Rehearsal Dinner
"His fiancee's mother has always been flirtatious, but he assumed it was harmless. During the week leading up to the wedding, stolen glances become stolen moments. By the rehearsal dinner, he's questioning everything."
The first time I met Diane, she hugged me for too long.
"So you're the one who stole my daughter," she said, holding me at arm's length. "I can see why. Look at those shoulders."
Cara laughed. "Mom, stop. You're embarrassing him."
"I'm complimenting him." Diane winked at me. "Is that so wrong?"
That was two years ago. In the time since, I've grown used to Diane's particular brand of warmth—the lingering touches, the comments about how lucky Cara is, the looks that last a beat too long.
It's harmless. She's just friendly.
That's what I tell myself, anyway.
The week before the wedding, I move into Diane's house.
Cara is already there, staying in her old room while we handle the final preparations. The venue is ten minutes away. The rehearsal, the dinner, the ceremony—everything is centered here, in the sprawling colonial where Cara grew up.
"You'll have the guest suite," Diane tells me. "I hope that's okay."
"It's more than okay. Thank you for letting us invade."
"Invade?" She laughs—a warm, rich sound. "Honey, I've been waiting for this since Cara was born. Invade away."
She squeezes my arm as she passes. Her hand lingers on my bicep for a moment—testing the muscle, almost—before she disappears into the kitchen.
I watch her go. I shouldn't, but I do.
Diane is fifty-three, a recent widow, and built like something out of a Renaissance painting. She's maybe five-six, but she seems larger—presence more than height. Her hips are wide, her belly soft, her breasts enormous. She wears flowy dresses that accentuate rather than hide, and she moves through rooms like she owns them.
Which, in this case, she does.
"You okay?" Cara appears at my side.
"Fine. Just... your mom's really something."
"She likes you." Cara smiles. "That's important to me."
"I like her too."
More than I should, something whispers. I ignore it.
Monday
The week begins with errands.
Cara handles the florist; I handle the caterer. Diane volunteers to come with me—"You need someone who knows the area"—and I don't have a reason to say no.
She sits in my passenger seat, giving directions between stories about Cara as a child. Her perfume fills the car. Something floral, heady.
"Turn left here." She points, and her arm brushes my thigh. "Sorry."
"No problem."
"You're tense." She studies me. "Pre-wedding jitters?"
"Maybe a little."
"Don't be." Her hand lands on my knee. "Cara adores you. Anyone can see how happy you make her."
"I hope so."
"I know so." She squeezes my knee. "She's lucky. So am I."
"You?"
"I get you as a son-in-law." Her hand slides slightly higher. "Seems like a good deal to me."
I'm imagining it. The pressure, the heat—it's innocent. It has to be.
"Eyes on the road," she says, and I realize I've been staring at her.
I look forward. Her hand stays on my thigh the rest of the drive.
Tuesday
I catch her watching me.
I'm in the backyard, helping the rental company set up chairs for the ceremony. It's hot, and I've stripped off my shirt—not thinking, just trying not to sweat through my clothes.
When I turn around, Diane is on the porch. A glass of lemonade in her hand. Her eyes on my chest.
She doesn't look away when I catch her. Just smiles.
"Lemonade?" She holds up the glass.
I walk over. Take it. Our fingers brush.
"You're working hard," she says. "I appreciate it."
"Happy to help."
"Such a good man." She reaches out, brushes something off my shoulder—a leaf, maybe, or nothing at all. "Cara doesn't know how lucky she is."
"I'm the lucky one."
"Mmm." Her eyes travel down my body, then back up. "I remember being young. Having a man who looked at me the way you look at her."
"Mr. Patterson?"
Her expression flickers. "Richard. Yes. He looked at me like that, once." She takes a breath. "It's been two years since he passed. Sometimes I forget what that feels like."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She touches my arm—that same lingering contact. "I'm just saying: Cara is lucky. Hold onto what you have."
She goes back inside. I stand there, lemonade sweating in my hand, trying to convince myself that conversation was innocent.
I fail.
Wednesday
Cara goes to bed early. Exhausted from decisions, she says. Pick whatever movie you want; she'll be asleep in five minutes.
Diane and I end up in the living room.
Wine. A film neither of us is watching. She's on one end of the couch; I'm on the other. The space between us feels charged.
"Can I ask you something personal?" she says.
"Sure."
"Are you nervous? About the wedding night?"
I choke on my wine. "Excuse me?"
"I don't mean—" She laughs. "God, I'm terrible at this. I mean the commitment. The 'forever' of it. That's the scary part, isn't it?"
"I love Cara."
"Of course you do. But love doesn't make 'forever' less terrifying." She shifts closer. Not much—just enough that I notice. "Richard and I, we loved each other. But there were times... moments when I wondered if love was enough."
"Was it?"
"In the end?" She considers. "Yes. It was worth it. Even the hard parts. But you need more than love. You need passion. The kind that doesn't fade."
"We have that."
"Good." She's close enough now that I can smell her perfume. "Don't let it go. Don't let life get in the way."
She falls silent. Looks at me. In the flickering light of the TV, her face is softer. Vulnerable.
