Never the Bride

by Rene Gutteridge

  Then I see the balloons. Brooklyn has released them too soon, and they’re gliding upward, twirling in the wind, dancing—but with no occasion.

  Gwyne backs away. “No. No. Clay, no. I can’t. I—”

  Sobbing, she turns and runs. And I mean like a triathlete with something to prove. She’s in stilettos, but even that’s not stopping her. Neither is her behemoth leather handbag, which nearly knocks over an elderly couple.

  She’s gone.

  Clay is frozen, still on one knee, the ring glinting in the last light of the day. People are shaking their heads and turning away, like they’ve just witnessed a crime.

  Brooklyn is suddenly next to me. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, watching Clay slowly rise and close the ring box. The captain is lowering the banner, and in an unfortunate streak of bad timing, two balloons collide against a light pole and pop, causing a couple of screams and Clay to duck.

  “Weirdly symbolic,” Brooklyn whispers.

  “Wow,” I breathe. “I didn’t see this coming.”

  “Well, just make sure you get the check from him. It’s not our fault she didn’t say yes. He still has to pay for it.”

  I give Brooklyn a look. “Very businesslike, but let’s make sure he’s okay”

  “I have no idea what to say” Brooklyn says softly.

  “Why don’t you get everything wrapped up. I’ll go help him.”

  I know a thing or two about being dumped.

  sixteen

  I order dinner for both of us, though Clay probably won’t eat for days. I’m starving but order a salad. I order Clay a thick, twenty-ounce steak, to help him on his way back to manhood.

  The restaurant sits over the water and from our table near the glass windows, the ocean rolls and the sun sinks below the horizon. Violins swell through the sound system, and the tiny candlelight between us flickers as waiters breeze by.

  I quietly eat, trying to think of something to say. At the pier, I asked if there was anything I could do, and he just said he didn’t want to be alone, so I suggested the restaurant where he already had a six o’clock reservation. I think he just wanted to be anywhere but there on that pier. People were still gawking at him when we walked off.

  His steak is getting cold and he’s on his third beer. The ring in its black box sits alone in the center of the table, next to the candle. He stares at it, like he’s in a trance.

  “You know, Clay, it was a beautiful proposal. Any girl would love that. And if Gwyne can’t see that, it’s her problem, you know? I mean, you went all out.”

  He doesn’t agree or disagree. He just stares. I wonder if I should cut up his steak for him. Then he reaches out and opens the box. He shoves it toward me. I look at it and make adoring expressions. “It’s beautiful. Wow. Really amazing. Spectacular.”

  “A month’s salary right there. She didn’t even look at it.”

  “Her loss, Clay.”

  “Yeah? Why does it feel like mine?” He sighs and picks up his fork, stabbing around on his steak. “I can’t believe this happened to me.”

  “Do you think she just got cold feet or something?”

  He shakes his head. “No.” He pierces a bite of steak, but it doesn’t make it to his mouth. “There have been signs. Signs I guess I decided to ignore. When you want something so badly, I guess you tend to just write those off, make excuses for them.”

  “That’s only natural.” I cut my salad up, eating slowly.

  “We were having a lot of bad days. Lots of fights. Disconnecting.”

  “It happens sometimes.”

  “It’s just, you know, we’ve been together for like—”

  “Three years and two months.”

  “Yeah, and that’s a hard thing to just turn away from.”

  “Sure.” I take a big bite of bread and study him as he saws away at his meat with a knife that is apparently very dull. Or he’s just bad at cutting meat. Either way, the steak is mutilated.

  He drops his knife and fork and snaps the box closed. “Has this ever happened to you?”

  “What?”

  “Rejection in front of a large group of people.”

  “Clay, of course it has. I’ve been rejected more times than—”

  “I meant with your business. Has this happened with your business?”

  “Oh. Um, no. This is a first. But, you know, we’ve only just opened. It’s bound to happen again.”

  His face turns soft. “I guess you’re no stranger to rejection. I’m…I’m sorry about it all, Jess.”

