The First Ninety Days Ch. 01

Is this my future, he wondered.Who will I be the next time I stand in a toy store? Will Caitlyn be with me? Or will she be shuffling her feet outside, yelling at me to hurry up? Or maybe it won't be her at all holding my hand, but someone else, someone new—some little creation made out of our love and out of our bodies. What does my future hold, now that I'm standing here, staring at the action figures holding a bag containing two little rings in their boxes?

He shook himself out, like a dog shedding water.Cut it out. It's just G.I. Joe. He doesn't have the secrets of the universe. And if he does, I'm worried.

Melinda dropped Caitlyn off at the church and then trundled Jon back to their parents' house, where he had cleverly forgotten his tuxedo at. Caitlyn chattered the whole way about her dress: "It's so cool, it's got these blue beads and this shawl, and the train detaches and turns into a skirt, so you can turn it around from formal into something more casual, and I can wear it at the reception!" Jon had no sense of fashion whatsoever, but Caitlyn did, and he trusted her vision.

When he returned for the final time, as dressed and pressed as he could make himself in half an hour, most everyone was already there: his parents, and Beth and Rod and Samantha from the singing group, and Rev. Larry Pendleton and his wife Amber, and Mrs. Sellitz the harp teacher and Mrs. Klein the oboe teacher, and Dr. Polkiss and Dr. Leyton and Nurse Swinton, and Jon's oldest friend Adam and Adam's mom Mrs. Raines and Adam's new boyfriend Thomas; and Mrs. Delaney's parents Mr. and Mrs. Cassidy, and her uncle Max and his sons Lawrence and Heath, and some of Caitlyn's home-schooling friends that he had only met once or twice. But the Delaneys were not there. Jon and Caitlyn had debated for a long time as to whether to extend an invitation to them; ultimately Cait had called her father, but he had never answered. Jon wasn't sure whether that should please him or not.

They had music; Amber Pendleton could play the organ, moving deftly for so large a person. She played the processional as the small and rather mismatched wedding party moved up the aisle. First was Adam Raines, the best man in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, followed by Bethany Rademacher as the only other groomsperson, and then by Jon's parents. Caitlyn had asked Mrs. Sellitz, in stout lilac (possibly the same dress she had worn yesterday) to be the maid of honor; she was preceded by Kara Salzman, one of Caitlyn's home-school friends that Jon did not known. Finally came Jon, his heart pounding in his throat, and then Caitlyn herself, resplendent in contoured silk, being escorted by—of all people—her own father. Mr. Delaney was in the same suit and tie he wore every Sunday, but he wore it well, then as now.

Mr. Delaney gave him an unreadable glance as he left his daughter behind. And then it was just Caitlyn, wearing a pale sheath with, yes, a periwinkle-blue shawl and faint blue beading around the bodice. She was not wearing a veil, so he had a clear look at her face: radiant, beaming, happier than he had seen her in a long time. He could only suppose at the shell-shocked expression that must be onhis face.

I can't believe we're doing this. This is crazy. We had the idea two hours ago, and now here we are, at an altar, with Reverend Pendleton standing over us. I can't believe we're doing this just for convenience. Are we making a mistake? We've been planning and hoping and praying for this moment for almost as long as we've been dating, and now we're about to throw everything out the window and take the plunge, just so we can... Live together? Is this a bad idea? Are we about to make the biggest mistake of our lives?

Answer your own question, Jon. The mind doubts; the heart knows. What does your heart tell you? What does it say? Does it say something about how you wanted to marry her by your second month of courtship? About how you never feel whole but that she's there with you? Any of that?

And isn't that your answer?

Lawrence Pendleton said, "We are gathered here together..."

Afterwards it seemed an interminable period of time. ("I, Jonathan...") He thought the service would never end, but at the blink of an eye, it was gone. But it was a short ceremony, to be certain. ("...Take thee, Caitlyn Claire Delaney...") He knew that most weddings involved a deal more pomp and circumstance, often with speeches by friends or musical accompaniment that he had often felt was extraneous. ("...To be my lawfully wedded wife...") Theirs, of course, lacked any such diversions, having been slapped together in two hours. They hadn't even had time to write their own vows. ("...For better or for worse...") Caitlyn had been pushing to keep the old vows, though, and now, as he said the words, he thought he understood why. ("...Richer or poorer...") There was something terribly binding about them, but in a way he thought was actually appropriate. ("In sickness and in health...") After all, wasn't this the woman he wanted to be bound to, for the rest of his life?

