Juggernaut

by K. S. Adkins

  Because the conservatory is an exact replica of my favorite scene from my favorite movie.

  Where she wears red, he wears black, and they fight side by side in the fire swamp.

  From the tall trees, to the leaves I’m standing on, the rocks around us, and even Van himself.

  Looking over at our friends and family, all of which are dressed in specific attire, I focus back on Van.

  “You’re wearing a sword.”

  “You’re wearing my ring.”

  “You’re wearing a costume and an eye patch,” I blurt again.

  “Don’t forget my heart,” he says tracing my cheek.

  “What?”

  “On my sleeve,” he smiles. “I’m wearing my heart here, Taylor.”

  I can’t process this. Not the music, scenery or Van in cosplay.

  Because Van in cosplay—dayum.

  I’m overwhelmed.

  Speechless.

  But the one thing I’m not, is scared.

  When a man approaches us wearing a silver robe and a hat he probably stole from the Pope, I look to Van for help.

  “Is this real?” I ask quietly.

  “Are wishes real? Are fairy tales real?” Leaning in to kiss me once, he asks, “Is true love real? Are we real?”

  I know the answer to them all.

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes, Taylor. It’s real.”

  “So, um, who’s he, exactly?”

  “He’s The Impressive Clergyman.”

  “You’ve really thought this through,” I smile in earnest as I take the guy in. I absently wonder how much he cost, too. Personally, I found it amazing there was a market for this. I made a mental note to add him to my ala carte menu.

  “You have no idea,” he smiles back.

  But I do have an idea. In fact, it all makes sense now. And with that knowledge my body becomes liquid.

  “So you said you wanted to talk?”

  “Less talking, more doing,” he says, turning us to face the stranger. “You may begin.”

  Leaning into Van, I ask, “Did you just decide to marry us?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Nope. Just making sure.”

  “Good,” he says with a firm nod. “And, Taylor?”

  “Hmm?” I ask staring at the man I love.

  “A fictional princess has absolutely nothing on you.”

  He means Buttercup.

  “A fictional pirate slash farmhand has absolutely nothing on you either.”

  I mean Westley.

  Clearing his throat, the stranger says, “Mawwige,” and I truly lose it.

  As in bent at the waist, can’t breathe, might pee and crossing my legs just in case, lose it.

  I’m laughing so obnoxiously loud I can’t hear anyone else’s over my own.

  Meeting me halfway and embracing his own laughter, Van whispers, “Swear to God, he didn’t even practice that.”

  Regulating my breathing, I hold a hand up. “We have our own vows.”

  “We do?”

  “We do now,” I warn him. Because no way can I get through this with a straight face or pee-free panties otherwise.

  “Then you’re going first,” he challenges.

  “Fair,” I concede. “And you,” I point at the stranger. “Can bring it home at the end.”

  Thank God, he only nods his agreement at me. I am hanging on by a thread as it is.

  So, taking one deep breath, I lay it all out there.

  “We’re going to grow old disgracefully together. But before that happens, I promise to encourage you to try new and unusual things. I also promise to be your partner in crime, to keep you outside of your comfort zone, and make you smile. You, Van, are my wish come true.”

  “You're the one who made me believe in fairy tales and the beauty of mosh pits. The one who keeps me outside my comfort zone because she knows I like it there. You’re the city girl to my country club, the box wine to my bourbon and the reason I smile at all. You, Taylor, are the best wish I have ever made.”

  “I love you, Van.”

  “And I love you, Taylor.”

  “Okay,” I motion to the strange man, for some reason I couldn’t seem to stop staring at his crotch. “Bring it home.”

  And when he does, I don’t laugh.

  Because I’m too busy staring into my husband’s eyes to notice anything else.

  As cheers erupted, noses are blown, and music begins playing, I throw myself at him. “And they both lived happily ever after.”

  “Fuck yeah, they did.”

  “Dip me, Van Wilder.”

  “As you wish.”

  She’ll have this one day, Hillary knows.

