The Real

by Kate Stewart

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Are things about to get freaky? If so, babe, you need to let me limber up—”

  “Hold that thought,” Anthony said, cupping her mouth as his face turned crimson. A chuckle was heard, and Bree paused her footing. “I just heard my nana laugh. Anthony, what is happening?”

  When he had her centered where he needed her, he took a step back. “Okay, babe, now.” She removed her blindfold as we all watched.

  She looked into the faces of her small wedding party and handpicked guests and tilted her head. “Uh, hi . . .” she said with a weak smile before she looked back at her groom. “Anthony?”

  “I told you I was taking you someplace you’d never been before.”

  Bree, true to form, looked back at him with irritation. “This is my backyard.”

  He chuckled as he twisted her to the right and the crowd parted.

  Her gasp was audible. Her eyes filled with tears as the photographer took a few snaps and then smiled at them. “It’s our place,” she said as she moved toward the cascading waterfall and down the intricately placed path that resembled the legendary stone wake with aqua water flowing in the center.

  “The fairy pools,” Anthony said as he slid his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. “It’s beautiful.” The crowd parted again on the left side of the backyard and Bree’s eyes bulged. “Oh my God, Japan!”

  Anthony guided her over to the wood walk and fawned over the intricately laid Zen garden. It was stunning. Japan was my favorite. She leaned down and trailed her fingers along the empty koi pond and looked at him in question.

  “April is too cold for fish. The ground barely thawed enough for us to get this done.” Her eyes filled with tears as the photographer took a few snaps and then wiped a tear from her own eye. Anthony admired his design as the cluster of guests watched on while Bree turned to her love.

  “Baby, how did you pull this off?”

  “Like I said, you’ve never been to your backyard.”

  Everyone chuckled as she palmed her forehead. It was no secret Bree wasn’t much of a housekeeper, let alone a gardener. Her idea of weed eating was winter. But I had to admit it was a genius idea, even as Anthony spoke the words.

  “We may not always be able to go on these amazing trips. Life might get in the way. We’ll have a baby, maybe two,” he added pointedly, hopeful. “But we’ll have this to help us remember.”

  “Anthony,” Bree said, completely stunned. “I’m . . .”

  He leaned in and kissed her ring finger. “I just wanted you to know it’s adventure enough just to be your husband. And I’m never going back to Thailand.”

  Everyone laughed as she flew into his waiting arms. “I love you so much,” she whispered before she pressed a fiery kiss to his mouth. “This is perfect. I don’t need anything else.”

  “So, I can cancel our trip to Spain?”

  “Hell no, when do we leave?”

  Oh my God, I’m at another wedding reception in a bridesmaid dress eating another third piece of cake. Fuck you, life! Seriously, FUCK YOU!

  “Would you care to dance?”

  “No,” I said without glancing the man’s way. He’d been eyeing me all day. I knew it was coming. I think his name was Berry or Harry or Larry, some -arry that I didn’t even want to attempt to get to know.

  After endless weeks of crying my eyes out and five very well-shaken martinis, the cynic was back and in full effect. “I absolutely do not want to dance with you.”

  “Wow,” Berry Harry Larry remarked of my nasty candor.

  “Yeah, wow, I would apologize but this is my behavior pattern now. It’s never going to end. Cut your losses and run, man, fucking run for your life!” I whisper-yelled sarcastically.

  His amusement at my sarcasm rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn’t Cameron’s, and still, Berry Harry Larry, stood there smirking until I finally glanced up at him. Cute, clean cut, decent smile. I narrowed my eyes.

  I’ve got your number, asshole. “Please, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, fuck off.”

  My mother scowled at me in the distance, ever the scorekeeper, and I gave her two sarcastic thumbs up.

  I was on a roll.

  “Jesus,” the guy said, giving me the you’re a bitch look I deserved before he took off, justly mortified. I looked around quickly in a did I just ruin Bree’s wedding panic? The answer was no, everyone was smiling, dancing, or eating cake. And most of these people would probably have sex tonight.

  “Not me,” I muttered as I shoved cake into my face while I prayed for lightning to strike me and end my misery.

  All I wanted was to be part of a we. Was that so hard?

  Why in the hell does everyone else seem to be able to do this but me?

  Pity party, table of one, let the fucking frosting licking commence.

  I downed every glass of passed champagne offered as I ate my way through the reception, furious at my predicament.

  I did have it. I did find a man to love and he was married. Married, a little jaded, and a whole lot stupid with his omission, but I had him. A real man with a good heart who gave so much of himself it didn’t matter what he got back, who’d met my crazy, embraced it, and found it endearing. A man who’d braved my oral surgery dragon breath and told me I was beautiful, a man who was worthy in every way of my time and attention. A man who knew the clitoris wasn’t a fictional character but a best friend he conversed with like an expert linguist. A man who dedicated his life to the happiness of others.

  Okay, maybe that was too much of a stretch, but he dedicated himself to making me happy. And I slapped him for it. I slapped him without letting him explain himself or getting answers I deserved to the questions I didn’t ask.

