by Megan Hart
“You can come with me, Hannah.”
I shouldn’t have said it, but I couldn’t stay silent. Hannah twists away from me. Her nipples are dripping, and she stops the flow with a practiced pinch of her thumb and forefinger. She sighs. Her head hangs. Her shoulders slump.
“You want me to leave everything I’ve ever known. My son?”
“Bring him,” I say, although the truth is, I know she never will. What could the two of us do out there in the world with an infant? In all my fantasies over the years, it’s always been me and Hannah. I should have asked her before she agreed to become Ephraim Zook’s wife.
I should have been brave.
“I love you,” I tell her in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Hannah does not say it back. She never has, but I’ve seen the truth in her eyes and her smile. I’ve tasted it on her kisses. She hasn’t allowed me to kiss her on the mouth since she got married, but I still remember how it felt.
“I love you,” I repeat, this time in English. “Come away with me. I’ll find work. I’ll take care of you.”
“You want to be my husband.”
“Yes,” I say.
She shakes her head. Her laugh is not cruel, and there is no humor in it. “I thought all of this would go away.”
“It won’t. I have to leave.”
“Why can’t you just stay? Take a husband. Obed Yoder’s been sweet on you for years.”
The thought of it is enough to push me from the bed. I begin to put on my dress. My fingers move without my mind having to think. They fumbled when I tried to put on my brother’s trousers, but once they were on I felt at home. Not as though I’ve been wearing a costume, the way I’ve felt for as long as I can remember.
“Mary,” Hannah says, stopping me. Her baby wails, and she lifts him to her shoulder.
Her eyes meet mine, and this time, she does not look away. She stands fully naked in front of me, no longer in a rush to cover herself. My hands are shaking, so I close them into fists.
“Stay,” Hannah whispers.
“Come with me,” comes my reply.
When she does not answer me, I smile because I cannot bear to let her see my pain. I knew she couldn’t go with me. She knows I cannot stay. We are both caught.
I don’t kiss her one last time. I give her a single nod and leave her in the bedroom. Behind me, the wail of the baby rises up and up, quickly hushed. The last thing I hear before I leave the house through the kitchen door is the sound of Hannah singing to him.
And then, I am free.
TAKING THE LEAP
Chapter 1
SAM
“Just try the dress on,” my mother says impatiently. “You’re going to look fine.”
My younger sister Abby is getting married in six months, and I’m her maid of honor. Abby says she doesn’t care if I wear a tux instead of a dress, but our mother is having a fit about it. So I try on the dress, which is frilly and pink and does not look fine on me. Not at all.
I come out of the dressing room to show her, hoping against hope that she will see the light of reason, but all my mother sees is, in her own words, “your adorable little pixie cut. But you have time to grow it out.”
“It’s called a butch cut, Mom. Not a pixie cut. And I’m not growing it out.”
Her frown is deep and wide. I love my mother, and I know she loves me. At least…I think she does. I hope she does.
I also know this is killing her. Me, being me. The torn overalls and frogs in my pockets as a kid could be played off as being a “tomboy,” but now that I’m twenty-seven, there are no more excuses for the jeans and boots and leather jackets. No more excuses for the fact I don’t look so much like a girl, but I sure do like to kiss them.
“Turn around,” she says, which is not a response to my correcting her about my hair. She’ll ignore that and pester me about it forever. She waves her hand in a circle. “Let me see the entire thing. Oh, you look gorgeous.”
I do, dutifully, knowing it will not make a difference in how I feel about myself in the dress. “I did look at myself in the mirror before I came out here, you know.”
“You won’t be wearing combat boots with it,” my mom says.
I have to laugh at that and shake my head. “They’re not combat boots, Mom. They’re Dr. Martens. And Abby’s wearing Converse.”
“We’ll see.”
“Mother.” I wait until she looks at my face. She hardly ever does. She usually lets her gaze skitter past me, as though the brutally short hair and total lack of makeup beyond my daily moisturizer are a physical affront to her psyche. She manages to focus on me now, and I continue, “Whatever Abby wants to wear for her wedding is what she gets to wear. And whatever she wants me to wear, I will wear, because she’s my sister and I love her.”
“So, it’s settled, then. You’ll need to have it taken in a bit on top.” My mom waves a hand at the bodice of the dress, which is meant to be filled with more than what I’ve got going on.
“If Abby wants me to wear this, I will.” I stopped hollering at my mother a long time ago. It never worked. Now I just repeat myself over and over until she gives up.
I have a sinking suspicion that this time, she’s not going to give up so easily. This wedding is a do-over for my mom, who apparently didn’t have what she wanted when it was her turn, so she’s making damned sure my sister doesn’t, either. Only our mother won’t come out and say so, and I’m sure she’s convinced herself that isn’t what’s she’s doing. She’s just so determined to steamroll every decision my sister makes that doesn’t suit Mom’s idea of what a “real” wedding should be.
“If Abby wants you to what?”
Thank God, there’s my sister. I gesture at the dress, but say nothing else. Abby takes a step back, both eyebrows lifting.
“Umm…this is not…” she waves both hands in my direction but seems to have lost her ability to speak.