"...As long as we both shall live."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Then there was cheering and clapping and some catcalls and the official smooch, and Mrs. Raines poured the champagne, and the guests threw rice from a box of Rice-A-Roni that Melinda had brought from home. There wasn't much in the way of celebration, but evidently Rod and Beth hadalso been slapping things together in two hours, and Octapella sang for them, though momentarily short one member. Jon's parents presented him with the keys to the old Toyota Celica he had been driving for years, and Polkiss-Leyton Dentistry slipped him a check, which was simultaneously crass and very thoughtful. This check turned out to be for five thousand dollars, which Jon would spend much of a fruitless month attempting to decline.

Mr. Delaney drew him aside for a moment. Jon was expecting the worst, but the whole conversation was fairly anti-climactic. All he said was, "I don't approve, but Caitlyn is old enough to make her own decisions."

"Yes sir," said Jon. There didn't seem to be any other response.

"My wife told me what you said on the front doorstep," said Mr. Delaney. He was a rather large man, several inches taller than Jon himself, and had gone mostly to seed as the years passed, but he knew how to hold his silence. "About how we are all on the same side, because we want what's best for Caitlyn. I hope you live up to those words."

"So do I," said Jon. It was the only honest response he could make.

Mr. Delaney offered his hands. "Congratulations, Jonathan."

After that, there was paperwork—mostly the marriage certificate, but some other tax forms that the rather tired-looking court worker suggested they fill out. Jon hadn't realized that there was so much legal gobbledygook involved in taking a woman to wife, but then recalled his father's opinion of governmental bureaucracy and decided that maybe he shouldn't be. It was near ten o'clock at night before they managed to stumble home. The incongruity of returning to his parents' house on his wedding night would not strike him until several days later; what had crossed his mind now was that they'd been so busy that day that they hadn't had time to even kiss until 8:43 PM, when they were standing at the altar.

By now it was past Jon's bedtime, but he needed to strip himself out of his tuxedo, and Caitlyn out of her gown, and then they both wanted showers. Then Jon had to run around to find some clothes for her—Mr. Delaney had brought over a package of clothes and other sundries, but it was woefully inadequate. He wondered who had packed it. Jon was too tall for her, but his sister too heavy and her wardrobe comprised entirely of jeans and black tank tops, so she ended up in his old sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then Jon thought he had better call in that he'd probably be late to work tomorrow, and Caitlyn wanted to check her e-mail. Jon had been awake for over eighteen hours.

By the time Jon was out of the bathroom, freshly washed and hair all dried, Caitlyn had fallen asleep. Clearly she wasn't used to the idea of sharing a bed, because she had simply nodded off in his computer chair. Jon shook his head. It might take him some getting used to as well, come to think of it. They had only slept in each other's company a handful of times—a ski trip last March, a short jaunt to Disneyland on their one-year anniversary—and it had taken some convincing to get her to share his bed, even though he promised (and kept his promise) that nothing would happen besides sleeping. He knew her not-before-marriage opinions on that.

And not tonight either, for that matter.

It took some doing, but he got her out of the chair and into the bed. When he slid in beside her, she smiled sleepily and put an arm around him, but just like that, she was gone again. It wasn't long before he was too.

Waking up that morning was a traumatic experience. Jon had forgotten to turn off his alarm clock, which jolted them both out of sleep at 6 AM. Caitlyn yelped and jumped, smashing into his face with the back of her head, and Jon yowled and held his nose while he scrambled for the alarm. He was a heavy sleeper but a quick waker. Caitlyn, on the other hand, was the exact opposite, and she was still panicked and confused, totally disoriented by the surroundings, when he shut off that thunderous cacophony. It took quite a bit of effort to get her to calm down.

