by Claire Adams
It’ll pass, though. It’s not like I have anything left to throw up.
Only, as we become more entangled and less clothed, that feeling only grows.
Gotta push through it, though, otherwise, how am I ever going to get over Dane?
Taking my own advice a bit too literally, I push Dane—I mean Will—backward onto the bed. He’s down to his boxers and I’m in bra and panties, ready to climb on top and make some memories.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.
“Oh,” he says, “it’s just you pushed me onto the bed, I guess I was expecting you to…” he trails off.
It takes me a second, but it finally clicks that I haven’t moved or said anything until he asked me what was on my mind.
“I’m just taking in the view,” I lie, and walk up to him.
I put one knee on each side of his body and straddle him. He’s already quite hard, and I’m just thrilled that I’m about to live out another one of my fantasies.
And now I’m thinking about Dane.
“Fuck.”
“What?” he asks.
“What?”
“It sounded like you said fuck,” Will answers.
“Did it?” I ask. “Oh well, never mind.”
I kiss him on the mouth and lean into him, encouraging him to lie back. He puts his arms around me and uses both hands to undo my bra.
“What was that?” he asks.
“What was what?”
“It sounded like you were giggling,” he says.
“I wasn’t,” I tell him. “I don’t know, maybe you tickled me a little.”
He shrugs and we continue to kiss while I wonder just what is so hard about undoing a bra with one hand. Sure, it’s one thing if you’re wearing the thing and you’ve got to reach behind your own back, that’s not the easiest position in the world to get into, but when you’ve got a full range of motion…
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I guess I’m still a little nervous, that’s all.”
“Okay,” he says, and we start kissing again.
I press my body into him and grind a little against his hips. He’s so hard beneath me.
“I want to take your panties off,” he says and this time, I’m well aware of the fact that I’m laughing.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I just wasn’t prepared for that. Yeah, take ‘em off.”
“If tonight’s not a good night,” he starts.
“No, no, no,” I tell him. “It is. I’m just a little excited right now, I guess. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says, but the word’s no sooner out of his mouth than I’m bent forward with my face in the bed, trying to catch my breath. “You know,” he says, “it’s kind of hard to stay in the mood when someone’s laughing at you.”
“I know,” I heave, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just now that I’m trying not to laugh, it’s making me laugh more. It’s not you, I promise.”
“Maybe tonight isn’t such a good night,” he tells me.
I might try to stop him if I could rein in my hysterics. I know exactly why I’m laughing: this whole thing, fantasy or not, is just so uncomfortable that there’s nothing else for me to do. I’m sure if I were to just stick it out, I might end up having a nice time, but it’s pretty clear that we’re past the event horizon.
“Call me sometime when things are a little more settled,” he says. “Have a good night.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I really am. I hope you don’t think I was laughing at you. I really wasn’t.”
“Thanks,” he says, and after getting dressed more quickly than anyone I’ve ever seen, he’s out of the bedroom.
I contain myself long enough to walk him out the rest of the way, but as soon as the door’s closed behind him, I’m on the floor with my back to the door, curled up and laughing.
It’s not a mystery. I know exactly what I want and what I need. I can only hope that he’s still awake right now. It’s after 2 o’clock in the morning.
* * *
So it’s after 4 now, and I can’t sleep.
I called Dane, but he didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep, but I can’t help feeling that he just didn’t want to take the call.
As odd as it may sound, I’m actually wishing I could go back to embarrassing the crap out of myself in front of a guy who I would have made posters of and dreamed about only a few months ago.
I left Dane a message. It wasn’t much, but it should communicate my meaning.
“Hey, Dane, this is Leila. I’m sorry about the way I left, and well, for a lot of things, but I really do miss you and wanted to let you know that I’m done ignoring your calls. Anyway, I hope you’re having a good night. Bye.”
Not over the top, but enough. Except I’m the one who left and I’m the one who blinked first. I know that shouldn’t matter, but I feel like I’ve just been toying with him.
I haven’t been toying with him. I honestly thought that me moving and him staying there meant there was no hope for us as a couple, but if he’s feeling half of what I’m still feeling toward him—I don’t know, it’s got to be worth the risk.
I fall asleep and have some of the strangest dreams I’ve ever had. When I wake up, my head is spinning.
It’s still dark and my phone is ringing.
I reach over to the nightstand and answer.
“Hello?”
“Shit, did I wake you?”
I sit straight up in bed. “Dane?”
“Leila,” he says. “I got your message.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I tell him. “I know it was late, and I was kind of drunk.”
The line is quiet for a few seconds.
“Oh.”
“What’s up?”
“Oh,” he says. “I just got your message and wanted to call and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing okay,” I tell him.
