“DADDY!” I screech.
“You told me this was a chocolate trade show,” he says to Mom, whose eyes cut over to me as if to say, Help.
I look back and say, wordlessly, You made me wear a tartan thong. You’re on your own.
The salesperson holds up a box longer than my arm, containing a chocolate penis contoured so well it has veins poking out, with white chocolate at the tip simulating, uh....
“Does this count?” she asks.
“That counts!” Mom pipes up, taking it and looking it over like it’s from a Parisian chocolatier and worthy of a luxurious once over, handling it like one of the female models showing off a prize on The Price is Right. “I’d love to have this in my mouth!” she crows.
Even Martha blushes.
“This,” Daddy says emphatically, “is a sex toy trade show.”
“Yes,” Mom says, giving in, admitting the obvious. It’s hard to keep up the ruse when a meter-long dong with the words “Fair Trade Chocolate” is in your hands.
“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth, honey?” he asks, pulling Mom into his arms, handing me the giant box. Daddy looks a bit primal right now, auburn curls wild and mussed, and his eyes are tired. We’re all exhausted.
Except for Mom, who looks like someone plugged her into that vibrator using a USB cord attached to a solar panel array the size of Rhode Island.
“I thought you’d be upset.”
“Why would I be upset about sex toys? You mystery shop those stores for a living.” His voice drops, and his hips shift closer to Mom, who leans in. My stomach clenches and I look wildly round the room to have my gaze anywhere but on them.
Unfortunately, I make eye contact with a man wearing a cowboy hat bigger than the rest of him. He starts to swagger over, his eyes flicking to my hand, then my chest.
I look down. Engagement ring, yes.
Wedding ring, no.
I am in Vegas. I possess a vagina. I have the flushed cheeks that come from arousal or embarrassment (or both). I have no wedding ring on while walking around in a casino in my new black Louboutins that Declan insisted I wear, my Vera Wang dress slit up to my tampon string line.
But most important, I made a lethal error.
I made eye contact with a strange man in a casino.
Warm, wet lips kiss the soft spot under my ear as the cowboy stares at me. I scream from surprise and swing the giant chocolate penis around, whacking what turns out to be Declan with it, bashing his head. The box breaks open and he reaches up with his hands in shock, looking down to find himself cradling half of the enormous chocolate penis, tip up, white chocolate gleaming inches from his mouth.
And this is how I know he is meant for me, because his reaction is simply to grunt and say, “Shame. White chocolate. Ick.”
“That’s $119.99, miss,” Martha says, palm out. “You break the penis, you buy it. Cash or credit?”
“Charge it to the house,” Declan says. “McCormick.” Martha’s eyes flash as she takes us all in, calculating exactly who Declan is.
“What are you kids up to today? Getting married, finally? Don’t consummate before the ceremony!” Mom says, Dad trying to look at anything that isn’t phallic, and failing.
“Why do you constantly joke about sex?” Declan replies, mouth twitching with tension. He’s inverting the situation, re-asserting control by throwing Mom off guard.
Mom looks shocked, her mouth in a little O, eyebrows clenched. “I never, ever joke about sex. I take my sex very seriously.”
“She does,” Dad agrees.
“Sex is how we make sense of the world,” Mom adds, her voice going into a sing-songy lecture, a sound that makes my throat feel like Darth Vader picked me to choke at the conference table. If we stay here, we’ll get a twenty-minute discussion about passion and sensuality, nuance and bendy yoga, and I can’t handle one more second of this.
“Look, Mom, we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do. But not now. I’m busy,” she says.
“Then how about dinner? Tomorrow?”
Her eyes light up. “Just you and me, honey?”
Declan squeezes my arm. It’s your call, that squeeze says. You’re in charge here.
“How about we make it a foursome?” I say.
“We have videos on that,” Martha offers.
“Nice upsell attempt,” I tell her through gritted teeth. “But no.”
She gives me a nonchalant shrug.
I think my fangs are showing, because she retreats into her phone without another word.
“Eight o’clock. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Dad says in a low, hurt voice. “Why tomorrow?”
“I need some time, Daddy. I’m so tired.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize how true they are. “Can you handle staying here while we sort this all out?”
He has an empty look, but his eyes go soft with understanding. “Sure can, sweetie. Whatever you need.”
I give Declan a slightly harried look. Where? I mouth.
“We’ll get a private table at the members-only club on the twenty-third floor. Choice seats for the nighttime fountain display.”
Mom looks like she did the day she confirmed the Farmington Country Club for our wedding.
“Perfect,” she says, looking at the broken dong in Declan’s hand. “I hope they have good desserts.”
Deftly, Declan hands the two halves of the broken monstrosity to my father, who shudders in sympathy at the sight of a broken penis, even if it isn’t real. Mom takes the top half and shoves the tip in her mouth, taking a bite.