Almost a Bride

by Jo Watson

  CHAPTER SIX

  I figured a few things could happen at this stage:

  I could wait patiently for my invisibility superpower to kick in and vanish into thin air.

  I could play possum, and pretend to be dead so he’d leave me alone.

  I could pretend I didn’t hear him and start walking away as fast as possible and hope he didn’t call out to me again.

  I could jump into the pool and swim away—although that might come across as slightly suspicious.

  Or I could just turn around, smile, and pretend I was really happy to see him (even though I wasn’t).

  “Heeyyyaaa there, stranger.” I mentally slapped myself the second the words were out of my mouth. Way, way too enthusiastic.

  He looked at me with a blank expression; at least I thought it was blank. It was difficult to tell through the beard that obscured the bottom half of his face and the shadow that obscured the top half.

  “Hey.” His greeting was far less enthusiastic and much more appropriate.

  “Heeeyyyaaa,” I answered again with excessive cool, calm, and collected indifference, hoping it might counteract my overly enthused opening line. “So, nice night…or whatever.” I ended the sentence with a shrug that felt painful. It was all such a terrible and unconvincing display of casualness. What had happened to me? I used to be so fricking cool, always the coolest girl in my group. Where the hell had that girl gone?

  He smiled at me. “Yeah, it’s a nice night…or whatever, I guess. Can I get you a drink? Or not…whatever.”

  No, you can’t, you sarcastic prick. “Sure. Thanks. That would be nice.”

  “Nothing with rum in it, I’m guessing?”

  “God no! Something with no alcohol would be great.”

  He slammed his laptop shut again and ordered two Cokes.

  “I’m Chris, by the way,” he said, extending his hand for the obligatory shaking. I shook it.

  “Anne, or Annie, some people call me Annie.” Truthfully only Trevv had called me Anne. Stormy always maintained it was a very bad sign that he didn’t have a pet name for me. She was a huge believer in pet names; she even made up names for inanimate objects.

  “Nice to meet you, Annie Anne.”

  The bartender placed the glasses on the bar, and the sound of the clinking ice as it knocked against the glass and the pop-fizz of the bubbles was very inviting. I made my way to the bar and pulled out a stool, but as I was lowering myself onto it I winced in red-hot sunburned pain.

  “Looks like you really got too much sun today,” Chris said, eyeing me up and down.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “I thought about waking you up earlier, but I didn’t want to come across as pervy or anything,” he said, sipping his drink.

  “Why pervy?”

  “Well, I didn’t want you to think I was staring at you…or staring back at you.” I think I detected a smirk underneath all that beardy fuzz.

  I felt my cheeks go hot—hotter than they already were. Thank God I was bright red from the sunburn, because otherwise my cheeks would have flushed a neon crimson color. Oh, embarrassment, my constant companion.

  “Sorry about that. I was just wondering what you were doing. It sort of looked like you were talking to yourself.”

  He smiled, and I have to admit that despite the Sasquatch-style facial hair, his smile was nice. Dazzling even. It had a quality to it that was contagious, and without thinking about it, I felt a small smile twitching on my lips.

  “Occupational hazard,” he replied casually.

  “Oh really?” I wondered what occupation led to talking to yourself in public.

  “I’m a screenwriter. It’s always best to write dialogue when you’re saying it out loud. It’s more natural that way. So I find I talk to myself a lot.”

  A mental light bulb switched on and I wondered why I hadn’t guessed it earlier. Of course he was a writer. That explained it all. The unkempt hairy face and unintentional hobo-chic vibe he had going on. He probably smoked way too many cigarettes and drank copious amounts of coffee, too.

  “So what are you working on at the moment?” I must admit I was intrigued; it’s not every day you meet a screenwriter.

  “Now that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” His tone had changed suddenly. “Let’s just say, I’ve got a bit of writer’s block. Which is a big problem, since my script is due in two weeks.”

  “How much have you written?”

