Page 229 of Mid-Thirties, Flirty & Frosted
Rasputin, completely unconcerned with the chaos he's created, sits on top of the cake table, one paw raised, licking it. His tuxedo is slightly askew now, the bow tie crooked, giving him an even more villainous appearance.
The room goes silent.
The blanket is ruined—a charred, foam-covered mess that's dripping water and chemicals onto Mom's hardwood floor. The gift table is slightly singed. There's foam on at least three presents.
The candle that started it all is on its side, wax pooled on the white tablecloth.
Then Babushka starts laughing. "Is perfect! Wedding reception with excitement! Very American! Very dramatic!"
And just like that, everyone else starts laughing too.
"Well," Victor says, pulling me against him, his arm solid around my waist, his body warm. "That's one way to make the evening memorable."
"Should we be concerned that a cat in a tuxedo just committed arson at our wedding reception?"
"Probably. But I'm choosing to find it endearing." He kisses the top of my head, his lips warm against my hair. "Besides, now we have a story."
I laugh, burying my face in his chest. Under my cheek, I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong.
"I love you," I say. "Even though you didn't warn me about the surprise reception."
"I love you too. Even though you insisted on commercial flights."
"Never again."
"Never again," he agrees, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
Around us, the party continues.
Someone turns the music back up. The champagne keeps flowing. The grandmothers cluster around the food table, arguing about something in rapid Italian, their hands moving in elaborate gestures.
Someone starts cutting the cake—carefully, avoiding the section where Rasputin is still perched like a furry gargoyle.
My sisters are already taking photos of the burnt blanket, probably for future blackmail purposes.
Dad's telling the fire extinguisher story to anyone who will listen, embellishing more with each retelling.
And Victor and I stand there in the middle of the chaos—in my parents' house in Queens, surrounded by everyone we love.
"So," I say, looking up at him. "This is our life now."
"Apparently."
"Surprise wedding receptions. Cats committing arson. Flying commercial and immediately regretting it."
"Don't forget the beverage incidents."
"The pattern is undeniable at this point."
"Three liquids and counting." His smile is soft, genuine, the one he only gives me. "What's next? Wine at a state dinner? Soup at a charity gala?"
"Don't give me ideas." I pull back to look at him. “But to be fair, I wouldn't change a single thing."
His smile widens. "Neither would I."
We kiss again, and this time, when everyone cheers, I don't even care that Rasputin chooses that exact moment to knock over another candle.
Dad catches it this time.
We're learning.
And somewhere in the chaos and the laughter and the love, I realize that this—all of this—is exactly what happily ever after looks like.
Messy. Sticky. Sometimes flammable.
And full of people and cats and near-disasters and joy.
Perfect.
