I wanted to be punished.
I wanted to be told what we did was wrong.
I wanted something.
Instead, I received medals for bravery.
Sal walked to my side, wrapped his arm around me, and hugged me. Then, I felt Peter’s hand against my back.
“Forgive yourself,” Sal said. “I can guarantee you that God has.”
As we stood there in each other’s arms, the dirty feeling was somehow slowly escaping me.
And, I was left standing there with my family.
A family that accepted me for who I truly was.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Terra
It didn’t get easier. Not even a little bit. With each hour that ticked off the clock, I felt that there was one more thing that had gone wrong.
“I swear,” I snapped. “How does something like that just quit? I’ve never had a curling iron quit. Never.”
“Things break,” Michelle said. “She’ll be here in a minute with a new one.”
Angelina was on a mad dash to Target to get a new curling iron, and my hair was only half curled. With the wedding an hour away, I sat in my bra and panties, drinking wine.
The woman we’d hired to do the wedding party’s hair scrambled from bridesmaid to bridesmaid, primping, scrunching, and filling the room with the scent of hairspray. A shoe with a broken heel sat at the side of my chair. It was the day’s first disaster, but when it happened, I knew it wouldn’t be the only one.
Now, I was certain the entire event would be plagued with disastrous affairs.
“I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” I said. “I’m serious.”
Michelle poured another glass of wine, took the empty one from me, and handed me the full one.
“Drink.”
“It’ll be a miracle if I make it in there fully clothed. My dress will probably disintegrate as I walk down the aisle.”
She raised the bottle to her lips and took a long drink. “Drink.”
I took a drink, and then another. I looked at Michelle. “I swear.”
She nodded toward the glass. “Drink.”
“My shoe, and then the thing with my lashes. And now? For fuck’s sake.” I took a drink and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ve had curling irons for years. They don’t break. Not unless you drop them in the sink or something.”
I took another drink, glaring at the curling iron that sat on the floor beside me.
Michelle lifted the bottle and wagged her eyebrows as she drank.
“Got it,” Angelina announced as she ran into the room.
My mother was right behind her. She looked at me and shook her head. “You need to stop with the wine. You’ve been drinking all morning.”
“It’s been a disaster, Mother.”
She tried to be stern, but couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s only going to get worse if you’re drunk.”
I finished my wine, and handed the empty glass to her. “Here. I’m done.”
She took the glass and then turned toward Michelle. “How much has she had?”
Michelle raised the empty bottle. “This is number three, but I’ve been helping.”
“Michelle Tovelli!” my mother gasped. “You’re the matron of honor. You’re supposed to look after her.”
“I’m fine,” I said with a dismissive wave. I tried to stand, and when I did, my head spun in circles. I fell into the chair and admitted the truth. “Okay. Maybe not fine.”
I looked around the room. “I need bread. Someone get me some bread! I need to soak up this alcohol.”
After staring at my bare feet for a moment, I looked up. Angelina stood nervously at the edge of the room.
“Angelina, get me some bread, please.”
“Hey, whatever your name is,” Michelle barked across the room. “The curling iron is here.”
“Be right there,” the hairstylist said.
“Who brings one curling iron to a wedding?” Michelle whispered. “Who is this girl?”
I shrugged. “They recommended her at the salon.”
Michelle looked her up and down, and then scoffed. “With what you’re paying her, maybe she can afford two curling irons at the next wedding.”
“I’m drunk,” I murmured.
She looked at me and then shook her head. “You’re just nervous. People’s knees lock up at these things all the time. They faint. That’s how nervous they get.”
I didn’t need to hear wedding war stories, that much I was sure of. I wondered just how much of the room was rotating from my nerves, and how much was from alcohol consumption.
“I feel like I just got off that ride that spins you in circles while the other thing is spinning, too.”
“You’ll feel better when it’s over.”
“If I make it that long.”
“Here.” Angelina handed Michelle a plate. “Have her eat this.”
I craned my neck toward it. “What is it?”
Michelle lowered the plate into my eyesight. “A sandwich and some other shit.”
I grabbed the sandwich and began eating it as if I were starved. “Oh. My. God. Where’d you get this?”
“They’re out in the hallway, set up for us to eat. There’s a whole table of them.”
I took another bite. “Get me another?”
She smiled and turned away. After a moment, she returned. “Here.”
I’d already finished the hoagie, and was trying to convince myself that the food was making me feel better. I eagerly grabbed the other sandwich, not sure if my recovery was wishful thinking, or the handiwork of the food.
I was halfway through Italian sub number two, and the hairstylist stepped to my side. She looked me over, and then let out a sigh.
I shot her a look. “What?”
She smiled. “A low bun chignon with a lot of curls. Is that still what you want?”
“Mmhhmm.”
The food was sitting heavily in my stomach, and the alcohol was making me sleepy. I felt like I needed a nap. I took the last bite of sandwich, leaned back in the chair, and closed my eyes.