  Was Bree, right? Was our love made in the gray area? And did we have enough of it left to see it for what it truly was when it came into the light?

  In the grand scheme of us, his baggage didn’t fit in. He’d checked it at the door and tried to keep it there as I had mine.

  Maybe it wasn’t real, or I wanted it so much I turned a blind eye to everything else, every clue he gave me that he wasn’t a surreal creature in some mystical fairy tale where nothing bad happened. But whatever we created turned into something that became the truth of who we were together.

  We never denied who we were in the moment as we vowed. We didn’t change ourselves to suit our relationship. Our relationship evolved out of the truest version of us. We created our own little universe where we could be exactly who we wanted with each other.

  We had it. And we lost it.

  To dull the bitter taste of defeat I tossed back more vodka and champagne and stuffed a puff pastry in my mouth.

  “Oh, baby. You’re going to puke,” my mother whispered as she took a seat next to me. “Have you called him yet?”

  “No,” I said, chewing on the sweet steak and onion gravy. She was right. At some point, I was going to puke. I shoved another pastry in.

  “It’s time to talk to him. It’s past time.”

  “I’m just delaying it. Okay. Delay of game. Timeout. I’m still so screwed up and pissed off I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say what you feel,” she said, grabbing the champagne out of my hand before I could take another drink. I had my mother’s eyes and mouth and my father’s red hair and temper. My mother was always reasonable, a trait I really wished I’d genetically inherited, especially at times like these.

  I shoved another beef-filled pastry in my mouth. “Atta girl,” my mom said as we leaned in together and I smiled for the camera with a mouthful of meat.

  “You are being a horrible shit. And you’re too old to throw these tantrums.”

  “I know, Mom. I should be more refined at weddings when I have a pony barrette in my hair,” I sassed.

  Clean up on aisle five, bitter old maid in a bridesmaid dress.

  “Hey,” Anthony said, insulted about the barrette comment as he pulled his wife to his side, who thumped me on
the head.

  “Sorry,” I said sheepishly in an attempt to save face. “I was being a shit to my mom. Not knocking the barrette. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Anthony said, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “I mean it, thank you for today.”

  “My pleasure. I love you both so much,” I said in an attempt to sway my mood in a better direction.

  Bree gripped my mother’s hand. “Nancy, dance with me?”

  “I’d be honored,” she said, taking leave of her chair as Anthony sat next to me. “Where’s your brother?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think I saw him tackle a bridesmaid with a favor kit.”

  He chuckled. “What’s a wedding without a little love tackle kit.”

  “I can’t believe you let her get away with mini bottles of lube and condoms as wedding favors.”

  Anthony was handsome in his tux—dark olive skin, kind brown eyes, and a perfect match for Bree. “I would let her get away with a whole lot worse, but don’t tell her I said so.”

  “I’ll keep it under wraps.” I tapped my temple.

  His eyes focused on me as I fiddled with one of the starched napkins. “Are you okay?”

  “Nope, not at all, not even a little bit. I’m not even going to say with time or tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. You get no timeline. I may be that sloppy drunk a year from now who tells too many ‘you remember when’ stories like my prime has already passed, cries to her cats, and makes love to couch cushions.”

  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Anthony said with a frown.

  “Those poor cushions,” I said, catching a tear of both irony and sadness. I’d come full circle and I was officially drunk.

  “You are sleeping here tonight,” he said firmly.

  “My mom has me. HA! That’s even sadder!” I proclaimed as a few heads turned in our direction.

  “Sadder,” Anthony agreed with an amused grin.

  “The saddest.”

  Anthony winced.

  “Okay, I can see the groom light dying in your eyes. Let’s cheer you up.”

  “I’m sorry, Abbie,” he said sincerely. “I really liked him.”

  I paused my snarky reply. “Don’t do that. Don’t be sincere and all adorable about my broken heart. I’ll be okay.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I’m devastated beyond repair,” I said dryly.

  We stared at each other for a full ten seconds with straight faces before we burst into laughter.

  “I thought you were serious.”

  “I am, come dance with me.”

  Anthony looked at me cautiously. “You’re nuts.”

  “I was born in a sanitarium,” I pointed out without hesitation.

  Oh, Cameron, how you freed me.

  “Explains a lot,” he said. “The prettiest women are often the craziest.”

  I pushed another stray tear from my eye. “That explains why your wife is a nut job.”

  “Pretty much.”

  I felt Bree’s elbow dig into my ribs and let out a ticklish laugh as she passed us on the carefully laid dance floor in the middle of her yard, my mother in her arms. My mother, though unamused with my behavior, egged me on. “I love her more than you at the moment.”

  “You two can go straight to hell,” I said with a smile plastered on my face.

  Anthony led me to the dance floor with a chuckle. “I really love the three of you together.”

  “Meh, we only let my mom in because she’s a good cook. Oof,” I said as my mother elbowed me. “Kidding, Mom. Shit, I need that to breathe.”

  “Would you please try to act like a lady tonight?” she hissed my way as we all danced in the tight space.

  I refused to let it go. “Your adopted daughter is passing out lube and French ticklers as wedding gifts.” My mother’s eyes widened as she smiled at Bree with delight. “Oh, remind me to grab one of those before I leave.”

