by Brea Brown
Bridesmaid Blues
I’ve been dreading this day since Greg and Deirdre announced their engagement two years ago and asked me to be one of Deirdre’s bridesmaids. Their wedding has been every bit as tedious as I feared. The only person having a worse day than I am is Deirdre’s sister, the matron of honor, who has to wait on the demanding bride, God help her.
Detachment is what I need, but that tends to make me stare off into space and incur the Wrath of D, so I’ve tried to strike a balance between awareness and indifference. I’m living for the moment when the happy couple drives to the airport to catch the plane to their honeymoon, and I’m free to go home, soak in the tub, and take all of these pins out of my hair, releasing the elaborate updo that’s been giving me a headache all day.
Just a few more hours.
Jet informed me via text the day after I rejected his proposal that he suddenly had a scheduling conflict with today’s ceremony. In the week since then, there’s been absolutely no contact from him. I’ve been afraid to initiate communication, because what if I call him or text him, and that opens the door for him to officially break up with me? Not knowing for sure what’s going on has been horrible; knowing for sure—if he’s decided I’m a waste of his time—would be worse.
So I’ve tried to pretend like everything’s normal. Only it’s been far from it. It’s not normal for my phone to sit mostly silent throughout the day or for me to jump and run to it every time it makes the slightest noise, only to be disappointed when it’s a just a text from Rae or Colin or my parents or the most demanding bride and groom in the universe. It’s not normal to get notifications about Jet’s movements that make no mention of me. Or worse, stories that mention my sudden absence and gleefully speculate about the demise of our relationship. It’s not normal for me to sleepwalk through my work day, wishing everyone would just leave me alone. It’s not normal for me to lie awake at night, crying until my eyes swell shut, my snot production kicks into overdrive, my throat aches, and my head pounds.
It’s not normal for me to care this much.
Being so self-absorbed on Greg and Deirdre’s special day sucks, too, but Greg’s less-than-sympathetic reaction last night to the news that Jet wouldn’t be here today makes me feel justified in my selfishness. As if I’m not dealing with enough, he chewed me out at the rehearsal dinner, going on and on about “Deirdre’s numbers” and the stress of both of their houses selling at once (serves him right!) and having to move as soon as they get back from their honeymoon. Since I can’t do anything about most of his beefs, I focused on what I could control and reassured him the seating chart would be fine, because Colin agreed to step in as my date, in Jet’s stead.
Nobody could take Jet’s place, though. (Duh. As if I didn’t already know that.) Away from the other attendees, Greg hissed, “The city’s most eligible bachelor asks you to marry him, and you turn him down? What the hell is wrong with you?”
It’s a valid question. I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate it—or any number of closely related queries. I think I’ve figured it out, too, and it has very little to do with a million-dollar ring that needs its own bodyguard or any of that other stuff I spewed at Jet when he shoved that thing under my nose. Sure, those things matter and contribute to a larger whole, but they’re also surface. After a week of tearful soul-searching, I have a much better handle on the deeper problem. Problems.
Now, I need to work up the nerve to call him and explain.
The blaring organ startles me from my deep introspection. I’ve missed The Kiss (I’m okay with that), and it’s time to reverse process and take our places in the receiving line. Joy. I make a private bet with myself that I’ll hear no fewer than a dozen instances of, “Your turn next!” from well-meaning relatives who have no idea what else to say to me.
As I turn to inch my way toward the center aisle, where I’ll have to take the sweaty arm of Deirdre’s nerdy cousin, Kevin, I catch sight of Colin, who gives me a campy wink and thumbs-up from his seat in the same row as my parents. I smile at his encouragement.
I’m still smiling, in spite of the sweaty arm under my hand, when, making my way toward the back of the church with Sweat Hog, I see him. Standing in the third-to-last row, on the aisle. In his big-and-tall suit and the green tie that matches his eyes so perfectly. With his carefully combed hair and his clean-shaven face. Wearing a sheepish smile. Mouthing, “Love you.”