  I awkwardly dismiss and acknowledge it all at the same time. I think my face is a contorted assortment of frowns, smiles, nods, and lip biting. I would’ve guessed seeing Clay face the biggest rejection in life might bring some self-satisfaction, but at this moment, I just want the guy to feel better. It’s like the past never happened.

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Thank you for…I mean, you have no reason to be here for me. Seriously, don’t…don’t feel like you need to sit with me all night.”

  His hand feels warm over mine. “It’s no problem,” I say.

  “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than listen to my sob story.”

  “No, not at all.” I bought him a big steak because I felt sorry for him, but as we sit here and talk, I realize that I feel more than pity.

  “I’ve never talked to anyone like this,” he says. “I’ve never felt I could.” Suddenly, as his hand retreats from mine, it knocks over the wine I’m barely drinking. Red liquid splashes all over my shirt. Clay jumps up and grabs his napkin. “I am so sorry! Here, let me…” He starts to dab at my collar.

  “It’s fine. It’s okay.” But I lift my arms and let him dab. It’s kind of a nice moment, actually.

  “Oh boy. I’m making a mess out of everything tonight, aren’t I?” He shakes his head and continues to blot.

  “Don’t worry about it. Please.”

  He slowly sits back in his seat, shaking his head. “You’re going to need to launder that tonight or it will stain.”

  Clay always was one for domestic knowledge. He taught me how to iron a cotton shirt.

  “Nothing a little Spray ’n Wash can’t handle,” I say. I lean forward and nod toward his steak. “You might want to start on that thing. You’d hate to let a good thing go to waste.”

  For the first time, Clay smiles.

  Somewhere between steak and cheesecake, the conversation shifts from Gwyne to me. He begins telling me about his deep regret that he’d let me go.

  “‘Let me go’? Come on,” I say with a big smile on my face. “How about dumped?”

  He grins sheepishly, and instead of going defensive like he used to do, he just nods. “Yeah. That’s probably true.” I’m not kidding, he gets tears in his eyes.

  After cheesecake—and on to my second glass of wine—he tells me that he often dreamed about what our life would’ve been like together, even while he was with Gwyne. And then by the time the restaurant closes, we are laughing hysterically and remembering old times.

  I slip the key into the door, turn slowly, but it still makes that horrible metal-against-metal grinding noise. And at three o’clock in the morning, it’s like it’s amplifying off the stars.

  I push the door open and realize I’m holding my breath. I kind of feel like a burglar or something. And trust me, I know how that feels. Clasping my keys, I lay them gently down on the table next to the door and push the door shut like it’s made of eggshells.

  Wow. Things seem darker in the dead of night. I slip off my shoes. My feet are killing me, but nevertheless I tiptoe toward the stairs.

  A light clicks on and I whirl around.

  Brooklyn sits up from the couch. “Where have you been?”

  The question catches me off guard, and I fumble around for some words, accidentally dropping one shoe.

  She gets off the couch. “Do you know how worried I’ve been? Do you know what time it is?
”

  “Is it late?” I squeak.

  She crosses her arms. “Don’t give me that.” She’s scrutinizing me, and I’m certain my expression just ratted me out. “Don’t tell me you just left Clay.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell you.” What am I, channeling Brooklyn here?

  “Jessie!” Her mouth is hanging open and her eyes are wide, and I just have to wonder if that’s what I look like at three o’clock in the morning, worried sick. It’s not an attractive look.

  I turn and go to the kitchen for some water. “I know what that brain of yours is saying.”

  She’s right on my heels. “Eight months of mourning that schmuck! That’s how long it took And he’s just going to do it to you again.”

  I fill up the glass and gulp the whole thing back before I answer her. “No. This is different. So totally and completely different.”

  “You should hear yourself.” Brooklyn looks genuinely mortified and worried. “Maybe I should try to explain. This is pathetic. Really. I mean, the guy just got dumped during a proposal. Maybe, just maybe, Jess, this guy has some issues that are wrecking his life.”