  A man who moves heaven and earth to make his woman’s dream a reality.

  Even if for just a few hours.

  Watching Taylor fall in love has taught her how to recognize it, hold onto it, and not fuck it up.

  Since she can remember, she has always envied Taylor.

  At nearly forty years old, and through more downs than ups, Hillary no longer envies Taylor.

  She is simply happy for her.

  So, in this, Taylor has been right.

  Life has gotten better once Hillary stopped wanting what everyone else had and started appreciating what she had.

  Hillary is also reaching for the drink she smuggled in because she’s decided that for the immediate future, she’s going to enjoy the man with the speech impediment and fat cock.

  When Evander dips Taylor, Sugar finally exhales.

  Fighting back tears of joy, Sugar can’t help but take in her surroundings. You would think your best friend getting married in a mock version of a fictional fire swamp would be hilarious. Only it isn’t.

  Because it’s Taylor’s idea of perfect.

  For as long as she can remember, Taylor believed in wishes.

  Finally, fucking finally, after taking care of everyone else; she got her own.

  This makes Sugar hopeful that one day she would, too.

  Until then Sugar doesn’t mind plowing through all the wrong women while she waited for the right one.

  Clinking plastic cups with Hillary, Sugar’s wondering if this renaissance getup could get her laid.

  Two and a half years ago, she witnessed something rare and beautiful.

  The moment Taylor and Evander locked eyes it was not insta-hate.

  It was true love.

  Except at that time, neither knew what to do about it.

  Never one to interfere, India found herself impatient.

  She’s watched Taylor, she’s watched Evander.

  And she’s waited.

  Months passed.

  One year.

  Two.

  And she’s waited some more.

  Until the day Carol Church called her.

  Then she’s co-plotted.

  She is no longer Switzerland.

  She’s also made a wish of her own.

  A wish for Taylor.

  India to anyone who asked is a believer.

  She’s also pregnant again.

  Further proof, wishes are magic.

  She’s apologized.

  She’s cried.

  She’s apologized some more.

  The Shit has known all along.

  The Shit has helped Van pull it all together.

  She has treated The Shit like shit.

  And it is killing her.

  What they have done for her, for her husband…

  They’ve made her wish come true.

  So while in their huddle, Taylor glances at her sisters and grins.

  The Shit is proof wishes do come true.

  Or, she amends, proof God has a sense of humor.

  Either way, with her husband at her back, she takes measure of her life.

  And both she and the juggernaut smile.

  In this, they are in perfect synch.

  Carol Church finally has a daughter.

  The most beautiful, loving,
crazy, stubborn daughter a mother can wish for.

  A daughter she’s waited over two years to meet but knows just the same.

  The women who would love her son in this life and beyond.

  The woman who will breathe life back into Evander.

  The woman who takes his carefully controlled world and destroys it. Then rebuilds it into something beautiful and chaotic.

  Glancing up at her husband, Carol thinks back to her own wedding day.

  The first happiest day of her life.

  The second is birthing Evander.

  The third is happening now.

  She exhales the weight every mother carries when worrying about her children.

  A weight that never truly leaves you, but lessens from time to time.

  In this moment, Carol Church feels lighter.

  And this isn’t just because she is extremely high.

  So, when Hillary yells to Taylor and Evander, “Have fun storming the castle!” and her husband mumbles in her ear, “Who is she kidding? Those walls have already been breached,” Carol Church laughs out loud.

  Her son is more like his father than he’ll ever admit.

  But Carol knows this and so does Taylor.

  “—can’t kick us out!” Hillary is screaming at the manager.

  “And here I thought this place had staying power,” Sugar grins into her glass.

  “Ma’am,” he tries.

  “Don’t you fucking ‘ma’am’ me!”

  “You cannot use profanity and insult the customers,” he explains only none of us care.

  “If we can’t use profanity and insult the customers then why do brunch at all?” she counters. “What’s the point of enduring a five-day work week if, on Sunday, I can’t fucking use profanity? Explain it to me!”

