Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 92336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I never thought I would have the balls to do something this sporadic, but it feels right for some reason.”
“If it feels right, then it is. Tomorrow don’t you dare think about next week or anything negative, for that matter. You hear me? I want you to enjoy every single moment of it. I know it’s private, but please send me one picture of the two of you. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“I’ll be with you in spirit every step of the way.”
That evening, when I walked in the door holding my dress inside of a wardrobe bag, Damien got up from the couch to greet me.
“Did you find one?”
“I did.”
The excitement that filled his eyes made me even happier that I’d said yes. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.” He beamed.
“So, how is this going to play out? You can’t see me before the ceremony.”
“I remembered how adamant you are about that, so I have a car coming to pick you up here. I’ll get dressed over at Ty’s and will head to the beach early to set up. We’ll meet there at exactly eight. I’ll give the driver the precise location. All you have to worry about is looking pretty, which is really not a concern because you could show up wearing a paper bag, and you’d still be the most beautiful girl in the world to me. So, scratch that. All you have to do is show up.”
“I can swing that.”
***
Saturday just felt different from the moment we woke up. It was unseasonably warm by about ten degrees for northern California, so it was in the seventies. Damien and I had our coffee together outside in the courtyard as we admired his mural, which was still a work in progress. In one spot, he’d replicated the famous unicorn he’d previously painted for me. The one he created on my old bedroom wall had to be torn down during the apartment renovations.
It surprised me that I wasn’t nervous at all, not about the ceremony or the surgery this coming week. I was instead experiencing a day of respite, a day of peace where I could just experience living in the moment with him.
He left sooner than expected to get things ready for the beach. I wouldn’t see him until the wedding. Getting ready all alone felt strange yet serene. The dogs were with Jenna this weekend, so I was all alone as I stepped out of the shower and prepared to get dressed.
My hair took the longest. I decided to wear it half up half down and used an iron to make loose curls.
I was doing really great in not getting too emotional until The Fighter by Keith Urban and Carrie Underwood came on the radio just as I was applying my mascara. I lost it. Totally lost it.
Sometimes, a song eerily comes on at just the right time. The lyrics could have been Damien speaking to me. It was the story of my life: a girl hurt so badly by a relationship, so afraid to trust in love. Then along came a man who would truly protect her and fight for her. He was my fighter. Of course, later this week that would also take on a whole new meaning.
Keep the surgery out of your mind, Chelsea. Not today.
I stood in the bathroom leaning against the sink and sobbed. They were tears of joy—not fear or sadness. Allowing myself to have one good cry before having to face Damien, I let the mascara run and vowed to reapply it.
It took me two hours to get ready after that. Every time I would start putting on my eye makeup, I would think about the song and tear up again. Eventually, I was finally able to pull myself together as I slipped on my dress. Looking in the mirror, I added the final touch, clipping a simple short veil to lay low in the middle of the back of my head.
A car horn beeped outside. I grabbed my silk bouquet of white hydrangeas and a small rolling suitcase before heading out the door.
Damien had sent a town car to come get me. A nice older man opened the door for me and placed my suitcase in the trunk.
The leather seats were cold from the air conditioning as I situated myself in the backseat. I gazed out the window at the sunset during the ride to Santa Cruz.
After the amount of crying I’d done, my body felt relaxed. So much so, that when The Fighter ironically played faintly on the town car radio, I was able to listen to the words without tearing up this time.
My heart began to pound as the signs for Santa Cruz Beach started to appear along the highway.
When the car pulled into a parking spot near a private section of the beach, I took an Altoid mint out of my small white clutch and nervously chomped on it.