  He opened his computer again and the screen lit up. “Exactly two words. ‘Scene One.’” He slammed it shut once more and I wondered how the poor thing survived that constant battery. He swigged his Coke down as if it was hard liquor and he was hoping it would calm his clearly jittery nerves.

  “I kind of noticed you weren’t really typing. So what can you do to get over the block? How do you get inspired again?”

  “You’re looking at it.” He said, leaning back in his bar stool and indicating his surroundings with open arms. “That’s why I came here. I’m supposed to be writing a romantic comedy about a couple who meet at a tropical resort—yeah, yeah, I know it sounds clichéd. Forgetting Sarah Marshall meets Just Go with It, but it’s what people want.”

  “Those are great movies. I love Jennifer Aniston.”

  Chris did a weird little swivel on his chair and looked at me mockingly. “Don’t tell me you’re into the whole ‘a girl is left at the altar and goes on her honeymoon alone where she unexpectedly falls in love—’”

  “That actually happened to my cousin.”

  “You’re kidding!” He sounded amused.

  “Nope. She met the guy on the plane, they’ve been together for a year already.”

  “Okay, what about ‘a guy is in a plane crash, gets amnesia, and forgets he has a pregnant wife but ends up falling in love with her all over again because they are meant to be together.’”

  “That hasn’t happened to anyone I know…yet.” I found myself smiling at the thought, because if that was going to ever happen, it would probably happen to one of my friends. “But I love that, it sounds great.”

  Chris held his face in his hands dramatically. “So you like the whole ‘a girl falls in love with a guy just by reading his blog, and she goes in search of him but it turns out it was her best friend all along, and then she realizes she’s been in love with him for years,’ too?”

  “Love it,” I said happily.

  He shook his head even harder. “You’re too far gone, aren’t you? A hopeless case.”

  I wasn’t sure whether he was joking, or whether I should be offended by his statement. It was hard to tell if he was being rude or sarcastic or funny. “What do you mean ‘hopeless’?”

  “I bet you’ve bought into the Valentine’s Day conspiracy, too. You probably buy chocolate hearts and sentimental cards without realizing that it’s all just a moneymaking scam. And I bet you fall in love without realizing that it’s all just an illusion, just the neurons in your brain firing in a specific way that gives you that warm fuzzy feeling. Chemistry, not love.”

  I blinked for a few moments, trying to take in the full implications of his words. “So you write romantic comedies? But don’t believe in love?”

  “Bingo!” Chris said, clicking his fingers for the waiter to bring him another drink. “You don’t have to believe in something to write about it.”

  “No wonder you’ve got writer’s block!”

  Chris looked at me for a while as if he was really processing my words. “Or maybe I’ve just finally run out of soppy, clichéd ‘boy meet-cutes girl and has funny happy ending’ ideas. Maybe I’m just a cynical bastard.” He gave a small chuckle. “Anyway, I doubt I’ll get inspired here. I hate the beach.”

  “No one hates the beach!” I laughed a little.

  “I do.”

  “But look.” I swept my arms around. “Warm, tropical, beautiful, relaxing.”

  “It’s that whole water part I don’t like. I haven’
t swum since I was six.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Let’s just say”—Chris forced a small smile—“that the water and I had a bit of a disagreement and it nearly won.”

  It took me a moment to get what he was saying. “God, you nearly drowned?”

  He shrugged casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Our relationship’s never been the same since. But enough about me. I feel like I’ve just told a total stranger my entire life story. Your turn.”

  “What do you want to know?” I suddenly felt a little disappointed. I was enjoying this conversation; it was a welcome distraction to think about someone and something else for a change.

  “Okay. What does Annie Anne do?” He looked at me with genuine interest as he ran his fingers through that salt-and-pepper hair. I wondered what he looked like under that beard. Probably really good-looking.

  “I’m a…well, no. I was a stylist for TV ads and such. Then I gave that up to work at a fashion magazine. But that didn’t really work out.” I must have given something away in my tone and body language, because he was leaning in curiously.