Then Jon needed some tissues for his bleeding nose.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," said Caitlyn, as Jon lay back to try and encourage rapid clotting. "It's just that, I was confused and had no idea where I was, and then the loud noise, and—"

"Id's ogay," said Jon. "I'd be gonfused doo if I woge ub id a strange place."

"Oh, no, there's blood all over," said Caitlyn. There was—some on the pillowcases, some on Caitlyn's shirt, a lot on Jon's shirt. Jon got up, sighing, and pulled two new ones out of his closet. Caitlyn stripped the pillowcases and traded them for her new shirt, and then reapplied the new pillowcases while Jon tossed the old ones in the hamper, and then used the bathroom while he was at it. He was very much awake by now, and there would be no point in going back to sleep.

"What was that all about," Caitlyn asked him from the bed.

"My alarm," he said. "This is when I wake up for work."

"Are you going," she asked.

Jon emerged to see her sitting up, facing away, her pale white back disappearing under the new t-shirt. He suddenly remembered something interesting about marriage.

"I should," he said.

"Why?" she said. "The doctors were there last night. You just got married, I'm sure you have better things to do than go to work."

" 'I just got married'?" said Jon.

He had meant to ask why she hadn't said 'we,' but Caitlyn turned reflective. "I know, it's weird, isn't it? I mean... Married. We're not engaged anymore. We're not single anymore. I'm not a Delaney anymore."

"Caitlyn Claire Stanford.Mrs. Caitlyn Claire Stanford."

"I sound so old," she said. Then she smiled. "And now that you're newly married, you're thinking of going towork? Don't you have better things to do?"

"No," he said, "not really. Because, now that I'm married, Ihave to go to work, so that I can makemoney, and support mywife."

"Don't you get a honeymoon or something?"

"Not after weddings that were planned in two hours." But his own body had given the lie away; he was sliding back into bed next to her. "Maybe after the big formal reception."

"Yeah, we still have to pull that off," she said. "And I guess I had better start thinking about a job. And... Gosh, I don't evenknow what else we have to do."

"All that can wait," he said. "Right now, I want to say good-morning to my wife."

They kissed, gently, but with increasing passion. His hand stroked through her hair, caressed her face, stroked her neck. His tongue tickled across her lips. He felt her arm curl around his neck, and he drew her down to the bed, side by side with her, kissing in the early morning light.

He had worried about this challenge for months. He was the first boyfriend she had ever had; his was the first kiss she ever had; soon he would be the first lover she had ever had. But she washis first, too, sexually at least. Like any man with hormones in this information age, he had found much to learn from on the Internet, but all his knowledge was theoretical, and not even necessarily of trustworthy quality. When push came to shove, he wasn't sure he could give her an enjoyable first time. A non-painful one, yes, hopefully, but an enjoyable one was probably out of his ability. (Then again, he also doubted if it was withinanyone's ability.)

He had been relieved the first time he was able to fire her up. He had kissed her ears before that night, but never her neck, and when he did it was like a switch had turned on. She had never masturbated, never played with her breasts, never even found any reason totry, and he had been worried that the switch might be rusted shut. The day they made out for the first time, that fear had been laid to rest.

It was her neck he started with now, and her face and ears. Once that switch was flipped, her ears had become a surprisingly erogenous area, but it was the back of her neck, the part normally shrouded by hair, that was the most sensitive. He loved to see her face when he kissed her—her eyes closed and eyebrows up, her mouth open in an unconscious O. There was longing on that face, and beauty, and he had always regretted never being able to take her higher. Now that regret too could be put aside.

He kissed down her chin and then down her throat to the pale hollow there at the bottom, and then around the sides, up and down, taking time to kiss her ears, which he knew she loved. Then, gathering her hair out of the way with practiced ease, he laid a first kiss on the back of her neck, followed by a second and a third, while his other hand guided her over on her side until he lay behind her, kissing her, drawing her breath ever faster, while his hand crept down from her shoulder until it rested, gently cupping her breast.

She turned to face him, reaching up to pull his hand away. "Jon." And then, comprehension dawning: "...Oh."

"Yeah," he said, almost apologetically.

"I guess itis okay for us to..."

