by Sarina Bowen
After a whole lot of silence that’s starting to verge on the awkward, he calls, “Why do you have to be any certain thing? Why can’t you just...be Meg?”
“Yeah, but which Meg?”
“All the Meg!” he says. “You’re perfect just as you are.” He says those words. Out loud. And I hear them.
I could do a lot of things right now. I could call him on it. Point it out. I could celebrate.
But that’s not the way to go with Maguire. He has to come to realizations on his own, and that could take some time.
Still, the compliment hits me right in the tits. I’m perfect just as I am, huh? I smile to myself just as he starts to backtrack. He’s a little on the frantic side now when he says: “I mean, you don’t have to be anything really. I asked you to go originally to make my brother and sister-in-law a little, I dunno, jealous. But that’s not really the point now, I guess. Really, I just want you there…”
It sounds like he could stop right there. Put a period on the sentence. I just want you there would be lovely. But no. The ass has to keep going.
“...I just want you there to take some of the pressure off. Show my parents and my siblings that I’m doing just fine.”
I poke my head out the door so he can’t see me yet. “You are doing just fine.”
“I know, I know. But I could be finer.”
I decide now is the time for the big reveal. I walk out and twirl around. I’m wearing a soft marigold-colored dress, made of a crepey silk that catches the air when I twirl. It’s got spaghetti straps and I’m not being vain when I say my tits look amazing in this dress. That’s just a fact. It glides around my waist and then flares out. This is a dress that I spent hours searching for and when I stepped out of the dressing room, Aubrey and Cassidy both sighed. I think Aubrey cried a little. This dress is that good.
“Be the Meg that wears that dress,” he says. His voice is a little less frantic now, and has more than a hint of desire in it. Then he reaches for me. “Come here,” he says.
“You cannot touch this dress. Not until the wedding.”
“Come here,” he pleads. “Let me touch you in that dress.”
“Nope,” I say.
“Meg, dammit. I have to touch you now. Can you see what you do to me?” He nods to his cock. It’s magnificent standing straight up like that.
“You can’t touch the dress,” I say, “but you can touch me. But only with that.” Now I nod to his cock.
“Fair,” he says. He spreads his arms and legs and just waits for me to climb on.
So I do.
For the third time today.
MAGUIRE
Where is my brain? Where is it? I ask myself as we lie in bed together after sex.
Oh yeah. It exploded along with my third orgasm with Meg this morning.
I don’t understand what she’s doing to me, and I hope she never stops.
So when she asks me what kind of girlfriend I want for the wedding, I’m honestly confused. What kind of girlfriend? I just want Meg.
And that, my friend, kicks me in the gut. It has the ring of truth to it.
I need to backpedal the fuck out of this realization about wanting Meg, but how? I could tell her that she doesn’t need to be my date for the wedding.
But honestly, I want her to come with me.
So I’m just going to do some breathing exercises like Lance suggested and see if I can just tamp those thoughts down. I don’t need a girlfriend. I need a FWFB. (A friend with frisky benefits.) And Meg is the best one in the world. Hands down.
I finally leave her apartment and slink over to my place for a shower and a quick bite of breakfast before I start my shift. I made toast and a couple of eggs, and all the while I’m eating, I’m aware of Meg next door. What is she doing? Is she wearing one of her silky robes? Is she rearranging those damned decorative pillows? Is she touching herself, thinking about me?
Arggggg!!!
Why is she still in my brain?
I have things to do today. Big things. I’m actually meeting with my supervisor for the final interview for the promotion I want. I need to focus on that, and then I’ll have the next four days off and I won’t need to focus at all.
The interview will change my life. Or it won’t.
And I need to think about the wedding too.
Maybe at the wedding, when she’s pretending to be more than a friend, I can just pretend she’s mine. Like a real couple. Maybe I can own that for a bit. Just, you know, to try it on.
Then again, that’s not fair to Meg. None of this is. I’m not an idiot. She’s hoping for more. I can see it in her eyes. She deserves it, too.
If I were capable of being the man she needs, I’d be that guy. I really would.
I finish my eggs and head to work. And I think about Meg the whole way there.
22 Is Someone Cutting an Onion?
Maguire
“To love, honor, and cherish. As long as we both shall live,” Rosie says in a pure, sweet voice. And I hastily wipe my eyes.
“Everything okay over there?” Meg whispers.
“Yep. Hay fever season or something.” I sniff.
“You are so fucking cute,” she whispers back to me. “Don’t ever change.”
As if I could.
And that’s the special magic of weddings, right? Change. All that serious language about two souls joining into one. Irrevocably, forever and ever. There’s no room in the wedding ceremony for uncertainty. That’s why I’m never getting married. I’m not wired for that kind of optimism.
Not anymore, anyway.
I just watched my baby sister make the biggest decision of her life, and she did it with a big smile on her face. Some people make their own optimism, the way plants make sunshine into food.
Up in front, Rosie is still smiling. This marriage feels right to her, and who am I to argue? Man, my little sister is truly grown up now. I think I feel some more hay fever coming on. Or is someone in this church cutting an onion?
“Kwan, you may kiss the bride.”