It’s funny, I’ve spent so much time pretending that I wasn’t hoping for a moment like this and now that it’s here, I have no clue what to say.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I’m all right,” he says. “I’m just hanging out with Wrigley.”
Suddenly I’m beginning to understand why he actually called. He doesn’t want to talk about getting back together or anything like that at all. He just wants to make me feel like shit for leaving him the way I did.
Maybe I deserve it, maybe not, but I’m in no mood for it.
“Well, that sounds great,” I tell him, and hang up the phone.
I walk out to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. With a sigh, I open the cupboard and pull out the little bottle of ibuprofen and take a couple.
Now, I’m walking back toward my bedroom, and I can hear the phone ringing, only this time, I’m not so thrilled about the idea of answering it.
The ringing stops and I lie back down, setting the water on the nightstand.
A moment later, the phone rings again, startling me into sitting up again. I silence the ringer and just lie back down.
I don’t want to hear about how he and Wrigley “rediscovered” each other or about how much fun they’re having together. If he doesn’t want to be with me, that’s fine, but I’m not going to sit here and listen while he rubs it in my face.
You know what? I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. I pick up the phone.
He’s calling again.
That’s as good an opportunity as I’m going to get, so I answer.
“Listen, I get that you’re pissed at me, but I don’t know what kind of nerve you have, calling me up to tell me that you’re back with her. I still care about you, Dane, and I know I hurt you. I know that what I did was wrong, but that doesn’t give you carte blanche to throw your relationship in my face. I mean, who do you think you—”
&nb
sp; “I don’t care that you live in another state, I want to be with you.”
“—are, seriously. What kind of asshole…” I trail off. “What did you just say?”
“I said that I don’t care if you live in New Jersey and I live in New York. I love you, and I want us to be together. I can’t move right now. I have to finish getting Wilks ready to take l’Iris, but I’ll buy a car, I’ll take the bus. I don’t care. I want to have you in my life, and I don’t ever want to go another day without seeing you. Ever.”
“What about Wrigley?” I ask. “I thought you said you were back with her.”
“No,” he says. “I’m hanging out with her. I was stupid not telling you that I’d do anything, even go long distance for a while, just as long as it meant that we could be together. Wrigley helped me get past all my bullshit and realize that. I know we have a lot more to learn about each other, but if you’re willing, I’d love to give us another shot. I really think we have something unique and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
Wrigley as couple’s therapist: that’s an unexpected development.
“Leila?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here.”
“What do you think?”
Hmm… What do I think?
Epilogue
Two Years Later
Leila
The groom is anxious as he waits for the rest of the procession to come forward so his bride can enter. This is the biggest moment of his life, and that feeling isn’t lost on him.
After what feels like hours of waiting, the best man and I make it to the front. The best man gives the groom a hug and then smiles at me. Throughout these years, I’ve enjoyed helping the groom get to this place more than almost anyone else. Anyone except the woman he’s going to marry.
The music changes and everyone stands.
The groom is starting to sweat.
His wife-to-be is stunning in her dress. It’s classy, but just revealing enough to get a couple of the parents in attendance to cover their children’s eyes.
The groom smiles when he sees this.
Today isn’t one of those things that just happened overnight. It took a lot of hard work and a lot of luck, but it’s clear enough that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be in the world.
The bride gets to the front and stands across from her fiancé.
She can see the nervousness in his body language, but she doesn’t seem worried. He smiles at her sweetly and she smiles back.
The judge starts the ceremony.
“Love is a powerful thing,” the judge says. “It can lift us up and it can make us feel and do things we didn’t know were possible. When two people love each other, as you do, every one of us finds ourselves uplifted.”
The judge is a bit long-winded, but the bride and the groom are too busy staring into their futures to mind.
“…we are here to celebrate the love of these two people, who have brought all of us together…”
After a solid 10 minutes of monologue by the judge, the best man nudges the groom, whispering, “Are you ready for this?”
The groom whispers back, “I’ve never been more ready for anything.”
“…now, take the ring and put it on her finger, repeating after me, I, Michael Jason Nielson…”
“I, Michael Jason Nielson,” the groom repeats.
The judge continues, “Do take you, Wrigley Samantha Moirea—Moire—Moireas—”
“Do take you, Wrigley Samantha Moireasdanach,” Mike jumps in.
“I’ve been practicing that all morning,” the judge says. “My apologies.”
The stumble is good for a laugh.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife,” the judge concludes.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife,” Mike says, slipping the finger onto Wrigley’s hand.
“And would you repeat after me, I, Wrigley Samantha, please state your last name.”
Wrigley’s smile is wide and beautiful and she giggles as she repeats, “I, Wrigley Samantha Moireasdanach.”
“Do take you, Michael Jason Nielson.”
“Do take you, Michael Jason Nielson.”
“To be my lawfully wedded husband.”