  “Gwyne’s the idiot, not him.” I pour another glass of water. “Look, there’s a reason, okay? There’s something more to this, but if I tell you, you’re going to look at me like I’m half cracked.”

  Brooklyn sits on the kitchen table, I’m certain just to bug me. “I already think that, so what do you have to lose?”

  “You won’t believe me anyway.”

  “You never know.”

  I slug the water, then slam the glass down on the table like I’ve just done shots. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “Okay,” I say carefully. “This time, with Clay. I gotta tell you…it’s like…it’s like—”

  “That stain on your shirt?” Brooklyn says.

  “Forget the stain. Listen.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m listening. I promise. The stain’s talking to me, but I’m shutting it out. It’s big, though. You know that, right?”

  “This thing with Clay, Brooklyn. It’s like…God is setting it up.”

  Silence. Then, “I should call Malia.” She reaches for the phone, but I cut her off.

  “Please. Just listen.”

  Brooklyn looks concerned but backs her hand away from the phone.

  I sit on a kitchen chair and pull out another, hoping she’ll get off the table. “Listen. I know this sounds whacked. More than whacked. I thought so too, at first. Especially when He made me give away proposals—”

  “Requested.” I hear His footsteps behind me.

  “Requested, I mean.” I glance at Him. “I thought…I thought it was to hurt me. But now I see it was to get Clay and me back together. He really fooled me.” I give Him a quick smile. He doesn’t smile back.

  Brooklyn is looking into the empty kitchen, then back at me. “He. Fill me in. He who?”

  “God.”

  “God.”

  “God.” I lean back casually. Like this will help it all go down. “Okay, it’s like this. God came to visit me the night you moved back in.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He offered to write my love story.” I gesture for God to sit in the chair Brooklyn is not taking. “And I love what He’s writing.” He remains where He is, leaning against the counter.

  Brooklyn hops to the floor and starts pacing. “Okay, God delusions aside, you’re saying you and Clay back together is…is…?”

  “Perfect. And so ironic.” I look at God again, hoping for some help, some affirmation. I get none, of course. “God likes irony. I mean, think of all those Bible stories, Brooklyn. Remember that old couple—they were like ninety and didn’t have children—and bam! God swung it around and she’s pregnant.”

  Brooklyn quits pacing. “You’re pregnant?”

  That gets a chuckle from God.

  “Brook, stay with me. What I’m saying is that God has a habit of making things that seem impossible possible. Never in a million years would I have guessed Clay and I would be back together. But I’ve never stopped loving him.”

  “That’s not what you said when you found out he was cheating on you.” She finally sits on the chair.

  “But Gwyne is out of the picture now. And see, that’s how God does things. He takes a situation and flips it around in an unexpected way.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. Or, Clay’s on the rebound and you’re available.”

  God suddenly walks out of the kitchen and around the corner. Part of me wants to follow Him, but Brooklyn’s getting red in the face. And so, it seems, am I.

  She leans toward me. “Jessie, listen to me. I want you to listen to me, okay? Carefully. God did not visit you and tell you He’d write your love story. I don’t know firsthand, but I think He probably has better things to do with His time.”

  I look toward the doorway where God went. “I’m not lying.”

  She looks at the doorway too, and then back at me. “That’s what scares me. You really think this is happening.”

  “What? I’m not special enough that God would take the time to do something for me?”

  “I’m just saying, it’s a convenient excuse for you to get back with a guy who is all wrong for you.”

  I stand up. “Really? Like you are in a place to give me relationship advice. How many guys have you lived with in the past four years? And each time, ‘Oh, Jessie, this is the right one.’ How’s that been working for you?”

  Brooklyn’s cheeks are the same color as her lips. “Thank you for that moral judgment.” She stands up. “You can go out with Clay. Give your heart to him a second time. Slap a God label on it if that makes you feel better. Just don’t come crying to me when he smashes your heart all over again.” She turns and stomps out of the kitchen, storming up the stairs.