“We’re having it taken in, and she’ll get a pretty pair of flats.” Mom says this defensively, so it is obvious she knows how awful I look, even if she won’t admit it. At least she conceded, even without coming out and saying it, that I won’t wear heels.
Abby shakes her head. “Sammy, I thought you were going to wear a tux.”
“She can’t wear a tux! She’s a girl!” My mother whisper-screams this, hissing like a snake. Her voice drips as much venom as a serpent, that’s for sure.
Her voice turns heads in the tiny bridal shop. Abby looks embarrassed. I know better than to say a word. I just go back into the dressing room and take off the bridesmaid’s dress. When I come back out with it on the hanger, my mom and sister are having a full-blown argument under their breaths.
“…there’s not a damn thing wrong with that dress!” My mother says as I come up to both of them.
“No, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with the dress. But everything is wrong about me. Right?” The words sound calm, but I’m not.
She doesn’t say anything, and she’s back to not looking me in the face. It hurts, even now, even still, when it’s been years and years of this from her and I have stopped expecting it to get better. One of the bridal shop attendants shows up to take the dress from my hand; if she means to ask us any questions, the sight of the three of us sends her off without a word. She’s probably used to meltdowns. Abby has started to cry, and I feel like doing the same but I won’t give myself the chance. Not here. At home I’ll curl up in the shower and sob for awhile until I feel better, but I won’t do it in front of them.
“If Abby wants me to wear the dress, I’ll wear it.” I repeat this calmly, looking at both of them even though neither will meet my gaze. “But I’d like it much better if I wore a tux.”
The waterworks have started up with my mother now, and she mutters something I can’t make out but sounds mean. She gathers her things and leaves the bridal shop without another word, leaving us to stare after her. My sister swipes at her eyes and offers me a watery smile.
“That went wel
l,” she says, but doesn’t reassure me that she’s not going to force me into a frilly pink gown for her wedding.
So, what can I do? I hug my sister, and she clings to me hard for a minute while I pat her on the back and tell her not to worry. It’s all going to be okay. And I’m sure it will be, one way or another, even if next six months are going to be hell on earth.
Chapter 2
JENNA
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. In the past two years, I’ve been in five, count ‘em, five weddings. All my friends are getting married, and I’m happy for them, don’t get me wrong. But boy, am I tired of being a bridesmaid.
This wedding is the last one, I swear by all that is holy and a bunch of stuff that isn’t. My bank account can’t take any more. Not only that, but I’m beyond done with the entire wedding process, and that includes the bridal showers where all the girls in the wedding party get together to make a party that will rival the reception. If it weren’t my brother getting married, I’d have passed on all of it with a double bird and a double cheeseburger to celebrate not having to squeeze into a stupid dress I will wear only once, no matter how “fashionable” it’s meant to be.
“Trust me. Every bride thinks she’s doing something ‘fresh’ or ‘unique,’ but they all end up pinning the exact same shit all over their boards.” I say this in a low voice to the guy in the skinny jeans and Moto jacket who looks out of place and uncomfortable to be there. “Mason jars with candles in them. Do you know how many Mason jar favors I have at home? A cupboard full. I’m going to have to start canning my own pickles just to get rid of them.”
He snorts soft laughter and lifts a beer at me. “I like pickles.”
Shit. I’ve fucked up. That is not a dude, that is totally a girl. I recognize the blue eyes, same as her sister’s, and the buzz cut gives away her identity. I can’t believe I didn’t notice before I made an ass out of myself.
“Sam?” I ask and hold out my hand for her to shake.
She looks surprised, but takes it. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“Your sister talks about you a lot. I’m Jenna. The recalcitrant bridesmaid. Tony’s sister,” I add, because Sam looks confused, and it occurs to me that my brother might not talk about me as much as Abby talks about her sister.
“Right. Tony’s sister. Jenna.” Sam’s fingers squeeze mine, lingering, but eventually pulling away.
I grab a beer from the cooler at her side and lean against the wall, mimicking her position. “Are you hiding out here?”
“Yeah. Kind of. My mom is…” Sam shrugs.
I’ve heard some stories about Sam and Abby’s mother from Tony, who’s usually mild mannered and hard to piss off, so if he’s bitching about her, the woman must be a real pain in the ass. I can hear the mother-of-the-bride all the way from the other side of the room, which is no small feat considering there about about a hundred women squeezed into this small space, and all of them are talking. Abby’s mom is holding court like a queen.
“Do you mind if I hang out with you?” I ask Sam, indicating this spot in the back of the room where she’s been smart enough to lurk.
“No problem.” Sam sips from her bottle and steadfastly does not look at me.
I’m not used to that. Platinum hair, dark eyes and a body like a back road on a summer’s night — all dangerous curves and warning signs. That’s how my last boyfriend described me. If it’s vain to acknowledge that I know I’m hot, well…I guess there are worse things to be.
I study Abby’s sister. Sam Donovan is about two inches shorter than me, but I’m wearing my kitten heels. Her Docs are well worn, but polished. Under the black and red leather jacket, she’s lean and muscled, her white v-neck teeshirt loose enough to hide the hint of small breasts. She’s got the same ebony hair as Abby, although my brother’s fiancee wears hers in spiral curls and Sam’s is cropped so short it’s hard to tell the color. Coppery skin with a spray of slightly darker freckles across her nose. And those eyes. Damn. Blue as a winter’s sky between storms.