While Michelle blabbed about nothing, and my mother gave me a speech about drinking too much before the wedding, the hairstylist curled my hair. I faded in and out of sleep the entire time, hoping the little rest I could obtain would keep me from collapsing on my way down the aisle.
After what seemed like no time, I heard her announcement.
“I’m done,” she said. “Take a look.”
I opened my tired eyes, took the mirror from her hand, and looked at my reflection. The updo looked marvelous. I looked at Michelle, and then my mother.
Both were all but in tears.
“You look beautiful,” my mother exclaimed. “More than beautiful. Gorgeous.”
Michelle nodded repeatedly.
I stood partially, balanced myself against the arms of the chair, and then let go.
So far, so good.
“I think I’m okay now,” I said with a laugh. “I was pretty trashed a little bit ago.”
“Thirty minutes!” the wedding planner barked into the room.
“We should wait until the last minute for the dress, shouldn’t we?”
“Not the last minute,” my mother said. “What if there’s a problem? You should put it on now.”
I may have looked beautiful, but I wasn’t ready. I felt tense, and my nerves were shot. “I need another drink.”
“Terra Agrioli!” my mother snapped. “No more to drink. Just stand here. We’ll get the dress.”
In no time, Michelle and my mother walked into the room with the dress draped over their arms.
I looked at it, and then at each of them. T
he dress looked stunning, no different than when I tried on the example at the store. I glanced around the room. Bridesmaids stood with their mouths agape, and their eyes fixed on my dress.
“Oohs,” “aahs,” and “oh my Gods” filled the room.
It was happening. In a matter of minutes, I was going to be married.
My stomach knotted.
I looked at the dress, and then met my mother’s gaze. The room started to spin.
I broke out in a sweat. “I’m not... I don’t think... I don’t feel... I don’t feel very good.”
“Maybe you need to poop,” my mother said. “You should go poop before you put on the dress.”
I pressed my lower abdomen. “I think I need...”
I gazed at the floor.
And, I vomited.
“To puke.” I looked up. “I needed to puke.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Michael
While Trace got dressed, Cap, Peter, Sal, and I stood in the adjoining furnished waiting room. I felt like the weight of the world was crashing down on top of me, and had no idea of what I could do to stop it.
“You look like shit, brother.” Cap stood, pressed his hands to his hips, and looked me over. “You’re sweatin’ like a whore in church.”
“He’s got the wedding-day jitters,” Sal said. “Look at him.”
I wiped my forehead. “I feel like shit.”
Cap looked at Sal. “I’ve seen this motherfucker in a world of shit. He’s got nerves of steel. He never gets nervous.” He chuckled and then looked at me. “Look at him now.”
“Fuck you, Cap.”
“Look in the mirror,” he said. “You’re pale, and you’re sweatin’ bullets.”
I was standing in front of a wall-mounted mirror, dressed in my pants, and an untucked—and unbuttoned—shirt. I glanced at the mirror. Despite the cool temperature of the room, beads of sweat rolled down my face.
“I think it’s something I ate.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Cap said with a laugh.
He was right. I hadn’t eaten since the previous night’s rehearsal dinner. “Maybe I need something to eat.”
“I know what you need,” Cap said.
“What?”
His eyebrows rose. “Relief.”
I looked in the mirror, and then at him. “How am I going to get that?”
“Wedding-day jack. Works like a combat jack. You’ll feel better, believe me.”
“You’re nuts.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sal asked.
Cap, dressed in his tuxedo, looked like a bodyguard who was prepared to attend the Academy Awards ceremony with a Hollywood movie star.
He spread his feet shoulder-width apart and acted as if he spat into the palm of his right hand. After unzipping his zipper, he began acting as if he were masturbating.
“In combat, when we’d get the jitters, some of the fellas would just stop right there. With bullets whizzing by their heads, and bodies droppin’ left and right, they’d whoop their cocks and jack off. Called it a ‘combat jack.’ That little bit of relief would calm ’em right down, and let them get their head in the right place. I’m tellin’ ya, Tripp needs a wedding-day jack.”
Sal looked at me and shrugged. “Might work.”
“I’m not jacking off.”
He looked me up and down. “You need to do something.”
Anthony had left to meet with Terra and her mother, hoping to practice his procedure on walking her down the aisle. He seemed almost as nervous as me.
Almost.
I glanced in the mirror.
I looked like hell. My pale skin was drenched in sweat. I lifted my hand and tried to hold it steady.
“Look at his fuckin’ hand,” Cap said. “He’s shakin’ like a dog shittin’ peach pits.”
“Fuck you, Cap.”
“Maybe you ought to try that combat thing,” Sal said.
“I masturbate at least once a day,” Peter said. “If I don’t, I’m a wreck.”
Sal shrugged. “See?”
