Never the Bride (19 page)

His hand feels warm over mine. “It’s no problem,” I say.

“I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than listen to my sob story.”

“No, not at all.” I bought him a big steak because I felt sorry for him, but as we sit here and talk, I realize that I feel more than pity.

“I’ve never talked to anyone like this,” he says. “I’ve never felt I could.” Suddenly, as his hand retreats from mine, it knocks over the wine I’m barely drinking. Red liquid splashes all over my shirt. Clay
jumps up and grabs his napkin. “I am so sorry! Here, let me…” He starts to dab at my collar.

“It’s fine. It’s okay.” But I lift my arms and let him dab. It’s kind of a nice moment, actually.

“Oh boy. I’m making a mess out of everything tonight, aren’t I?” He shakes his head and continues to blot.

“Don’t worry about it. Please.”

He slowly sits back in his seat, shaking his head. “You’re going to need to launder that tonight or it will stain.”

Clay always was one for domestic knowledge. He taught me how to iron a cotton shirt.

“Nothing a little Spray ’n Wash can’t handle,” I say. I lean forward and nod toward his steak. “You might want to start on that thing. You’d hate to let a good thing go to waste.”

For the first time, Clay smiles.

Somewhere between steak and cheesecake, the conversation shifts from Gwyne to me. He begins telling me about his deep regret that he’d let me go.

“‘Let me go’? Come on,” I say with a big smile on my face. “How about dumped?”

He grins sheepishly, and instead of going defensive like he used to do, he just nods. “Yeah. That’s probably true.” I’m not kidding, he gets tears in his eyes.

After cheesecake—and on to my second glass of wine—he tells me that he often dreamed about what our life would’ve been like together, even while he was with Gwyne. And then by the time the restaurant closes, we are laughing hysterically and remembering old times.

I slip the key into the door, turn slowly, but it still makes that horrible metal-against-metal grinding noise. And at three o’clock in the morning, it’s like it’s amplifying off the stars.

I push the door open and realize I’m holding my breath. I kind of feel like a burglar or something. And trust me, I know how that feels. Clasping my keys, I lay them gently down on the table next to the door and push the door shut like it’s made of eggshells.

Wow. Things seem darker in the dead of night. I slip off my shoes. My feet are killing me, but nevertheless I tiptoe toward the stairs.

A light clicks on and I whirl around.

Brooklyn sits up from the couch. “Where have you been?”

The question catches me off guard, and I fumble around for some words, accidentally dropping one shoe.

She gets off the couch. “Do you know how worried I’ve been? Do you know what time it is?”

“Is it late?” I squeak.

She crosses her arms. “Don’t give me that.” She’s scrutinizing me, and I’m certain my expression just ratted me out. “Don’t tell me you
just
left Clay.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you.” What am I, channeling Brooklyn here?

“Jessie!” Her mouth is hanging open and her eyes are wide, and I just have to wonder if that’s what I look like at three o’clock in the morning, worried sick. It’s not an attractive look.

I turn and go to the kitchen for some water. “I know what that brain of yours is saying.”

She’s right on my heels. “Eight months of mourning that schmuck! That’s how long it took And he’s just going to do it to you again.”

I fill up the glass and gulp the whole thing back before I answer her. “No. This is different. So totally and completely different.”

“You should hear yourself.” Brooklyn looks genuinely mortified and worried. “Maybe I should try to explain. This is pathetic. Really. I mean, the guy just got dumped during a proposal. Maybe, just maybe, Jess, this guy has some issues that are wrecking his life.”

“Gwyne’s the idiot, not him.” I pour another glass of water. “Look, there’s a reason, okay? There’s something more to this, but if I tell you, you’re going to look at me like I’m half cracked.”

Brooklyn sits
on
the kitchen table, I’m certain just to bug me. “I already think that, so what do you have to lose?”

“You won’t believe me anyway.”

“You never know.”