“She’s so beautiful,” my mother sobs from down the pew. “My baby!”
After a big smooch that I can’t really watch (a big brother just can’t) the newly married Rosie prances back up the aisle, hand in hand with the world’s luckiest man. He doesn’t deserve her, but only because nobody could.
“That was beautiful,” Meg says with a sigh. Since she’s on the end of the pew, she stands up first. “Weddings always make me feel so dreamy.”
“That’s how I feel about whiskey,” I mutter, following her.
“I know, big guy.” Meg pokes me in the side. “I’ve got you covered.”
“Because it’s time for the drinking?”
“No. Because it’s time for the photography.”
“So? A few photos won’t kill me, right?”
She glances at me, her beautiful face knowing. “Oh, honey. Not if I have anything to say about it. But the photos are always a trial.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. But here’s something pleasant for you to think about while you’re taking them.” She leans close and whispers in my ear. “I’m not wearing any panties under this dress.”
“Wait, really?” My eyes skim down her curves, clad in captivating silk, in a soft orange color. And, dammit, I can’t tell if she’s teasing.
Meg shrugs, smiling. “Let’s go. Time for those photos.”
Meg knows things that I don’t. Like how TV shows are filmed. How to survive on takeout food and mixed drinks. And, apparently, how weddings work.
Nothing in my life up to this point has prepared me for the hell that awaits me outside the church.
My mother had mentioned “a few photos” after the wedding. That’s like calling an Iron Man race “a little stroll.” First the photographer insists on a dozen shots of my sister with Kwan. And then with her bridesmaids. And his groomsmen. And then the whole lot of them.
And then there’s the photographer, who seems t
o shout every word she says. The woman is like a walking megaphone. “BIG SMILES! GROOM, TILT YOUR CHIN TO THE LEFT!”
It hurts the ears.
The only saving grace is that my brother is nowhere in evidence. I’m no good at small talk with anyone, let alone the brother who betrayed me and the woman who was my fiancée before she became his wife.
“Knock knock,” Meg says.
I give her a grumpy look.
“Come on, Mac. Go with it. The night won’t be any easier when we’re all stuck on a boat together. Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?” I say from between gritted teeth.
“Butch and Jimmy.”
“Butch and Jimmy who?”
“Butch your arms around me and Jimmy a big kiss,” she says, flinging her arms out to the sides.
I laugh in spite of myself. “That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” But the girl is waiting, so I grab her, lean her over backwards, and give her a big kiss while she shrieks.
When I stand up, suddenly Morris and Julie are right there, watching us.
My smile dies on my face. But Meg’s smile only widens. “Well hello! Who could you be?” She holds out a hand to my asshole brother immediately, before there’s time for an awkward pause to even develop.
Hell, did I pick the right date or what? Meg is magic. Morris and Julie sort of stare at Meg with slack-jawed wonder as she introduces herself and puts them both at ease.
I know I have to say something to them. So I guess now is as good a time as any. “Morris, Julie,” I say stiffly. “How have you been?”
“Oh, fine,” Julie says quickly, inspecting her hands.
“I’d catch you up,” Morris says. “But it’s tricky to summarize ten years, you know?”
And I am speechless. I wasn’t expecting hostility from the guy who broke my life into shards and stomped on them.
“NOW THE BRIDE’S FAMILY!” the photographer yells from up front.
“Oh, that’s you!” Meg chirps. She actually swats me on the ass. “Get up there, honey. Smile wide for Rosie’s pictures.”
I go, only because I can’t wait to be done with this.
The first photo is of my parents, Rosie, and my brother and I on opposite sides. Not a big deal. Although they shoot it eight times anyway. “LOOK UP HERE! LOOK AT THE TREE! SAY ‘POISON PICKLES’!”
“Dude, that is just wrong,” Meg argues from just behind her.
“IT’S UNIQUE!” the photographer cries.
“YOU TERRIFY ME!” Meg shouts and my entire extended family laughs.
“NOW THE TWINS AND THE BRIDE!” the photographer screams.
I feel like screaming, too.
“ONE TWIN ON EITHER SIDE.”
“That’s the pose we need anyway,” Morris says. “My brother wouldn’t stand next to me.”
“Morris,” Julie gasps.
“What? It’s just honest,” my brother growls.
I sidestep my brother and slide over to Rosie’s side. “You look beautiful,” I tell her. “Your makeup is still perfect even after fifty pictures.”
She takes my arm in hers. “Keep it up. Flattery works.”
“SMILE, DAMMIT!” the photographer yells. “PRETEND YOU LOVE EACH OTHER.”
“I’m sure that’s a funny little joke in most families,” Julie says from somewhere nearby. Then she heaves a sigh.
“Oh dear,” Rosie whispers.
I smile like my life depends on it. Because I can’t wait to get the fuck away from here. The shutter clicks eagerly, and the photographer dismisses us.
“BUT STAY CLOSE,” she yells. “WE’RE NOT DONE.”
Fuck.
My brother stomps a few feet away. He’s actually shooting me angry looks.
My blood pressure doubles immediately.
That’s when Meg’s pinky finger hooks into mine. “Somebody needs a hug and a shot of whiskey.”