  “Mmm, I can sense a story there.” He leaned in further.

  I rolled my eyes dramatically and gave a sigh. “You have no idea!”

  Chris eyed me for a moment or two. “Okay, Annie, you got me. I’m officially intrigued. Bring it on.”

  “Mmmm.” I was thoughtful for a moment. I wasn’t sure if I should tell him, but there is something nice about talking to a total stranger. Someone completely removed from the situation. And he had such nice eyes, too.

  “Okay. Why not?” And then I opened my mouth, and it all just fell out.

  The nipple clamps and live sex show with leather straps. The arrest and attempted murder misunderstanding, the broken (priceless—worth more than my annual salary) shoe. The camels (and starving, dehydrated orphans) that had been rented for the photo shoot. Getting fired, getting my heart broken, and getting an unglamorous job. Living on a diet of self-help books. And finally, my nudist landlord and his obsession with recycling.

  And the more I talked, the more Chris laughed. As if my recent life story was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. By the time I got to the part about the vibrators crawling across the floor, I swear he had actual tears in his eyes. Up until that point I’d never seen any of those incidents as vaguely humorous.

  But as I was telling the story—with enough distance, emotionally as well as physically—I started seeing the absurd comedy of it all. It happened slowly at first; a small chuckle, a little smile, and then as if I’d opened the floodgates, I started laughing. And by the time I told him about Trevv spanking me with the greasy spatula, I, too, was in full-blown fits of crying laughter. I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks, and at some stage I think I actually heard myself snort. But I didn’t care.

  “Their names are actually Trevv and Tess?” he asked in between grunts and snorts of laughter. “How cheesy can you get? You couldn’t make that shit up. Trevv and Tess. Wow!”

  “Yes, and he spells Trevv with a double v. He says it stands out on a business card. It’s pretty lame.” I guffawed loudly, which only seemed to egg him on further. But as our laughter tapered off, our eyes met and a little flicker of something jetted up my spine.

  What was it? Attraction? It couldn’t be. I hadn’t been attracted to anyone in ages; did I even know what that still felt like? Maybe I was confusing the feeling with the hot tingling sensation of my sunburned skin and residual rum hangover.

  Chris then raised his glass in a toast. “To Trevv and Tess. May they enjoy many happy years of nipple clamping, spanking, and introducing themselves to people with the most sickening couple name on the planet.”

  “They could turn it into one of those celebrity couple names, Tress,” I suggested, holding my glass up. This made Chris smile even more.

  “To Tress then.”

  “And if we were a couple, we could call ourselves Crannie,” Chris quickly said, which caused me to laugh.

  “Annis,” I suddenly added, laughing at the sound of it.

  “Touché, Annie Anne.” Chris clinked my glass and smiled at me.

  “I was going to go to dinner, would you like to join me?” Chris suddenly asked.

  “Uh…” I hesitated. Images of the last time I had dinner with a man went flying through my head…crying so much he’d offered up his napkin mid-entrée. I wasn’t sure I was fit enough to eat food with members of the opposite sex. Like a horse that hadn’t been broken in yet, I was not to be trusted.

  But then I remembered what Lilly had said about finding a man to practice on, and Chris seemed like a good option. Nonthreatening, not my type, no chance of messy feelings.

  Why not?

  “Fine.” I climbed off the bar stool, still feeling slightly uncertain.

  Chris shot me a playful smile. “Don’t worry, Annie Anne. It’s just dinner. It’s not like I’m expecting to get lucky at the end of it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Inside the restaurant, we were ushered to a small table that was right on the edge of the pool. It was illuminated only by candlelight and, dare I say it, was a little awkwardly romantic. We sat and I immediately began studying the menu, to give me something to do. After a moment or two I put the menu down and looked across at Chris. He peered over his menu at me with a quizzical eye.

  “What’s wrong?” Chris suddenly asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s just so weird to be having dinner with a complete stranger. In a strange place.”