I slug the water, then slam the glass down on the table like I’ve just done shots. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “Okay,” I say carefully. “This time, with Clay. I gotta tell you…it’s like…it’s like—”

“That stain on your shirt?” Brooklyn says.

“Forget the stain. Listen.”

“I’m sorry. I’m listening. I promise. The stain’s talking to me, but I’m shutting it out. It’s big, though. You know that, right?”

“This thing with Clay, Brooklyn. It’s like…God is setting it up.”

Silence. Then, “I should call Malia.” She reaches for the phone, but I cut her off.

“Please. Just listen.”

Brooklyn looks concerned but backs her hand away from the phone.

I sit on a kitchen chair and pull out another, hoping she’ll get off the table. “Listen. I know this sounds whacked. More than whacked. I thought so too, at first. Especially when He made me give away proposals—”

“Requested.” I hear His footsteps behind me.

“Requested, I mean.” I glance at Him. “I thought…I thought it was to hurt me. But now I see it was to get Clay and me back together. He really fooled me.” I give Him a quick smile. He doesn’t smile back.

Brooklyn is looking into the empty kitchen, then back at me. “He. Fill me in. He who?”

“God.”

“God.”

“God.” I lean back casually. Like this will help it all go down. “Okay, it’s like this. God came to visit me the night you moved back in.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He offered to write my love story.” I gesture for God to sit in the chair Brooklyn is not taking. “And I love what He’s writing.” He remains where He is, leaning against the counter.

Brooklyn hops to the floor and starts pacing. “Okay, God delusions aside, you’re saying you and Clay back together is…is…?”

“Perfect. And so ironic.” I look at God again, hoping for some help, some affirmation. I get none, of course. “God likes irony. I mean, think of all those Bible stories, Brooklyn. Remember that old couple—they were like ninety and didn’t have children—and
bam!
God swung it around and she’s pregnant.”

Brooklyn quits pacing. “You’re pregnant?”

That gets a chuckle from God.

“Brook, stay with me. What I’m saying is that God has a habit of
making things that seem impossible possible. Never in a million years would I have guessed Clay and I would be back together. But I’ve never stopped loving him.”

“That’s not what you said when you found out he was cheating on you.” She finally sits on the chair.

“But Gwyne is out of the picture now. And see, that’s how God does things. He takes a situation and flips it around in an unexpected way.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Or, Clay’s on the rebound and you’re available.”

God suddenly walks out of the kitchen and around the corner. Part of me wants to follow Him, but Brooklyn’s getting red in the face. And so, it seems, am I.

She leans toward me. “Jessie, listen to me. I want you to listen to me, okay? Carefully. God did not visit you and tell you He’d write your love story. I don’t know firsthand, but I think He probably has better things to do with His time.”

I look toward the doorway where God went. “I’m not lying.”

She looks at the doorway too, and then back at me. “That’s what scares me. You really think this is happening.”

“What? I’m not special enough that God would take the time to do something for me?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a convenient excuse for you to get back with a guy who is all wrong for you.”

I stand up. “Really? Like you are in a place to give me relationship advice. How many guys have you lived with in the past four years? And each time, ‘Oh, Jessie, this is the right one.’ How’s that been working for you?”

Brooklyn’s cheeks are the same color as her lips. “Thank you for
that moral judgment.” She stands up. “You can go out with Clay. Give your heart to him a second time. Slap a God label on it if that makes you feel better. Just don’t come crying to me when he smashes your heart all over again.” She turns and stomps out of the kitchen, storming up the stairs.

I throw up my hands. Why even try to convince her? She’s narrow-minded and always has been. Well, not really, but in this case, yes. I notice my hands are shaking, and I try to calm myself down. Brooklyn will see, in time, that this is all okay. Besides, I don’t have to prove anything to her.

I decide to go find God. I’m about to head upstairs when I notice the laundry room light is on. I smile. He’s so into details! Leaving me a little hint to not forget to spray my shirt. I walk in and stop.

