Kelly
I want to cry with joy—not because of shopping, but because of that word. Wife.
Instead, I throw myself into his chest. He holds me close and whispers promises that I believe. And when the threat of tears has passed, I pull back to smile at him and Crash, grinning like a kid at Christmas, pulls me out of the closet and to the next door in the room, stepping aside to reveal what I didn't see earlier.
The bathroom is a marvel in gold and cream marble shot-through with thin threads of gray and blue. A tub for two, a glassed-in shower twice the size of Dan's at home—and with shower heads at both ends—face a his-and-hers vanity that's got to be ten feet long, with lights around the mirror, just like in a dressing room. And warm, mottled walls over creamy tiles that are warm under my feet.
I try to imagine living here, putting on my Cover Girl, showering in this space, with Crash.
