Читать книгу It's My Wedding Too - Sharon Naylor - Страница 8

“We could elope,” I ventured, not blinking and mesmerized by the dashes of white lines coming one after the other on the highway’s surface. Anthony was driving, amazingly dedicated enough to stay sober that evening, and I was silently chanting driving directions inside my head: Stay on the right side. Stay on the right side. Stay on the right side.

“You know you don’t want that,” Anthony yawned and gave his upper back a stretch with a backward curve of his shoulders and a quick flick of his head to the side to crackle his neck bones.

“It would be easier.”

“Ah, but it wouldn’t be right.”

“I know.”

Anthony put his hand gently over mine, and only then did I realize I had been death-gripping the sides of the leather seats.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “They’ll warm up eventually.” And I had this fleeting moment of fantasy: me standing next to an enormous glacier in Alaska, with its ruts and turns and chipped-away floes, with a green Bic lighter and a dumb level of optimism.

“And if they don’t?” I whisper.

“We encase them in ice blocks like that David Blaine guy and make them a fabulous art déco performance art centerpiece in the reception hall.” My love gave my hand a squeeze. It was probably the first time I genuinely smiled all night. I couldn’t remember. “Mothers on Ice…sounds like an ice skating special on TV, doesn’t it?”

Only Anthony could make reference to a figure skating show and still impress me with his virility. I needed him bad right now. “Hey, A,” I said with a dash of suggestion in my voice. “Can you find someplace to pull over?”

His look turned to concern. “You going to be sick?”

I took a moment to let a mischievous smile grow across my lips. “Nope.”

Tires screeching, we pulled into the back end of a crowded parkway rest stop parking lot. And got a pair of Starbucks white chocolate mochas and a Mrs. Field’s brownie to split when we were finished.