“Since I can’t have the second thing, I’ll take a double of the first,” I grumble.
“Why Macklin! You sweet talker.” Meg steps into my personal space and wraps her luscious arms around me. “You’re doing great,” she whispers.
“No, you are,” I whisper back, squeezing her a little tighter.
“I wasn’t kidding about the whiskey,” she returns. “I have a flask.”
“Shut the front door!” I hiss.
“It’s true.”
“You are a total babe.”
She releases me and then opens her purse. “Tell me something I don’t know.” She pulls out a flask that’s studded with pink rhinestones. It looks like something that Miss Piggy might have designed.
“I think if you put whiskey in a flask like that, it changes into schnapps.”
She slaps my hand. “Don’t harsh on my flask. It amuses me.”
I catch myself smiling even before I take a swig. “You amuse me.” I tip the flask and take a swallow of single malt. “You’re a genius as well as a total babe.”
“NOW THE FAMILY AGAIN,” bellows the photographer.
I trudge back into the fray and allow the loudmouthed photographer to arrange me next to my mother and Aunt Lucille.
“Show me some leg, Mac!” Meg cheers from the sidelines. “Work it, hot stuff!”
“I really like her,” Aunt Lucille says with a sigh. “The next wedding will be yours. I predict it.”
My laughter is explosive. “No fucking way. Because then we’d have to take more of these pictures.”
“Good point, honey.”
I steal another glance at Meg, and I’m surprised to see that Julie is speaking to her. She seems to be asking for something.
Meg removes the flask from her purse and passes it to Julie, who takes a gulp. And then another one.
Jesus Christ, Julie broke my life in half, and now she’s drinking the whiskey that Meg brought as a gift for me. Will the girl stop at nothing?
“NOW WE’LL TRY A HUMAN PYRAMID.”
Like I needed one more reason to never get married.
“You look like you’re marching to your doom,” Meg chides as we walk toward the dock in Grand Haven. “It’s just a party, Mac. You can get back to Hemingway in only a few hours.”
“But I hate parties in general and this one in particular. I am going toward my doom.”
“No, you’re walking toward temporary discomfort. I bet you’re a baby when you get a cold, too.”
“Am not,” I argue. But I totally am.
She smiles at me like she knows the truth.
“Can you believe that bullshit he spewed in the churchyard? Like it’s my fault that we’re never in the same place at the same time?” It took us thirty minutes to drive here from the church, and I thought I’d calmed down. But I’m not calm.
Meg’s hand slips into mine. “My mother has this thing she says whenever my sister or I get upset at someone else’s bullshit. She says, ‘There are other paradigms of logic.’”
“What does that even mean?” I grumble as we approach the line of people waiting to walk up the ramp and onto our floating jail.
“It means that everyone thinks he’s the good guy, even when he’s not. You can’t change your brother. You can only change how upset you are at him.”
“Your mother doesn’t know how angry I still am.” Usually I can just ignore it. But today it’s like a hot coal in the center of my chest.
“I do, though. Honestly when Mom used to say that, I used to slam a few doors to get back at her. Fuck that noise.”
I let out an uncomfortable bark of laughter. “Meg.” I stop on the sidewalk, a few yards short of the ramp.
“What? We’re not bailing now.”
“No,” I admit, turning to her and taking both of her hands in mine. “We’re not bailing. But I just wanted to say thank you ahead of time. Thank you for going to this shit show with me.”
Meg’s eyes go soft. “Hey, you’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.”
“I also need you to know something important.” I l
ean forward and kiss her on the nose. “The best bail bondsman in the city is Biff’s, on Fuller Street.”
Meg giggles. “It won’t come to that.”
“You don’t know for certain.”
She leans against my chest and laughs. “I do, Mac. Let’s go eat some expensive appetizers and drink Hemingway Daiquiris.”
“He liked a nice dry martini, too. Just saying.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just get your very tight butt onto that boat. There’s dancing later.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Tonight you do,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “I told Julie that we were taking ballroom lessons from a nice teacher named Ernesto. And that your pachanga is particularly smooth.”
“What?” I yelp. “I don’t even know what a pachanga is.”
“Me neither! And neither does Julie. So I don’t think it matters.” She beams at me.
“What did you go and do that for?”
“Because I want to dance with you, and this was the only thing I could think of to make that happen.”
“But…”
We are interrupted by a very loud cat whistle. Both of us look up at the deck of the party boat, where my sister is standing in her wedding dress, two fingers in her mouth. “Get on the boat, Mac! Let’s get this party started.”
That’s when I realize that everyone else has boarded already. And so many people are standing up there watching Meg and me that the boat might actually list from their efforts. Fuck. I hate attention.
Meg, however, does not. She holds up one finger in the universal sign for wait a second. Then she stands on her toes and kisses me deeply.
I forget all about the boat for a nice long moment, as Meg’s kiss shifts my mind to other thoughts. Namely—all the fun things we can do after the stupid party is over. I’m going to unzip her silky dress and let it fall to my bedroom floor. I’m going to find out if she was teasing me about going commando under there. Is that really true? Or just a trick to make me wonder…