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“Is Scotty another friend?” Kristal inquisitively investigates.
“It’s simply a Star Trek reference she’s making in relation to Calen, her best friend,” Mom retorts before I can. “My daughter is a Trekkie.”
“Seriously?!” Kristine enthusiastically exclaims. “I have just the dress to show you!”
There’s no stopping my head from angling in curiosity. “You have my attention.”
“We just got in a shipment of ‘fandom’ inspired gowns with nods to their original creations. Like Princess Leia-”
“That’s Star Wars.”
“Samantha Carter.”
“Stargate.”
“And T’Pring.”
“That,” my finger feistily points in her direction, “is me. That one is my Star Trek shit.”
“Eeeek!” squeaks Kristine. “Let me go get it!”
Her swift disappearance threatens to make me smirk.
Is it just luck that my future husband rented out a space that had something related to my favorite franchise or did he make sure to mention that to Valora during one of their conference calls I couldn’t make courtesy of a bitchy boss that doesn’t believe in love.
Or personal phone call breaks.
Or personal space considering how much she’s been hovering since my injury.
Which is healed by the way.
So, I don’t know why the fuck she’s still breathing down the back of my neck like a goddamn megamouth shark.
“While my sister grabs that, why don’t I get an idea of what else you’re looking for?” Kristal invested demeanor remains. “Long? Short? Tight? Flowy?”
The latter causes my brow to furrow in contemplation.
Just exactly how pregnant will I be when our wedding day hits?
Do I want that to be seen in all our photos?
Do I want that to be the focus?
Can we move it up sooner?
Can we move it up a lot sooner to the point people probably can’t even tell?
Sure, we made the formal announcement a couple weeks back during the 4th of July celebration, but that doesn’t mean I want it to be the focus on the day.
“Did I overwhelm you?” Kristal uncomfortably cringes. “It wasn’t my intent! I swear! I just…I was just looking for a direction to go or avoid or-”
“I don’t know,” comes out in more of a whispered confession than intended. “I…I didn’t think I’d be pregnant during this time so…I don’t know what to wear. Or what I should wear.”
“You wear whatever you want,” she declares at the same time she lowers herself to be eyelevel with me. “You want something flowy to hide your curves. Let’s do it! You want a bump to be what people see, we can tie that shit up with a red bow! Something in the middle sound better? We’ll arrange it. Whatever you want, Bryn, is the only thing we want to deliver.” A gentle, encouraging palm lands on top of my chocolate crumb covered lap. “All you have to do is communicate with us what that is. We’re here to serve you.”
Being served whatever you want sounds wonderful.
Except of course when you have no clue at all what that is.
