Hollie Porter Builds a Raft

4. Oh, Anxiety, You’re So Cute-1

4

Oh, Anxiety, You’re So Cute

We almost got kicked out of the zoo for taking too much time in the one-stall-fits-all family/universal bathroom—hey, we just got engaged! We have to consummate the engagement, don’t we? Isn’t that a rule or law somewhere? Yes, I know your baby just s**t up its back and I’m sorry for that, but maybe fewer prunes next time, and I’m sorry to the other lady who needed to breastfeed her darling screamer but I just got engaged and I needed to do what engaged people do (and ew, gross, why are you feeding your baby in a toilet room where people have pee-peed on the floor and where Concierge Ryan and I just had s*x?). Also, playing Hollie Hides the Sausage on the open lawn during the Birds of Prey show is generally frowned upon. It apparently excites the golden eagle.

But omigod, there is a not-so-wee rock made of time and pressurized coal gleaming from my left fourth finger, and the man who gave it to me said a bunch of really sweet stuff that I wish I could remember and he looks gorgeous in his button-down shirt that is now misbuttoned and his brown curly hair that is messier than it was fifteen minutes ago and those Levis that hug his ass like they’re involved in an intimate relationship of their own and seriously? Would you not want to tap the hell out of that after it got down on one knee and said I LOVE YOU MAKE ME YOUR HUSBAND?

That’s what I’m sayin’.

After we said our polite goodbyes to family and friends who came to share the happy moment—the engagement, not the part in the universal bathroom (perverts)—we made one stop before heading to Seattle for the night: a newsstand where I bought every bridal magazine the smelly, throat-bearded dude had to sell, despite the fact that he also tried to talk me out of getting married because his ex-wives were sucking him dry “like piglets on a sow’s teat” and that’s why he had to work three s**t jobs and if I knew what was good for me, I’d run as fast and as far away as possible. I instead handed over my credit card to pay for an armload of outrageously priced glossy magazines I swore I would never, ever buy and asked him if he hates women so much, then why does he have Match.com open on his computer screen. He grunted and gave me a free “Keep Portland Weird” bookmark.

And then Mr. Ryan Fielding, my fiancé, and I checked into a hotel in downtown Seattle so we could violate one another’s body parts in real style and comfort, and after my newly engaged girly bits were thoroughly exhausted, I lay awake next to Ryan’s lightly snoring form, staring at the sparkly bauble’s reflective properties in the light spill sneaking into our room through a split in the gauzy curtains, like a love-drunk girl is supposed to do, but the ring on my finger is kinda sorta freaking me out because Hollie Porter wasn’t voted Most Likely to Marry the Man of Her Dreams—not even close. Getting married? Me? That’s something grown-ups do.

And then they screw everything up and get divorced, like my dad—twice, first with my absentee mother and then with Dr. Aurora (although by law, they’re still married—Dr. Aurora thinks that ET’s cousins run the court system so she won’t file the papers). Or look at the dispatch center and all the lives ruined because of illicit romances born of a strange occupational brotherhood—dealing with dying people and life’s worst tragedies for a living does something to a person’s head. Rumor has it that Troll Lady and Les finally got caught playing porn stars in the handicapped bathroom and Troll Lady’s very large, steroid-juiced husband broke Les’s nose so badly, he will never breathe properly again. Hell, even Throat-Beard Guy at the newsstand warned me against taking the stroll down the aisle.

But here we are, and a scarred, beautiful arm just wrapped around my middle and as he pulls me closer, my concierge lightly smooches my cheek and burrows in my hair and whispers that he loves me and he thinks I broke his p***s, and all is again right with the world, and I don’t have to worry about failing as a wife yet because maybe we can have a really long engagement and since we live at Revelation Cove, we have a chef onsite so it’s not like I need to really learn how to cook for real.

Because isn’t that what wives do? Cook and stuff? Will everything change if we get married? Is he going to want to have kids, like, next week because I saw that baby’s back at the zoo today, the poop oozing out the top of his little outfit, and no one can deny how uncomfortable Tanner’s charming wife is with her very pregnant belly and ankles that look infected with elephantiasis and I just don’t know—I don’t know if I can do that. Getting married is one thing—finding the dress and ordering a cake and flowers and pretty invitations and having a sundae bar so guests can gorge on ice cream—but babies? Ryan wants kids. I know that. When will he want them, though?

Soon? Because I’m only twenty-six and the battery bay in my biological clock is totally empty, and the idea of having to: a) grow something in my body, like a little alien leeching the calcium from my bones; b) push said alien out of a hole that nicely fits a heavy-flow tampon; and c) be responsible for a tiny human being who poops out the top of its tiny T-shirt and sucks on my body parts for nourishment—

I sit ramrod straight, pushing Ryan’s arm away, heart thudding a primal beat against my eardrums.

Why are my fingers tingling?

“You okay, babe?” Ryan says, though his eyes aren’t open and before I can answer, his breathing tells me he’s still asleep.

I look at him, how the scant light dances across the profile of his very crooked nose, and I know that any babies would be adorable because look at their potential father with his curly hair and his strong forehead … but maybe the best thing to do right at this very second is stick my head between my knees and count to twenty, finish what’s left in the champagne bottle, and go to sleep.

“Baby steps, Hollie Cat,” my dad’s voice whispers in my head.

Please don’t say babies, Dad.