"I'm sorry. I'm being morbid. Ignore me."
"I don't want to ignore you."
The words come out wrong. Or right. I'm not sure anymore.
She holds my gaze. "Careful, Michael. That sounded almost—"
"Almost what?"
She doesn't answer. Just stands, takes her wine, and leaves the room.
I don't sleep that night.
Thursday
The touching escalates.
At breakfast, her hand on my back. During a meeting with the officiant, her knee against mine under the table. Helping her reach something in the pantry, and suddenly we're chest to chest, her breasts pressing against me, her breath catching.
"Sorry," she whispers. But she doesn't move.
"It's okay."
We stand there. Seconds that feel like hours. Then Cara calls from the other room, and the moment shatters.
I step back. Diane straightens her dress.
"We should—" she starts.
"Yeah."
I flee to the backyard. Try to convince myself I'm not losing my mind.
Friday: The Rehearsal
The ceremony rehearsal goes smoothly. I stand at the altar, watching Cara walk toward me, and I feel—
Happy. Terrified. Guilty.
The guilt is the worst part. Because even as my fiancee walks toward me, my eyes keep drifting to her mother in the front row. To the way Diane's dress clings to her curves. To the way she watches me like she's seeing something no one else can see.
Afterward, at the dinner, she sits across from me. Cara is at my side, radiant. Our families surround us. Everything is perfect.
Under the table, Diane's foot touches mine.
I freeze.
She doesn't pull away. Just rests her foot against mine—a pressure that shouldn't mean anything.
It means everything.
The dinner ends at eleven.
Cara is tipsy, happy, pulling me toward the stairs. "Come to bed," she murmurs. "Our last night before we're married."
"I'll be up in a minute. Just want some water."
She kisses me—soft, trusting—and goes.
I walk to the kitchen.
Diane is already there.
She's cleaning up, loading the dishwasher, and she doesn't turn when I enter. I watch her for a moment—the way she moves, the way her dress stretches across her hips when she bends.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asks without looking.
"Getting water."
"Glasses are above the sink."
I cross the kitchen. Reach for the cabinet. She straightens at the same moment, and suddenly we're close—too close—her body warm against my side.
Neither of us moves.
"Michael," she whispers.
"Diane."
"We can't."
"I know."
"You're marrying my daughter."
"I know."
"Tomorrow. You're marrying her tomorrow."
"I know."
She turns to face me. Her eyes are dark, conflicted, and I see everything I'm feeling reflected back at me.
"Then why," she breathes, "can't I stop thinking about you?"
I should walk away. I should go upstairs to Cara, to the woman I love, to the life I'm about to commit to.
I kiss Diane instead.
She tastes like wine and wanting.
Her body melts against mine—all that softness, all those curves—and she moans into my mouth like she's been waiting for this. Maybe she has. Maybe we both have.
"We shouldn't—" she gasps, even as her hands claw at my shirt.
"I know."
"Cara—"
"I know."
"Fuck." She pulls me closer. Grinds against me. "We have to stop."
But we don't.
I lift her onto the counter. She wraps her legs around me, dress hiking up, and I feel the heat of her through my pants. She's not wearing underwear. The realization short-circuits my brain.
"God, you're beautiful," I breathe against her neck.
"I'm old. I'm fat. I'm your—"
"You're beautiful." I kiss her throat. "I've wanted you since the day we met."
"I knew it." She arches into me. "I saw how you looked at me. I tried to ignore it—"
"So did I."
"And now—" She reaches between us. Frees my cock. "Now—"
I slide inside her.
She muffles her scream against my shoulder.
We fuck in silence.
Not silence—we can't help the gasps, the whimpers, the wet sounds of bodies joining. But we're quiet. Careful. Cara is upstairs. This is so wrong it makes my head spin.
It also feels like the best thing I've ever done.
Diane clings to me, her soft body absorbing each thrust. Her breasts press against my chest. Her belly cushions my hips. She's nothing like Cara—bigger, softer, older—and that's exactly why I can't stop.
"Harder," she whispers. "Make me feel it."
I fuck her harder. The counter shakes. A glass falls and shatters, and neither of us cares.
"Gonna—" She bites her lip. "Gonna come—"
"Come for me." I thrust deep. "Come on your future son-in-law's cock."
She shatters. Silent screams, body shaking, cunt clenching around me like she never wants to let go. I follow her over—spilling into my fiancee's mother while my fiancee sleeps upstairs.
We stay tangled together. Breathing hard. Neither willing to face what we've done.
"Tomorrow," she finally says.
"I know."
"You'll marry her."
"Yes."
"And this—"
"This never happened."
She looks at me. Something passes between us—regret, desire, a secret we'll carry forever.
"But if it did happen again," she whispers. "Hypothetically. At some point in the future—"
"Hypothetically?"
"Would you want it to?"
I should say no.
"Yes," I say instead. "God help me, yes."
She kisses me. Slow. Deep.
"Then we'll figure it out." She slides off the counter. "After the wedding."
She disappears up the stairs.
I clean up the broken glass. Go to bed beside Cara. Hold her while she sleeps.
And I think about her mother until the sun comes up.