  “If you’ll please – ”

  “Get in my space one more time, boy, and I will fuck you up,” Hillary warns rolling her shoulders.

  So all of this might be my fault.

  Because I was being descriptive (with hand gestures) while I explained my honeymoon.

  A honeymoon where I found out my husband is seriously into cosplay.

  Personally, I thought my reenactment of the sword fight and my surrender was award winning.

  The women behind us…not so much.

  Instead of ignoring us or doing the right thing and joining in, they’ve decided to be bitches and narc us out.

  I’m beyond over the offended mentality everyone seems to have right now.

  So, I turned around ready to verbally destroy her and seriously came up short. In my life, I have never seen anything like it. It’s also one of the few times I’d found myself speechless. And when the mother snapped at me, “What are you staring at?”

  I told her the truth. “That is one unfortunate looking child.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Honey,” I tried. “I mean truly, how dare you? For his sake, I hope he has a winning personality or at the very least, a huge cock because life is going to suck for him. For like, ever.”

  “She is not a boy!” she wailed.

  To which Hillary added, “Are you sure?”

  “My daughter is perfect!”

  “Whatever’s in her glass, I’ll take two,” Sugar chirped.

  “She is perfect, Hannah,” her friend lied. “Don’t listen to them.”

  “Or better yet,” I added. “Square up your tab and go get your eyebrows done. Hint: they’re supposed to be two.”

  “Ladies,” India said kindly. “We are celebrating a honeymoon and if we offended you –”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you, skank.”

  “Excuse me,” India stiffened. “That was next-level unnecessary. Apologize.”

  “Have your friend apologize for insulting my daughter!”

  Standing, India narrowed her eyes. “She will not apologize for speaking the truth! You should be ashamed,” India pointed to the kid. “For making her look like Wallace Shawn! On purpose!”

  “I don’t even know who that is!”

  “Inconceivable!” India mocked wonderfully. Seriously, she was no longer a resident of Switzerland.

  Peeking between them, I offered, “Vizzini, Princess Bride. Greatest movie ever. You’re welcome.”

  “—at least stick a bow in his hair err—her hair,” Hillary shrugged.

  “It hurts to look at it,” Sugar shivered. “I mean—her.”

  “It won’t stop staring at us,” I whispered to the group.

  “Evil,” Hillary mumbled. “Pure fucking evil.”

  “Let’s just go,” India said, grabbing her bag. “This place has lost its appeal.”

  Which brings us back to now.

  “Fine,” Sugar says, putting a hand up. “We’ll go. But only because orange juice in a mimosa is a garnish. Anything more than a splash is insulting and price gouging.”

  “That’s what vitamins are for, duh,” Hillary adds.

  “Why didn’t you sock her?” Sugar asks as we head out.

  “Two weeks of amazing sex wore me out, plus, she birthed that thing in there and really, isn’t that punishment enough?”

  “Ladies,” India says, raising her first. “To the minivan!”

  “I still can’t believe you bought a minivan,” Sugar says, linking her fingers through India’s. “You aren’t due to pop for months.”

  Linking hers with mine, Hillary chimes in, “But if anyone can rock third row seats and remote controlled side door, it’s India Sinclair.”

  “Voila!” India says while hitting her fob and we all watch in fascination as the hatch opens revealing two coolers. No lie, this van rivaled NASA with its coolness. I have to give it to her. No matter the situation, India always does the right thing. Especially when it involves alcohol. She is going to be such a good mother.

  “You packed roadies,” I praise her.

  “I’m always prepared,” she grins. “Whether I can drink or not.”

  “We are totally taking this thing to concerts,” Sugar announces, jumping in.

  Handing out our drinks, we all huddle up and pulling India close, I remind her, “You’re my shero.”

  “Yeah?” she smiles up at me.

  “Oh yeah,” I promise. “And you’re going to be one hell of a mom, too.”

  “India,” Hillary says while holding up a pair of panties. “These yours?”