“We just need to get this show on the road. I’ll be fine when it’s over.”
“If you make it that far,” Cap said.
“I’d do it,” Peter said. “It can’t hurt.”
“Makes sense,” Sal said. “Give it a try.”
“We’ve got thirty minutes.” I wiped my forehead again. “I haven’t got time to—”
“How long’s it take you to jack off?” Cap asked. “I can get there in about a minute.”
“Are we really having this discussion right now?”
“Depends on whether or not I got good material in front of me,” Sal said with a shrug of his shoulder. “If I got something to look at, I’m about sixty seconds.”
“I can come on command,” Peter said. “Maybe thirty seconds. Maybe less. Depends.”
I flopped down into one of the chairs, but felt just as bad as if I were still standing.
“You got thirty minutes,” Cap said. “Get Trace out of the dressing room and go whack off.”
I stood. Or, I at least tried to. Halfway through my effort, I went light-headed and fell back into the chair.
Cap burst into laughter. “Jesus. He can’t even stand. Unzip his pants and grab his meat, Peter.”
“Seriously?” Peter snapped back. “You think because I’m—”
“Don’t even start that shit,” Cap said with a wave. “You’re the closest. That’s all I’m saying.”
He shot Peter a playful glare, and then coughed out a laugh. “Just give him a handy. He’ll thank you later.”
“Nobody’s touching my cock,” I said.
“Fifteen minutes!” the wedding planner shouted into the room.
“Somebody do something.” Cap chuckled. “Or we’ll have to call this thing off.”
“I ain’t touching it,” Sal said with a laugh.
Peter’s hands shot into the air. “Me neither.”
Trace walked into the room. “I’m ready.”
He looked at me, searched the other men, and then looked at me again. “What’s wrong with Tripp?”
“Nervous as fuck,” Cap said. “Fucker can’t even stand.”
“What are we gonna do?”
“Told him to jack off, but he won’t do it. Asked Peter to do it for him, but he said no. Sal ain’t touchin’ it, and I’ve got carpal tunnel, so I’m out.”
Trace shrugged. “I’ll do it.”
I stood up. “You cock suckers are disgusting. I’m going to wash my face.”
I stumbled into the dressing room, looked in the mirror, and came to the conclusion I needed to do something.
I walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and let out a sigh. Masturbating was something I associated with being weak and needy.
Nonetheless, I unzipped my pants, grabbed my cock in my fist, and began to stroke it. It was immediately apparent that my nerves were going to prevent me from reaching any degree of arousal.
I closed my eyes, thought of the day I met Terra, and how simply seeing her affected me. Her undeniable beauty was enough to make me search blindly at the same coffee shop for her in hope of catching just one more glimpse.
I thought of our first night together, and how nervous she seemed around me.
And then, I recalled the speech I gave her about how I wanted to earn the right to watch her get undressed.
My cock went stiff.
In a matter of a few minutes, I came so hard that it made me dizzy.
I walked to the sink, washed my hands, and looked in the mirror. I didn’t look much better, but I felt great.
I opened the door, walked into the room, and me
t Cap’s gaze. “Hand me my jacket, I’m good to go.”
He grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Sal said. “I haven’t been to one of these things in years, and I haven’t ever been a groomsman. I’m nervous, too.”
“Hurry up,” Peter said. “I’m next.”
I looked at Cap, and then at Trace.
“What do you think took me so long?” Trace asked.
I shook my head and laughed.
“I’m good,” Cap said. “Michelle sucked me off in the truck on the way here.”
I adjusted my tie, slipped on my coat, and let out a laugh. “Men and women are totally different. I bet not one of those women are in there fingering themselves.”
“Bet not,” Cap said. “They’re probably pukin’.”
Chapter Thirty
Anthony
I am a prideful man. I always have been. My grandparents were Italian immigrants, and I was the first generation of my family to be born of non-immigrant parents.
A true Italian-American.
Unlike many Italians, I took pride in being both.
As difficult as it is for my wife to understand, my pride prevents me from stepping down from my role in the family business.
Men in my position are either killed or arrested.
No one dies from old age.
Most people would assume money or power fueled me to be in the position I was in, but neither were true.
My pride fueled me. But, the pride I felt from my successes with the family was nothing compared to the pride I felt from living life.
Of everything that had taken place since my birth, three events stood out as being the most prideful moments of my life.
The day I married my wife.
The day my son was born.
And, the day my daughter was born.
I cherished these memories, recalling them on every occasion I was able. In the hope of maintaining a vivid recollection of these events, I told the stories repeatedly—to anyone who cared to listen, and to a few who couldn’t have cared less.
To this day, I can still taste the cream cheese frosting on the cake my gorgeous wife smashed into my face at our reception. When the memory of that day becomes distant, I go to the restaurant, have a piece of cake, and smile as the memories flood my mind.
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