  “It’s always the blonds that get away with shit in this family!” I said with an eye roll.

  “Watch your mouth,” my mother scolded as Bree stuck out her tongue.

  “You have gotten a little worse, sailor,” Anthony commented.

  “I know,” I said, remembering how Cameron loved my filthy mouth. “It’s unattractive, right?”

  “Nah, I just wanted to give you shit too, but it seems to be backfiring on me tonight.”

  “Hey, I should be consoling you. Have you seen the feet on your bride? Jesus.”

  I felt two asses simultaneously bump into mine as “Shake Your Groove Thing” began to play. My mother looked like an old lady trying to dance, and I couldn’t help but notice her age as she did her best to get me to move with her. Taking off my heels, I gave in and joined my two favorite women in the world while my heart was still slipping away from me piece by piece, filtering in the air above me, calling like a siren to its owner who had disappeared like he’d never existed.

  Ask a hundred people what love means to them and you’ll get a hundred different answers. I suspect most of them will say it has something to do with comfort or safety. But that’s false.

  That’s what God is for.

  Maybe in the afterlife of firsts; first look, first kiss, first year, comfort and safety come into play, but the initial feeling should make you scared and more than uncomfortable. It should terrify you to lose it.

  Most people don’t know that. In fact, I bet only a handful of those hundred have ever felt it. And that makes those who haven’t had it envious, but that can be dangerous too.

  A lot of people covet freedom but have no idea what to do with it once it’s earned and then find they were better off without it.

  I think the same thing applies to love. The kind that can change you and twist you into a better person all for the affection of someone else. It’s both a gift and a curse and it has the power to elate you as well as leave you destitute within seconds. Because nothing that feels so good could ever, should ever, start feeling so bad. But, that’s the way of it. It’s the most powerful of emotions, therefore those who are gifted it should have the most powerful of consequences if it’s left unattended or taken for granted.

  And I did.

  I was guilty. I had too much faith in our relationship and I ignored the threatening undercurrent in time to save us both from being swept away.

  I needed her. I needed to believe there was more for me. For us both.

  I was living with the consequences with every breath I took while my days blurred with the loss of her.

  And still I’ll tell you she was worth it.

  Because she was.

  Every second, every minute I stole with her was worth the hell I was tossed back into without her.

  She slapped me. Most men wouldn’t think anything of it, but with her it was my breaking point and it was no secret why. At least for me. Abbie was still in the dark.

  I scared her with my reluctance to tell her the why, when all I wanted to do was erase the wall before it erected between us.

  How much I’d fucked up.

  When I tried everything in my power to save my marriage it still collapsed, and so had my shot of happiness with Abbie’s refusal to believe I was a worthy man. A man better than just some philandering asshole who didn’t think one woman was enough. But Abbie was enough.

  She was overabundance.

  In the entirety of my life, all I knew was that I wanted to be seen as a worthy man. That had been my only goal, in my marriage, in my business, in my friendships as a coach and in my relationship with Abbie. It was instilled in me by my mother, it was my foundation.

  From the time I was young enough to know better to the day she left us. I needed her, and she wasn’t there. I needed her when my marriage fell apart, when my life spiraled out of control because of it. And I needed her then, as I stood at her grave, looking down at the granite etched letters of the name of my best friend and compass. I’d relived the last day I was with her too many times and yet not enough to
figure out what to do when there were no more words. No more direction. I wondered how many other cancer orphans wandered around aimlessly seeking answers to questions they forgot to ask.

  “You can’t be here son. We agreed,” my father said softly as I approached her bedroom door. In that moment, I hated him for trying to take her from me. But when I looked at him, all I saw was a man defeated. He was losing her too, and it showed in the lines covering the face mine mirrored. But I had her eyes and I knew it was painful to look at me. I was a product of her and I think, in a way, that fact hurt him too. Mark Bledsoe was a man’s man, full of pride and quick to anger. The only tenderness he revealed was when it came to his wife. Despite the fact that I mostly played every sport in some search for misplaced approval, she was what we had in common. It was our love of the games that kept us civil, but it was always her that held us together. What would we be without her?

  “I’ll never forgive you for this,” I said through gritted teeth. “If you do this I’ll never forgive you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.”

  His jaw set as he studied me. “This isn’t about us.”

  “I know.”

  “Then respect her wishes.”

  “She’s still here,” I said choking on my words. “Jesus, Dad, don’t take this away from me. Please.”

  “You need to go.”

  “Mark,” we heard her call from behind the door. “Let him in.”

  He let out a harsh breath and studied me before he opened the door. The hospice nurse hung another bag of fluids and made quick leave and my Dad shut the door behind her. My mother sat in the middle of her bedroom which seemed unbelievably bare with only a hospital bed centered in the middle of it. Everything about it seemed wrong.

  She was wearing a yellow knit cap that her sister had made for her and her favorite robe. Her body was void of life, her thin frame withering beneath the thin sheet draped over her. My eyes stung as she held out her hand, her fingers skeleton. I bit back every sound threatening to escape.