He’s sorted my laundry. That’s nice and everything, but why would He sort my—

I take a step back, staring at the whites and darks in their separate piles.

I was supposed to go to the Laundromat. At eight. An uneasiness sets over me as I back out of the laundry room. I turn off the light and shut the door. Why would God have wanted me to leave Clay right when things were just starting to get good? I’m feeling numb as I climb the stairs. I listen for Brooklyn, but the light is out in her room and all is quiet.

I go to the bathroom and stare into the mirror.

Something is calling me. And it’s not His voice. It’s under my bathroom sink. It’s been there for almost three years, untouched and lonely. It’s called me before, but it has never seemed like the right time or for the right reason.

I study myself carefully in the mirror. Is now the right time? Is this the right person? I grin.

Yeah. This is it.

I open the cabinet doors and reach for the box of Nice’n Easy.

I’m whistling, which is odd because I once dated a guy who had this nervous-whistle thing going on and I thought I was going to have to plug his hole. He was a decent whistler but always at the most inappropriate times. I undoubtedly knew he was getting ready to attempt to put his arm around me because he’d start whistling.

The day I broke up with him, I thought the poor guy was going to run out of air.

But I can’t help it, I’m whistling. And bouncing, like my shoes have ADHD. It’s a good morning. I had no idea one could feel this good on so little sleep.

I’ve been running errands this morning, picking up some new fliers and that sort of thing. The weather is nice. Perfect, actually. I swing the door open to the store.

Malia sets down her book. “May I help y—Oh! Jessie!”

I’ve prepared myself for this kind of reaction. I knew it would be shocking. But I twirl around and flip my hair like I’m in a shampoo commercial. “What do you think?”

Malia is rushing around the counter like something might be on fire.

I drop my hands. “What?”

“No…no. It’s…it’s very um, sunshiny. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it.” She smiles and combs her fingers through my hair. “When did this happen?”

“Last night.” I fluff.

“You didn’t want to start off with a few caramel highlights?”

“Nah. Why not just jump in with both feet?”

I see Brooklyn. She’s behind the counter, swiveling back and forth in her chair as she hands a customer a business card. “Sounds like fun,” she says. “Give me a call.” She glances up and does a double take. I’m wondering how much we look alike now that we’re both—

“Blonde?” Brooklyn shouts as the customer walks out the door.

Malia squeezes my arm. “Isn’t it…breathtaking on your sister, Brooklyn?”

Brooklyn looks genuinely breathless. “She’s officially gone insane. Did God tell you to do that too?”

“Why don’t you shut up, Brooklyn.”

She shrugs. “Hey, I’m just trying to do an intervention before we have to do an intervention, if you know what I mean.”

I fluff again. “Good grief. It’s not like I shaved my head and joined a cult.”

“Really. I’m beginning to wonder.”

Malia holds up her hands. “Okay, girls, what’s going on?”

I start to answer and then gasp. There are daisies on the counter. A whole big bunch of them. “Are those for me?”

Brooklyn rolls her eyes, and even Malia looks less than excited. “Yeah,” Malia says. “Came for you this morning.”

I gather them into my arms. “Clay must’ve read my blog.”

“Or maybe God sent them to you,” Brooklyn says.

“Can somebody please tell me why you two are bickering so much?” Malia asks.

“Sure,” Brooklyn says. “It’s simple. My sister’s crazy. She thinks God has set aside, let’s see, little things like world peace, hunger, and global warming to—hold the phone—set her up with her perfect love story. But what really has me worried is that she thinks Clay would spend two seconds trying to figure out what kind of flower she likes.”

“Somebody’s jealous.” Malia winks at me, but my stomach feels funny. Brooklyn has a point. Both of those things
are
highly unlikely.

“No, Malia!” Brooklyn says. “She really thinks God showed up and talked to her!”