  “Yep,” she smiles.

  “You and Scott bang in the minivan?” Sugar asks.

  “Right where you’re sitting, sweetie.”

  Sugar is taking a moment to think over her reaction, then decided, “Totally using this to pick up chicks. I may even borrow the kid. You know, play the sexy single mother angle…”

  When my phone rings, conversation keeps flowing around me while I take Carol’s call. Hanging up, I tell the girls I need to hit it soon and when Hillary asked why, I explain, “Carol wants to start a new tradition with me called Sunday-Bluntday.”

  “You two are going to get blown out, aren’t you?” Sugar inquires.

  “Of course,” I beam. “Her pot is way better than anything I can get. You can’t beat home grown. Besides, Pop has a new strain for us to try out.”

  “What’s it called?” Sugar asks.

  “Juggernaut,” I smile proudly. “Pop says it’s the buzz that destroys the senses.”

  “Scott’s mom makes me drink tea,” India shudders. “Herbal tea.”

  “Nolan’s mom used to cry about being married to his dad,” Hillary adds. “Woman was on to something.”

  “I wonder what my mother-in-law will be like?” Sugar ponders then laughs. “If God loves me, it’ll be porn.”

  Despite The Shit pushing forty, we still have it. I was also certain in some way we always would.

  Since Van has made the decision to marry us, I didn’t have weeks or months to stress over the details. (Thank God)

  I’m not complaining that I didn’t plan my own wedding. Because let’s face it, he did a better job than
I ever could. But next to nuptials I will say, moving into my husband’s home is the most adult thing I have ever done (outside of my yearly pap smear). When I thought we would bicker and bitch about blending our belongings, we never did. Van’s place could store four of mine and oddly enough, our things combined meshed really well.

  We put my bed and dressers in his guest room; what little furniture I had went in the loft space and I donated all of my kitchen utensils to Sugar and Hillary. Moving in here has taken no cohesion. I’ve lived in a warehouse.

  Van lives in paradise. I would have moved in just for the tub alone.

  Okay, that’s not true. I also love the view, the pool, the door man, and my husband.

  Which is why tonight’s girls’ night out is a girls’ night in.

  Who cares about clubs or eateries when you have this shit?

  Another reason we choose to stay in is we have our 40th birthdays to plan.

  India will hit the milestone first, then Hillary, followed up by Sugar, and bringing up the rear, me.

  I’m going to vote for a destination vacation. An all-inclusive resort that would cater to our banger.

  And at the rate life was going, we’ll need a lot of room.

  India is due to pop, Hillary has a boyfriend, Ethan (not the impressive clergyman from my wedding, though. Turns out his fat cock couldn’t get fully erect so that was a hard limit for Hill.) Ethan, I will say, is so upbeat he has sunshine coming out his ass. Hillary adores it. He brings two young sons to the relationship and Miss Misery is now being called Miss Motherhen. Sugar has a serious girlfriend, who is amazing and her name is Mo. She’s an interior designer and currently working with me on ideas for As You Wish. Not only was Sugar smitten, she managed to find the one woman more fashionable than she was. These two are a true match.

  And if that crew doesn’t need their own soundproof island, Van’s parents have demanded to be in on the fun, too.

  As if I would say no?

  Mom and Pop are the parents I wished I had growing up. But I’ve come to terms with my lot in life a long time ago and am grateful I have them now. Because we spend tons of time together, I’m always the first in line to try Pop’s edibles.

  The man is a marijuana Einstein.

  Even Van gets in on the tasting.

  Although, about a month ago, Pop and I were in his basement sampling his new strain when I invited him to try Lieutenant Dan. Always up for new things, he did and the results were us playing slap jack for two hours until it wore off. So, for me, married life isn’t much different than my old life except that I’m legally bound to the man I love. The man who insists we do karaoke at least once a week, who wants to try fishing again, is dying to see another metal concert, did, in fact, have a pole installed in our bedroom, and always falls asleep with his cock inside of me.