“To be my lawfully wedded husband.”
She puts the ring onto Mike’s finger and the two hold hands.
“Now, by the power vested in me by the state of New York, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
The two kiss and make their way back down the aisle, now as husband and wife. There may have been an order to the procession coming in, but on the way out, everyone just clamors to follow the newlyweds.
At the reception, an hour later, the best man sees me sitting at the bar, nursing a drink.
“That was a beautiful service,” he says.
“Yeah, it was really nice,” I answer.
“So, have you known the bride and groom for very long?” he asks.
“I’ve known the bride for a few years,” I answer. “The groom and I actually go way back.”
“Ah,” he says. “So today’s kind of bittersweet for you, then.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “it sounds like the two of you have some history.”
“Oh, no,” she scoffs. “It’s nothing like that. We’re just old friends.”
“What are you drinking?” he asks.
“A tequila sunrise,” I answer. “I don’t drink that much anymore, but when I do, I don’t know if it’s the taste or the colors, but I just love these.”
“Mind if I sit with you a while?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“You know what I think is funny about weddings?” he asks.
“What’s that?”
“It’s so much buildup and the ceremony is always over so quickly.”
“I don’t know: that judge went on for quite a while. I’m pretty sure that at one point he compared love to a tollbooth.”
“Yeah,” he snickers. “I think I remember that part.”
“So, you’re saying you’d never want to get married?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he answers. “I mean, I can understand the draw. I guess I just haven’t found the woman of my dreams yet.”
“Really?” I ask, smiling. “You look like the kind of guy who’s found dozens of women of his dreams.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he scoffs.
“It’s the tattoos,” I tell him. “They kind of paint you as a degenerate.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know that I’ve caught your name. Both the bride and groom told me, but I’m just terrible when it comes to people I haven’t had a conversation with.”
“Leila,” I answer. “Leila Tyler.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Dane Paulson. You know, I used to know a woman named Leila. She was into some pretty weird shit.”
I smack him on the arm and say, “I bet she was not.”
“No,” he says, chuckling. “She totally was. She used to have this weird ass fantasy about being picked up in a bar by her significant other.”
“I think that sounds very romantic,” I say.
“Yeah, if you’re weird,” Dane answers.
“You’re pushing it,” I warn, but my smile breaks through. “What are you drinking?”
“I don’t know,” Dane answers. “To be honest, I’m not very thirsty right now.”
“Oh? I would imagine a guy like you would be going insane over an open bar.”
“Not really,” he says. “I find people who drink to be rather boring. You know they only drink to put on the illusion that they’re interesting.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I mock.
“That’s not why I came over here, anyway.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Why’d you come over here, then?”
“Because I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, and I know this may sound a little forward, but would you like to find a closet somewhere and fuck like bunnie
s?”
“A little forward?” I snort. “Does that line ever work?”
“At least once,” Dane answers, “I’m hoping.”
I down my drink.
“You know what?” I ask, “why not. Maybe I can teach you a few things. You come off a little inexperienced with women.”
“I am,” Dane says, and takes my hand.
I walk in front of him for fairly obvious reasons, but we’re delayed a minute when the bride and groom rush over, arms outstretched.
“Help me,” Dane whispers. “Wriggles,” he says, turning just enough to hug Wrigley with his upper body while I generously ease my butt against his front while I hug Mike.
“Dane!” Wrigley squeals. “I’m married!”
“I know! Congratulations! You two are going to have such a wonderful life together.”
“Thank you,” she says, and leans into his ear. “Real smooth with the positioning there, chief. I’m sure nobody’s figured it out.”
She gives him a kiss on the cheek and a moment later, she’s putting her arms around me, ever so gently, but ever so effectively moving me just far enough away from Dane to expose his rather embarrassing situation.
With gritted teeth and a smile, he casually rests his hands over the offending bulge in his pants and says, “Thanks, Wrigley. I’m so glad you guys came over.”
“Hey Dane, thanks for standing with me today,” Mike says.
“It was an honor,” Dane answers.
Fortunately for Dane, Mike is happy enough with a handshake.
“Well,” I say, “I’ve got to head out to the, uh—”
“The car,” Dane interrupts. “She forgot something, and I’m going to help her look for it.”
“Don’t forget to lift the hood,” Wrigley says, beaming.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Dane says. “Congratulations, you two.”
We make their way through the reception hall and find the nearest unlocked door without anyone inside the room.
It’s a small room, full of flowers.
“Do you think Wrigley’s going to mind if we do it in the bridal suite?”
“I don’t mind,” Dane tells me, and we’re locked in a passionate kiss.
“Help me get my dress off,” I say.
“Leave it on,” Dane answers.
“Pantyhose?” I ask.
“Dealer’s choice,” he answers, kissing my neck and chest.