  I throw up my hands. Why even try to convince her? She’s narrow-minded and always has been. Well, not really, but in this case, yes. I notice my hands are shaking, and I try to calm myself down. Brooklyn will see, in time, that this is all okay. Besides, I don’t have to prove anything to her.

  I decide to go find God. I’m about to head upstairs when I notice the laundry room light is on. I smile. He’s so into details! Leaving me a little hint to not forget to spray my shirt. I walk in and stop.

  He’s sorted my laundry. That’s nice and everything, but why would He sort my—

  I take a step back, staring at the whites and darks in their separate piles.

  I was supposed to go to the Laundromat. At eight. An uneasiness sets over me as I back out of the laundry room. I turn off the light and shut the door. Why would God have wanted me to leave Clay right when things were just starting to get good? I’m feeling numb as I climb the stairs. I listen for Brooklyn, but the light is out in her room and all is quiet.

  I go to the bathroom and stare into the mirror.

  Something is calling me. And it’s not His voice. It’s under my bathroom sink. It’s been there for almost three years, untouched and lonely. It’s called me before, but it has never seemed like the right time or for the right reason.

  I study myself carefully in the mirror. Is now the right time? Is this the right person? I grin.

  Yeah. This is it.

  I open the cabinet doors and reach for the box of Nice’n Easy.

  seventeen

  I’m whistling, which is odd because I once dated a guy who had this nervous-whistle thing going on and I thought I was going to have to plug his hole. He was a decent whistler but always at the most inappropriate times. I undoubtedly knew he was getting ready to attempt to put his arm around me because he’d start whistling.

  The day I broke up with him, I thought the poor guy was going to run out of air.

  But I can’t help it, I’m whistling. And bouncing, like my shoes have ADHD. It’s a good morning. I had no idea one could feel this good on so little sleep.

  I’ve been running errands this morning, picking up some new fliers and that sort of thing. The weather is nice. Pe
rfect, actually. I swing the door open to the store.

  Malia sets down her book. “May I help y—Oh! Jessie!”

  I’ve prepared myself for this kind of reaction. I knew it would be shocking. But I twirl around and flip my hair like I’m in a shampoo commercial. “What do you think?”

  Malia is rushing around the counter like something might be on fire.

  I drop my hands. “What?”

  “No…no. It’s…it’s very um, sunshiny. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it.” She smiles and combs her fingers through my hair. “When did this happen?”

  “Last night.” I fluff.

  “You didn’t want to start off with a few caramel highlights?”

  “Nah. Why not just jump in with both feet?”

  I see Brooklyn. She’s behind the counter, swiveling back and forth in her chair as she hands a customer a business card. “Sounds like fun,” she says. “Give me a call.” She glances up and does a double take. I’m wondering how much we look alike now that we’re both—

  “Blonde?” Brooklyn shouts as the customer walks out the door.

  Malia squeezes my arm. “Isn’t it…breathtaking on your sister, Brooklyn?”

  Brooklyn looks genuinely breathless. “She’s officially gone insane. Did God tell you to do that too?”

  “Why don’t you shut up, Brooklyn.”

  She shrugs. “Hey, I’m just trying to do an intervention before we have to do an intervention, if you know what I mean.”

  I fluff again. “Good grief. It’s not like I shaved my head and joined a cult.”

  “Really. I’m beginning to wonder.”

  Malia holds up her hands. “Okay, girls, what’s going on?”

  I start to answer and then gasp. There are daisies on the counter. A whole big bunch of them. “Are those for me?”

  Brooklyn rolls her eyes, and even Malia looks less than excited. “Yeah,” Malia says. “Came for you this morning.”

  I gather them into my arms. “Clay must’ve read my blog.”

  “Or maybe God sent them to you,” Brooklyn says.

  “Can somebody please tell me why you two are bickering so much?” Malia asks.

  “Sure,” Brooklyn says. “It’s simple. My sister’s crazy. She thinks God has set aside, let’s see, little things like world peace, hunger, and global warming to—hold the phone—set her up with her perfect love story. But what really has me worried is that she thinks Clay would spend two seconds trying to figure out what kind of flower she likes.”