"Do you want to?" he asked. "If you're not—" He wanted to, of course, but he had waited this long; another hour, or day, or week, wouldn't hurt. And her interest was of far greater importance than his. "If you don't feel ready, or, you don't want to, or—"

Her hand moved his, replacing it on her breast. "Who said anything about not wanting to?"

He leaned down to kiss her, feeling her response as her mouth opened and her tongue reached out to meet his, twining gently around him. With his spare hand he stroked her face and hair again, and then once again embarked down her neck and around, finding those secret spots he loved, feeling her shudder and her breath catch as his lips worked their magic on her skin. And all the while his hand clasped her breast, cupping gently, letting her grow accustomed to his presence there.

When he drew her over to kiss her mouth again, his hand relinquished its hold on her breast, but with purpose this time: it slipped under her shirt, stroking up and down her back. The feeling of her skin sent electric excitement through him. Before now they had only gotten up to somevery occasional petting with clothes on; mostly they kissed. He had never touched her bare flesh on anything but extremities before. This was new. This was real. This was wonderful.

Once again he left her mouth and began to kiss his way around her neck, but once again he had gained ground—his hand began the migration as well, this time beneath her shirt, passing over ribs and flanks and back and navel, until his fingertips felt soft warm flesh and there was white cotton under his palm. And all the while his lips did their work on her neck, moving between her ear and the fuzzy underside of her hair, and she shivered and gasped and her heart grew strong under his hand, and as he kissed her he began the careful adventure of liberating her breast from its cotton prison.

In a breathy whisper Caitlyn said, "Do you want me to take it off?"

Jon had, quite honestly, never expected she would suggest such a thing. "Umm. It would definitely make things easier for me."

"Okay." She sat up, separating from his grasp, and her hands went behind her back and under her shirt. Then she stopped. "Umm. Turn around."

"Why?"

Even in the dim light he could see her blush. "I have to take my shirt off."

"So?" he said. "That would make things easier too."

She said nothing, looking both embarrassed and defiant.

"Look," he said. "I'll take mine off if you take yours."

"Okay," she said happily, "you go first."

Suddenly he felt self-conscious. Though tall and fairly broad-shouldered, he got most of his exercise from martial arts classes; he hadn't been to a gym in years. He was fit, but not athletic—which was another way of saying 'scrawny.' And once the shirt was gone he would be clad only in his boxers, through which his erection would doubtlessly be visible.This must be some of what Caitlyn is feeling. Nonetheless, he had said he would—and what was the point of keeping secrets from his wife, anyway?

So he took his shirt off.

Her eyes didn't betray any disappointment, but her arms were slow as they guided themselves through the sleeves, and when she sat naked before him, flawless pale skin and large pink nipples on her bare breasts, she looked more miserable than embarrassed.

So he leaned in and kissed her.

He had read a saying somewhere:If you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, the only thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it. That was not how he felt at all; she was lovely in his eyes, beautiful beyond measure. But he knew he must not show any hesitation at all, or her insecurities would destroy her. He must give her no reason to ever doubt the truth: that he loved her and everything about her.

So he kissed her, and drew her close with his arms, and delighted at the feeling of her bare skin on his, the softness of her breasts pressed against him, her mouth opening willingly under his, her arms around his waist, the bed cradling them as he drew them down, wrapped in each other's arms.

He had accepted long ago that this would be a slow process; it would take many small steps to awaken her responses and draw her to the point where she was ready, both physically and emotionally, for full-out intercourse. He had looked forward to it for a long time, too; he enjoyed giving her pleasure, watching her respond. He was surprised at how quickly things were happening now; he had expected to have to spend twice as much time and effort to get her where they were now.

His lips found her ear and his hand her breast almost simultaneously, and he was gratified to feel the nipple stiffening, hardening in his palm. This time, though, he left her neck early, kissing across her shoulder blades and then down the line of her spine (she shivered), until he reached the small of her back. He trailed kisses over her hips and flanks (she shivered) and round her belly button, and then finally up to her breast.

The sound she made when his mouth found her nipple, half gasp and half moan, was the happiest noise he had heard in a long time.