  He put down his menu and smiled softly. “Sure beats eating alone, though, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  We both lifted our menus simultaneously, and after a few more seconds of reading through the delicious dishes, he added, “Besides, I don’t think we qualify as strangers anymore.” He said it with a knowing look. “So feel free to order the prawns without being worried about me judging you for using your hands. Hey, take it one step further if you want and get crab and a pair of pliers.”

  I laughed, let out a huge, dramatic sigh, and immediately felt more comfortable. “Oh, you say that now. But you haven’t seen me eat prawns. It gets messy.”

  “Is that a challenge? Bring it.” He called the waiter over and ordered a massive plate of prawns to share, asking him to bring a few extra napkins.

  And Chris was so right; this was definitely better than eating alone.

  Two hours later, a large pile of prawn remains, and five hundred and seventy-five jokes, puns, and jibes about Trevv and Tess behind us, Chris and I found ourselves finishing dessert. But as the last bite was had, the whole mood suddenly changed and Chris looked serious. Oh God, had I done something wrong…again? Was he thinking of an excuse to get away from me? I waited anxiously for him to say something.

  “I’m sorry, though,” he finally said, looking up at me.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “About what happened to you, Trevv cheating.”

  I shrugged. “What can you do, hey?”

  “I could beat him up for you.”

  I laughed. “You?”

  “Why not? I work out.” He flexed his fairly unimpressive bicep. “Besides, you’d probably be doing me a favor.”

  “Why?” I was curious now. Very.

  Chris took a slow sip of his drink and put the glass down. He played with the water droplets that were running down the side of it for a while, then he looked up at me again and smiled. His mood changed so quickly, it was jarring. “My dad cheated on my mom.”

  “Wow, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. It was a long time ago. We’re all okay, except my mom’s never really been the same since.”

  “I can relate,” I said slowly as I felt the emotion sweeping over me. Something in me had died the day I’d found Trevv with Tess, and all that was left was this insecure, unsure shadow of the person I once was.

  “She always said that the lying was the worst part. If he had just told her—”
<
br />   “Exactly! If Trevv had just told me instead of running round behind my back lying constantly.”

  Chris went back to fiddling with his glass, and I could tell there was still more to this story.

  Chris perked up again. I could see he was trying to shake off the dark cloud hanging over him. He seemed to do that a lot. “Anyway, beating Trevv up might help me work through some of my daddy issues. It would be therapeutic.”

  I laughed. “And a lot cheaper than seeing a shrink.”

  “Exactly. Now you have to let me do it.”

  “As much as I would love to see Trevv beaten to a pulp by a big, strong man like you, it just wouldn’t be enough. Besides, he’d probably enjoy it.”

  Chris started nodding vigorously. “The classic Medea story. That’s what you need.”

  “Medea?”

  “It’s a Greek tragedy about a wife who takes revenge on her unfaithful husband. In fact, the scorned woman seeking revenge is a very popular movie plot.”

  “And did Medea get her revenge in the end?”

  “She killed all their children.”

  “Oh.”

  “But in your case I wouldn’t go full Fatal Attraction. I’d go from some light revenge comedy, like First Wives Club, or The Women.”

  I burst out laughing. “I loved those movies.”

  “Everyone loves to see the scorned girl get her revenge.”

  “I wish. I’m still waiting for mine.”

  “You’ll get your revenge one day, Annie Anne. In the meantime, do you want to go for a walk on the beach? Get rid of some of these calories?” Chris patted his stomach and stuck it out for added effect. He was the kind of guy that just seemed so natural and relaxed. There was something sexy about a man that was just himself. Not some Ken doll version of a human, which was Trevv.

  Maybe Trevv hadn’t been so good-looking after all.

  “Sounds nice,” I replied.

  I always think the beach looks better at night. It has a mystical quality to it. When the sounds of people have vanished and all you can hear are the soft, gentle movements of the water as it crashes lightly against the rocks and crawls up the sand. The sky looked like a child had thrown silver glitter across it, and the sand still felt warm from the day.