I drop Kevin’s arm like I’ve been caught cheating. He glances over at me and utters something I can’t hear, but I wave him on without me and stop at Jet’s row.
“You came,” I blurt, standing in front of him like a simpleton.
He laughs, then glances toward the rest of the wedding party. “Yeah. Uh, you better get in line there, Richards, before Coach D notices you’re out of formation.”
“But you showed up.” I fling my arms around his neck and hug him, then quickly let go. “Don’t go anywhere!” I point at him with my fussy bouquet as I short-step away in my tight dress, toward the receiving line. “I’ll be right back.”
“Right back” turns out to be nearly thirty minutes later, by the time every wedding guest has gone through the line and I’ve told my family I’ll catch up to them at the hotel that’s hosting the reception.
Exactly where I left him, as commanded, Jet slides down the now-empty pew to make room for me and my swooshing taffeta.
“Hey there, Beautiful,” he greets me. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks. I’m miserable. But better now that I’ve seen you. Were you here the whole time?”
“Yep. Saw you walk down the aisle and everything.”
I press my hand to my forehead. “I’ve been so out of it. I can’t believe I didn’t see you!”
He pulls my hand to his lips. “Maura, I’m sorry,” he says against my knuckles. Lowering our hands to his lap, he continues, “About everything. About yelling at you; about pressuring you; about pouting when you didn’t say ‘yes’; about giving you the silent treatment all week. About that ridiculous ring. What was I thinking?”
I chuckle through my sniffles.
He looks up at me. “Aw, man. Don’t cry. I… I let my disappointment and hurt pride get the better of me, and I completely ignored the fact that you were hurt, too, and I was being a selfish jerk.”
“I’m okay.”
“And I’m so sorry my reaction to what you told me was to break commitments—and dishes.”
I wipe under my eyes before my makeup slides down my face. “Yeah. I may have heard that last thing.”
He winces. “It was mega-childish. And messy.”
“I’m sorry, too. Some of the things I said were horrible.”
“I was baiting you. You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
“The way I said it was inexcusable, though.”
“I forgive you. Do you forgive me?”
Nodding, I rasp, “Of course. I’m sorry I’m not ready.”
“You can’t help that.” He traces his finger along a seam in my dress.
After a bracing breath, I say, “You know, you were partly right about one thing.” I thread my fingers through his and look down at our joined hands. “I do run away from commitment and responsibility out of habit. While there are some practical things you and I will need to discuss before we ever stand in a church like this one and say vows before God and everyone, the biggest thing holding me back is plain old fear.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Maura. I’ll never hurt you. You’ll never regret—”
I look up and place my finger against his lips. “Shh. Listen to me for a second. I’m not afraid of any of that.” Gulping spasmodically, I suddenly worry I can’t say it without breaking down. But I have to say it, no matter what.
“I already feel like less than a whole person,” I say, my chin wrinkling and the corners of my mouth tugging downward. “I always have, like I’m not justifying my existence on this planet. I’m just taking up space.”
>
I pause to clear my throat, trying to loosen the tightness threatening to choke me. “It terrifies me to think I could become your wife and spend my days being an even bigger waste. Like, at least now, I’m a contributing member of society. I have a job, where I help people, and I pay taxes. You know?” My eyes fill and overflow. I look down at my lap.
He cups his huge hand on the back of my neck.
“What will be my purpose?” I wail nearly incoherently what I’ve been thinking so often all week. “What will be the point of me? To be on some stupid NFL Hottest Wives and Girlfriends List?” I stop short when it hits me I wouldn’t even qualify, considering my competition.
“Those lists are bullshit.” He cringes at himself and says toward the cross at the front of the sanctuary, “Oops. Sorry, Jesus.” Returning his attention to me, he moves his hand from my neck to my upper arm and pulls me tighter to his side. “I see us doing all kinds of great things together.