One of the other bridesmaids approaches us. She carries a jar full of little safety pins. Oh, shit. It’s a game.
“Here.” She hands us each a safety pin. “You have to pin this to your shirt. Any time you hear someone say the word bride —”
“Yeah, you get to take all their pins. I got it.” I hold out my hand for my pin, and curl my finger with a look toward Sam to indicate that I’ll take hers, too.
The other bridesmaid frowns. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”
You know who gets to tell me I have to be doing something? The bride. Not a bride wanna-be whose name I don’t even know. I don’t get into it with her, though. I give her an icy smile.
“We’re monitoring the beers,” I say.
She frowns again but doesn’t seem able to come up with something else to say. When she’s gone, Sam laughs softly. I like her smile and the sound of her chuckle, like we’re sharing a secret. In a way, I guess we are.
“What? It’s not like they’re going to kick either of us out of the bridal party for not handing out safety pins,” I say. “If anything, I’m pretty sure they’re stuck with us, no matter what.”
She nods and tips the beer to her mouth again, this time drinking around a smile. “More’s the pity.”
“For them or for us?”
“Both?” Sam replies.
“Yeah. Hey. Let’s get out of here.” The idea takes me suddenly, and just as quickly I’m itching to get out of this overcrowded firehall and the drone of old biddies vying for safety pins so they can win dollar shop prizes.
Sam looks surprised. “But…what about the shower?”
“Your sister has, no joke, ten bridesmaids, not including us. She’s not going to notice if we slip out back for a while. C’mon,” I encourage her with a grin. “I dare you.”
Sam straightens and puts the now empty beer bottle carefully into the recycling can by the door. I like that, too. Her careful consideration for the world. “Okay. You’re on.”
Chapter 3
SAM
The second we are out the back of the firehall, Jenna and I both start running. There’s a pavilion set up on the far end of the property, near a running stream. We make it there in a few minutes, both of us laughing hysterically as we collapse onto the bench facing the water.
Jenna flings out an arm as she laughs, hitting my arm. I can’t possibly feel the warmth of her skin through my leather jacket, but I want to. She leans against me for a second or so to nudge me with her shoulder, then moves away.
“We should have brought some food for the ducks,” she says. “God knows there were enough bitches eating crackers in that room to spare some.”
“Huh?”
She gives me a sly, sideways grin. “Bitches eating crackers? It means…oh, you know. Someone who’s being so annoying that even the way they eat crackers makes you want to punch them in the face.”
I laugh. Nod. Scuff the toe of my boot along the patch of worn earth in front of the bench where countless other toes have scraped. “Gotcha. I’m familiar with the concept. Just never knew it had an official term for it.”
She sighs and tips her face up to the late afternoon sun. Light dapples through the trees overhanging the water and leave points of sunshine on her skin. She smiles with her eyes closed.
“You’re staring,” she says.
I shake my head. “You can’t know that.”
Jenna doesn’t open her eyes, but she slides a foot toward mine to tap my boot with her pointy flat. “Yes. I can. I can feel it.”
I look away, then. Caught, embarrassed, but liking the way she smiled about it. We sit in silence for a minute or so. The ducks gather, but when they see we aren’t going to feed them, they swim away. It’s nice out here, in the shade and far away from the hustle and bustle of the bridal shower.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to get a burst of guilty conscience and want to go back there. Not until after all the games are
played, anyway. Hell. I will gladly stay to help clean up every scrap of curly ribbon, so long as I don’t have to play any of those stupid games.” Jenna opens one eye and looks at me.
“I’ll feel bad if Abby ends up missing me, but the truth is, I think she’ll be at least a little relieved that I’m out of the way.”
Jenna gives me a curious look. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, you know. She’s the bride. It’s her day. If I’m around…I draw attention to myself.”
“Somehow,” Jenna says, “I don’t see you as the sort to try to draw attention to yourself.”
I can’t quite get the words out at first, so I gesture at myself. When she doesn’t say anything, I manage to add, “it’s not on purpose. I just do. This is a small town. Anyone who’s not the same stands out. Draws attention. And sometimes it makes my family feel…awkward.”
“Yeah, well, it’s also no longer the fifties.”
I shake my head and bend to pluck up a smooth pebble from the ground. “You know how it is. People talk. Or maybe you don’t know.”
I’m not trying to be a bitch about it, but Jenna is, simply put, drop-dead gorgeous. If she draws attention it’s only the positive sort. No whispering behind hands, no questions about her gender, no subtle discrimination. People might claim to be more accepting now, and probably to themselves, they are. I tell myself I’m used to it, but that doesn’t mean I like it or want to encourage it, especially at my sister’s bridal shower.
“Your sister loves you.”
I’m a little surprised at how serious Jenna sounds. I just met this girl like twenty minutes ago, but she’s already convinced me to go rogue. Not that it took much convincing. Now she’s talking about my sister like she knows her better than I do.