but I also knew she could sense that it had been a while. I squeezed her hand, falling quiet as she flipped through the pages of the second magazine before a yawn stretched between us. I reached for the magazines, and once I deposited them on her bedside table, I helped her under the covers.
“This man you’ll marry,” she said as I pulled the knit blanket up to her shoulders. “Does he make you feel the way Richard Gere made Julia Roberts feel in Pretty Woman?”
I smiled, tucking the blanket around her arms as I considered the question. Did Anthony make me feel like that — special, desired, beautiful in a way that he can’t resist? Not necessarily. But did he make me feel safe, comfortable, cared for? Yes.
“I think so,” I whispered, but then I raised both brows as my eyes found hers. “He’s not quite as handsome, though.”
“Well, no one is as handsome as Richard Gere, my dear,” she said on an exaggerated sigh, as if that were obvious. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
I laughed, and Betty smiled before her eyes fluttered closed. Within minutes, her soft breathing turned to a light snore, and I found myself staring at her favorite scene from Pretty Woman that hung above her bedpost. I imagined the scene, wondering what Anthony would look like if he swept in to save me the way Richard Gere did — a white knight in a limo instead of on a horse.
I was sure he would act out a grand gesture if he ever needed to. I was sure he would take care of me, that I’d be comfortable as I stood by his side on his race to his political dreams. And I was sure he was just as handsome as Richard Gere, regardless of what I’d told Betty.
But as I stared at Julia Roberts’s wide smile, the one thing I didn’t know for sure was if I wanted to be the princess he saved.
In the back of my mind, I heard a voice I’d been trying to forget since Monday afternoon.
“No one asked you if you were ready to get married?”
And I wondered why it never occurred to me that I had a say in the matter.
Noah
On Friday night, I sat at the table my father built with my three brothers and the woman who raised us, drinking a cold Budweiser after another long week at the distillery. I’d had family dinner with my friends, with a few girlfriends in the past, and I’d always been disappointed. Because where most families were quiet and orderly and respectful at the dinner table, my family was the exact opposite.
In the Becker household, it was always madness at dinner time.
Complete and utter chaos.
“God, you’re disgusting,” Logan said, tossing a green bean at our youngest brother, Michael, who had just belched so loud even I was impressed.
Mom swatted Michael’s arm to show her own disapproval, but couldn’t hide her smirk. “Manners, Mikey.”
“What? Better out than in, right?” Michael grinned at all of us before burping again.
“Feet off the table, Logan,” Mom said next, as soon as she finished plating the last of his meatloaf. She set it in front of him where his feet had been, smacking his hand away when he tried to dig into the mashed potatoes. “Not until we pray.”
“Yeah, Logan. Not until we pray,” I said, sneaking my own bite. He narrowed his eyes at me, and Mom smacked my hand next.
“Gray hairs,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Every single one of you are giving me gray hairs.”
She took her seat, hands reaching out — one for mine, one for my older brother, Jordan’s — and the rest of us linked hands and bowed our heads.
“Heavenly Father, thank you for this meal, and for these boys, though they drive me insane. Please bless this food and this day, and be with those who need you most. Amen.”
“Amen,” we all echoed, and it was the quietest that house would be all night as we each stuffed our faces with the first bite.
Even though we liked to rag on each other, my brothers and I were close. We were like a well-oiled machine, and Mom and Dad were the grease that kept us in working order. After Dad died, Mom took on that job as a solo party, and that was the only time I ever remember the machine breaking down.
Our dad was well known in the town, especially since his dad was best friends