I twist at the waist and look fully into his eyes. “I don’t, though. And that scares me. I see you traveling all the time and me sitting in an empty house, watching movies. Or next to the pool with Torzi, reading stupid celebrity gossip magazines.”
“Torzi can’t read. And what about your job? You’ll still have that to keep you plenty busy.”
Gloria’s face flashes through my mind, but I shake her away in time to hear the following nugget fall from Jet’s mouth: “Then you’ll be the mother of our children, which will definitely be a full-time job.”
I choke-hiccup on a sob and break down again, covering my face.
“Oh, no. What’s the matter?” He wraps me in a full-on hug, crushing my arms between us.
I push away so I can look at him. This difficult revelation requires eye contact. “Jet, I… I’m not sure I want kids.”
His swallow is both visible and audible. “None? Ever?”
Shaking my head, I answer, “No.” Then louder, “I don’t know. Maybe not. The responsibility freaks me out.”
“It should. Most people take it too lightly.”
“It’s more than that, though. I get panicky thinking about it. The whole thing. Pregnancy, childbirth, parenting. Alone.” My breathing speeds up in direct proportion with my racing thoughts and tumbling words.
He hugs me again. “Hey. Shhh. We don’t have to talk about any of that right now.”
“It’s important to you, though. You love kids and want your own someday. You made that clear on our first date. So it’s only fair that I’m upfront with you about this, because”—I choke but manage—“I know it’s a deal-breaker if I don’t want them.”
His hands encircle my upper arms. Gently, he pushes me away and searches my face. “Deal-breakers are for first dates and casual acquaintances. I’m so past the point of deal-breakers with you, it’s not even funny.”
“You are?”
He nods and half-smiles. “Oh, yeah. You’d have to tell me you’ve decided to become a Raiders fan. Still probably not a deal-breaker.”
“Gosh. Well. You never have to worry about that.”
“See? You’re stuck with me.” He swipes a straggling tear from my face with the back of his hand. “They’re going to wonder what I did to you when we show up at that reception.”
I straighten and gasp. “Oh, crap! The reception!” Standing, I pull on his hand. “We have to go. Poor Colin. I’ve abandoned him. But I couldn’t find him after he went through the receiving line.”
“He told me he was going home,” Jet tells me, standing and stretching. “Said he enjoyed the ‘good weep’ he got from the ceremony, but mentioned something about his ‘pipe and slippers.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
I crack up. “Yes. That’s his way of saying he’s spending the night in.”
He offers me his crooked elbow in the middle of the aisle. “Then shall we?”
Threading my arm through his, I say, “Yeah,” but I hold him in place when he tries to walk toward the sanctuary’s exit.
Bemusement brightening his eyes, he backtracks and asks, “What are you doing?” Bending at the knees to bring his eyes level with mine, he swipes his thumbs along my lower lids, then rubs the mascara residue with the sides of his index fingers. “There. All better.”
Rising on my tiptoes, I brush my lips against his. “I’d love to marry you someday. I think.”
“I’m here when you’re ready. You’re worth waiting for.” He wraps his arms around my back and gathers me against him, lifting me off the ground as he lowers his mouth onto mine.
Twenty-Six
Scandal
Early September isn’t technically autumn and doesn’t even feel like it here in Kansas City, but we trick ourselves into believing the mornings are cooler, the sun is a bit mellower, and the days are slightly shorter, all hallmarks of the best time of year. Because football is on its way.
The city buzzes. The fountains flow red. The Chiefs flags fly. Tailgaters dust off their hibachis, shake out their banners, freshen up their skin paints, stock up on booze, and practice their trash-talk. Stats and projections zip over Internet, TV, and radio lines. Hopes run high.
“This is the year,” fans declare without a hint of doubt. “Knox and Busch are the best duo in the league. The running game is strong, making us unpredictable. Our offensive line has never looked better, thanks to free agency and Draft pick-ups. Our defense is stout. Our kicker is the clutchest of clutch. This is it! See you at the Super Bowl, suckers!”
