"What the hell is an 'empire waist?'"
"Um..."
"Yeah, exactly," she said, big-eyeing me like I was in on something. Which, well, I fucking wasn't.
"Why do you need to know what an empire waist is?"
"Because, apparently, for my rectangular shape, which is really just a math typa way to say I have no boobs, hips, or ass," she said, rolling her eyes, "that is a good dress type for me."
I smiled then, unable to hold it in.
Scotti was a lot of things.
She was beautiful; she was brilliant; she was funny in a sarcastic way which just so happened to be my favorite; she was giving; she was loyal; she was amazing in bed; she was an alright cook, but an expert gardener. One thing she absolutely was not, was a girly-girl.
Fee once asked her opinion on her outfit and showed her one dress then came back out a minute later with an expectant look to which Scotti replied, "Well, are you going to change or what?"
Apparently, it had been a completely different dress, just in a different style, but the same color.
That was hilarious to the girls who never let her live it down.
So picking out a wedding dress, which was of utmost importance I had been informed, was proving a special kind of torture for her.
As a woman who was generally in jeans, tees, or the occasional nice black dress, I was pretty sure she never even realized that certain styles would fit her figure better than others. She just went with what she liked or what she felt hot in. It had never steered her wrong in the past.
That being said, beauty magazines (bridal ones included) made billions capitalizing on a woman's insecurities.
They were turning my usually very self-assured woman into a nervous wreck.
"First," I said, ducking my head to catch her gaze, "you have tits, hips, and an ass. And they're all fucking amazing; I don't care what that magazine says. Second, I don't know, nor do I care, and neither should you, what the fuck an empire waist is. All I care about, and all you should care about, is that you pick a dress that you feel good in. That's it. I don't care if it's a goddamn hot pink ballgown that I will spend two hours trying to get under to find your sweet pussy." She laughed then, her face losing all its tension in a blink.
"Was there a third?" she prompted when I trailed off.
"Hold on," I said, looking up at the ceiling and closing my eyes. "I am imagining the pussy-search thing for a second." She swatted my shoulder, and I smiled as I looked down at her. "Third, this is our wedding. It's supposed to be a chill ass party to celebrate that we are only ever going to fuck each other for ever and ever amen."
"Yes, that is totally what it is celebrating," she drawled, grinning.
"My point is, baby, I don't want you fucking stressed out about this shit. It's supposed to make us happy, not frantic. Don't read that shit," I said, gesturing toward the pile on the table. "Just figure out what you want. You want a Justice of the Peace? Fine. You want a banquet hall and every criminal in this town attending, we might need some private security, but fine too. You want to fly to Vegas... well, we'd have to bring my family and yours because we would never hear the end of it if we didn't, but we can do that too. Whatever you want."
"It's your wedding too," she said, shrugging.
"Yeah, and all I want is my last name following your first, my ring on your finger, a smile on your face, and my aforementioned pussy-search. That's it. Everything else is background noise."
Her face went soft at that.
"Do you think maybe Charlie and Helen would let us have the wedding there?" she asked, sounding almost embarrassed to ask. Because it meant too much to her.
I knew she had a soft spot for my parents' house. Maybe it was because it was the first real home with a mom and dad that she had known in a decade. Maybe it was because it was the first place her family and my family had shared a Thanksgiving together, then Christmas, New Years. It was a place we made a ton of memories.
And she wanted this one there too.
"Baby, I wouldn't be able to finish getting the question out before they agreed," I said, watching as her smile went almost a little shy. "They fucking love you. They fucking love your brothers. They obviously love all us fucks. Mom would love knowing that you want your wedding there. I'll bring it up tomorrow, but I'm telling you it is a go. So you can check venues off your list."
I meant it metaphorically, but she actually pulled away, rummaged around under the magazines, making three of them fall to the floor where she left them, and dragged out a pad of legal paper that literally had three different columns and words all the way down on each column, and crossed off what I could only assume was 'venue.'