role of the best man. You know, do my best to look like one of your guy friends.”
“Your hair is in curls.”
“Yes, but...” Her cheeks reddened. “My boyfriend loves when I wear my hair like this, especially when we’re in bed because he likes to—”
“Jessica...” I couldn’t help rolling my eyes, but then I laughed. “Thank you for being here.”
“My pleasure.” She hugged me. “I’m very happy for you and Aubrey. It’s about time you finally married her.”
I didn’t get a chance to reply. The small orchestra to my right had begun to play, and the audience was standing to its feet.
Stepping out all alone—just like she wanted, Aubrey locked her eyes on me as she slowly made her way down the aisle.
There were whispers from everyone, flattering comments about how beautiful she looked, and I honestly couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
Her hair was pulled to one side, in a bevy of curls that fell past her shoulder and lightly grazed the top of her chest. She was wearing a thin crystal headband that featured a few white feathers and matched her stunning dress: It was strapless and hugged her hips-perfectly—hiding her small baby bump. Adorned with subtle crystals that glimmered on every inch of the fabric, its long train stretched down the aisle.
As she stepped closer, I wiped her eyes with my fingertips.
“Stop crying,” I whispered, taking her hand.
She nodded, but more tears made their way down her face.
As the small crowd took their seats, the pastor began to read scriptures.
“The couple has elected to keep this ceremony short and simple,” the pastor said, holding back a laugh. “Their exact words to me were, Just marry us and get everyone to the reception. We’re only paying you for one hour.”
The audience laughed, and I slipped my arm around Aubrey’s waist—pulling her close to me.
“I guess that’s my cue.” The pastor laughed louder. Then he cleared his throat, whispering that I needed to let her go, but I ignored him and kissed Aubrey.
“Mr. Hamilton?” He cleared his throat again.
Briefly letting Aubrey’s lips go, I spoke. “We both told you not to give a speech. Just skip to the ‘now pronounce’ part.” And then I claimed Aubrey’s mouth once more, ignoring everything else around us, whispering in between breaths that she was forever mine.
 
A few years later....
Aubrey
Our three year old daughter, Autumn, absolutely adores Andrew. She follows him around whenever he’s at home, refuses to let anyone else tuck her in at night, and if she wakes up late, she runs into our bedroom in the morning just to make sure “He’s here.”
With the exception of her blond hair, she’s inherited all of his features—his piercing blue eyes, his smile, and unfortunately, his personality.
She’s also strangely addicted to Pop-tarts—coffee flavored Pop-tarts.
“Don’t even think about it, Autumn.” I cross my arms as she pushes her plastic ladder across the kitchen floor. “You had two for dessert, so you can’t have another one until tomorrow morning.”
She stops for a moment—looking as if she understands. But then she continues pushing the ladder across the floor.
“Autumn...” I step in front of her just as she presses it against a lower cabinet. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Daddy said—”
“I don’t care what Daddy said. I said no.”
Seemingly hurt, she gasps and rushes out of the room.
I sigh and start to silently count.
And in five...four...three...two...
Andrew walks into the kitchen, carrying her at his side. Without glancing my way, he strolls right over to the countertop and opens a new package of Pop-tarts, handing one to her.
“Thank you!” She squeals as he sets her down, and as if she’s trying to ease her betrayal, she breaks the tart and hands me a piece.
“I want to share with you, Mommy,” she says, looking into my eyes. “Will you share with me?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I take her peace offering. “Thank you, Autumn.”
“You’re welcome!” She gives a bigger piece to Andrew, and then she rushes off again.
“Andrew,” I say, taking a deep breath. “We need to talk.”
“About a fucking Pop-tart?”
“This is not about a Pop-tart. This is about your continued inability to say no to a three year old. If I say no, she immediately runs to you. And instead of being on my side about it, you simply say yes.”
“Then maybe you should just start saying yes.”
I narrow my eyes at him and step closer. “She’s going to be spoiled rotten if you keep this up...You don’t have to say no all the time, but once or twice wouldn’t kill you.”
“It actually would.” He pulls me into his arms and kisses me until I’m breathless. “I don’t want to make her cry. Ever.”
I suck in a few breaths as he rubs my back.
“She only asks for treats every now and then,” he says. “She doesn’t really ask for much else.”
This is true. Outside of her growing doll collection, her attention has lately been geared toward the empty studio Andrew had built in our apartment last year.
She’s starting to show slight interest in ballet: She watches me rehearse on the weekends, laughs whenever I show her my numerous tutus, and she even imitates me by holding her hands above her head from time to time.
“Daddy, can you tuck me in now?” Autumn returns to the kitchen and looks at Andrew—still chewing on that Pop-tart.
“Of course,” he says, clasping my hand.
We follow her into her bright yellow bedroom, and as usual, wait for her to pick a book from her shelf.
She selects Cinderella today, and surprisingly hands the book to me. “I want Mommy to read it.”
Smiling, I wait for Andrew to tuck her under the covers, and then the two of us sit on the edge of the bed—taking turns reading until she falls asleep.
“She didn’t even make it to the midnight part this time.” I kiss her forehead.
“Are you complaining?”
“No, I’m just surprised.”
“You probably bored her to sleep with your monotonous tone.” He pulls me up and turns off the lights. “She stays up to the very last page whenever I read.”
“Would you like to sleep on the couch tonight?”
“Only if you’ll be putting your pussy on my face.”
“I won’t be.” I follow him into our room and get into bed. “You’ll be lucky if I even let you kiss me tonight.”