We’ve already primed ourselves for action with four preseason games, mostly serving as a final try-out for second-stringers and practice team hopefuls. But now we’re ready for the real deal.
It was an amazing summer, and I’m sad to see it go. Between training camps, fall job fair preps, and a mini-vacation to the Gulf Coast for a long weekend, it was busy but happy. And over in a flash.
Now, we’re on the brink of another NFL season. Surviving those sixteen weeks (seventeen, including the bye), plus possible postseason play in January and early February, will be the ultimate test of my relationship with Jet, to date, and a rehearsal for the rest of our lives.
When I think of it that way, it’s a bit daunting. But that’s what this season is. And I’m not going to lie. I’m worried.
I roll over and bury my face in Jet’s pillow, inhale his scent, and moan. He left for the training facility for his first day of regular season practice a while ago. I need to get up and get ready for work, since I have a long commute this morning. Thanks to our final off-season sleepover, though, my limbs don’t seem to want to work in concert. They don’t want to give up this feeling. The moment I move, the sex drought official begins.
Of course, that’s the least of my worries. I’m focusing on that like a horny teenager because it’s easier to make sex the scapegoat for everything than deal with the real challenges, which are plentiful. There are so many other what ifs, enough that without the “love” factor, I would have bolted a long time ago. Too many variables exist that could lead to failure. We all know I’d rather not try at all than try and not succeed. It’s what’s kept me in this town and has served as the theme for my entire adult life.
What Jet and I have is too important to play it safe, though. Walking away will require outright defeat. Because the horror of living without him outweighs my usual crippling fear of failure. That’s scary enough in itself. I’ve never cared about another person (not related to me) that much. Especially not a man.
If this doesn’t work out, I’m finished with romantic entanglements. I’m going to take a page from Colin’s playbook and fondly remember my one true love but never go there again.
In the meantime, while I’m still in the game, it’s important to stay focused on the important things. Scratching my various carnal itches isn’t one of those important things. Not really, in the grand scheme of things.
What is important, at least in Jet’s world, is that the first match of the regular season is a less than a week away. It’s an away game in Mi
ami, but that doesn’t dampen our spirit; it simply heightens the anticipation for the Week Two home opener, a prestigious Monday night rematch against the Patriots.
GO CHIEFS!
At that rousing thought, I drag myself from the warm, tousled sheets and stagger to the shower on weak legs. I may not be in the strategy meetings or out on the practice field or treating injuries, but I’m still a member of the team. An important member. I’ll be providing emotional support, in both victory and defeat.
My spine straightens, and my chest inflates. Under the hot stream, I strengthen physically and mentally. I can do this. I can be this.
I’m also about to be seriously late for work.
Dressing in the clothes I brought with me last night, I grab my purse and rush downstairs to the kitchen, where I pour coffee into a giant stainless steel travel mug and snatch a scone from the kitchen. With a quiet “See ya” to Beau—it’s still awkward to encounter “staff members” first thing in the morning, especially when so freshly sated—I run to my car to drive back to reality.
About halfway through my second appointment of the day, my purse starts making noise on its door hook.
My client half-turns to see where the dings and beeps originate, so I blush and say, “So sorry. I forgot to silence my phone this morning. As I was saying about these prospects…”
But Rae’s tinny ringtone blares next. Then Jet’s.
Mortified—and somewhat worried—I jump from my chair, round my desk, and cross to the door, where I reach into my handbag and blindly silence the device, breathlessly apologizing once more to my clearly put-out guest, a first-timer who has no idea how unusual this is. Way to make a great first impression, Maura.
Returning to my desk, I waste no more time on excuses or apologies but get back to business. I devote my full attention to the woman looking for a paralegal position for her first job after five years out of the workforce as a stay-at-home mom for her son, now a kindergartner.