Never the Bride (2 page)

We’ve been good friends ever since I started working here, ten years ago. She’s African American, two years younger than I am. She has that kind of expression I wish I could wear. Her eyebrows slant upward toward each other, like a bridge that’s opening to let a boat through. It’s part
You’re weird
an
d
part
I’m worried.
She has sass and I love it. She’s working her way up to senior agent and is one of Mr. Coston’s favorites, but I don’t hold that against her.

I don’t answer because I’m busy staring at her new eight-by-ten
framed family picture. It’s very Picture People: white background, casual body language, all four wearing identical polos and jeans. I love that kind of husband, who will wear matching clothes with his family. They’re so adorable.

“Jessie, seriously girl, you okay? You’ve got black smeared across your forehead.”

I tear my eyes away from the photo. “Blowout on the highway.”

The eyebrow bridge is lowered, and she chuckles. “Honey, you look like you changed your own tire.”

I put my forehead against the edge of her cube wall. “I did.”

“Oh. Wow. I wish I knew how to change a tire.”

“No, you don’t. Trust me.”

She reaches under her desk and pulls out a neatly wrapped gift. “For you.”

I smile. I love gifts. I drop my things and tear it open even though I already know what it is. “Nicole, it’s beautiful!” It’s a leather-bound journal with gold embossed lettering and heavy lined paper inside. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s February. I know how much this month…Well, it tends to be a long month for you, that’s all.” She points to the spine of it. “It sort of reminds me of the one I brought you back from Italy four years ago. Remember?”

“Yes, it does.”

“So, my friend, happy February. May this month bring you—”

“Love.” From my bag, I pull out a folder and slap it on her desk.

“What is this?” She says it like a mom who has just been handed a disappointing report card.

“Just look.”

Carefully, like something might jump out and insult her, she opens the folder. She picks up three glossy photos of several potential loves of my life.

“They’re hot, aren’t they?” I ask.

“Too hot,” she says.

“There’s no such thing as too hot.”

“Suspiciously too hot, like an airbrush might be involved.”

I grab the photos from her and turn them around for her to see. With my finger, I underline each of their names: CuteBootsieBoo, SuaveOneYou Want, OneOfAKindMan.

“Jessie CuteBootsieBoo. Mmm. Doesn’t have a good ring to it.”

“It’s their
instant message names
, Nicole.”

“Yes. And that makes it better?”

I sigh. “You have got to get into the twenty-first century, you know. This is the best way to meet a guy.”

“You can tell a lot about a man by what he names himself.” She looks up at me and shakes her head. “Seriously. You set up a date with one of these and they’ll show up with a beer gut, a walker, or a rap sheet.”

“None of them rap.”

Nicole stands, grabs my arm with one hand and my stuff with the other, and whisks me to my desk. She nearly pushes me into my chair and drops everything in front of me.

“Chill out,” I say as she walks away. “This service guarantees background checks. But if you happen to end up needing a restraining order, they’ll pay for it.”

Nicole gasps and whirls around.

“I’m kidding.” But I have her attention now. I lean back in my chair, looking at the ceiling as my hands feel the leather on my new journal. “This’ll be the year, Nicole.”

“You say that every year. Especially in February which is why I got you the—”

I snap forward. “But I’ve never taken control like this before. Three online match sites, one dating service. They find what you want or your money back.”

Nicole walks back toward me and leans over the counter. “I didn’t realize QVC sold dates. If you order in the next ten minutes, do you get two for the price of one, plus an eight-piece Tupperware set?” She reaches for my chocolate bowl.

I scowl at her but lift the bowl up so she can reach it. “What do you know about it? You got married right out of college.”

“Don’t remind me.” She carefully unwraps her candy and takes a mini-bite.

“You never even had to try.” I grab a piece of dark chocolate out of my candy bowl and get the whole thing in my mouth before she takes another bite of hers.

Nicole shrugs and leans against the counter. “Sometimes you just gotta leave these things up to fate.” She goes back to nibbling on her chocolate.

I swirl my hands in the air. “Fate, God, the universe. They’ve all been asleep on the job of setting up a love story for me.” I stand up. “No. I am going to make this happen myself.”

Nicole doesn’t look up from her candy. “Do you even know what
it means to be married? To be chained to another person for the rest of your life? To pick up socks and wash underwear and care for a grown man like he’s just popped out of infancy? Huh?”

I glare at her even though she’s got eyes only for her candy “It’s got to be better than being alone. Or being a bridesmaid eleven times.”

She bites her lip and finally glances at me. “But you know how…you kind of need everything to be a certain way.”

I nudge my stapler so it isn’t perfectly perpendicular to my sticky notes, just to show her I’m able to handle disorder. I try not to stare at it because now it’s really bugging me. “Are you saying I’m a control freak?”

“With OCD tendencies. You can’t expect everything to be exactly how you want it if you want to live through a marriage.”

I stand and start walking slowly toward the bathroom. “I know what compromise’ means.”

Nicole follows. “Then why do you get mad when I have to check with my husband before we go out? That’s what marriage is. You can’t even poop without someone else knowing.”

I glance at her to see if she’s serious. She is. Part of me wants to tell her about my dream last night. I always tell her about my dreams. But she’s really pooping on my parade today. We get to her desk and she sits down. I walk on.

I have these dreams. I’m talking nocturnal, not journal. Yeah, I dream in my journal. I admit it. I’ve written in one since I was fourteen, when I found a strange delight every time I drew a heart with a boy’s name attached in squiggly letters.

But back to my nightmare. It started with me in a wedding dress.
That’s not the nightmare. That part was actually cool because I was in a dress I designed in my journal when I was twenty-two.

The march was playing. I love the “Bridal March.” Nothing can replace it. I cringe every time I hear a country song or bagpipes or something. My wedding, it’s got to be traditional.

I was making my way down the aisle, rhythmically elegant, one foot in front of the other. My shoulders were thrown back, my chin lifted, and my bouquet held right at my waist. I once saw a bride carry her bouquet all the way down the aisle holding it at her chest. I shudder just talking about it.

The train fluttered behind me, like it’s weightless or maybe there’s an ocean breeze not too far away. It was long, bright white, and caused people to nod their approval.

I smiled.

Then the “Bridal March” stopped, halting like a scratched record. I looked up to find another bride in my place, wearing
my
dress, standing next to
my
guy. I couldn’t see what he looked like; he was facing the pastor. But the bride, she looked back at me with menacing eyes, overdone with teal eye shadow and fake lashes.

I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes and screamed again. When I opened them, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. A church full of people, looking at
her.
And what was I doing? Standing next to her in a bridesmaid dress.

Gasping, I looked down. Hot pink! With dyed-to-match shoes! I glanced next to me and covered my mouth. It was me again, standing next to me, in green. Dyed footwear.

And there I was again, standing next to my lime self, this time in
canary yellow. On and on it goes. I counted ten of me before I woke up, gasping for air, clutching myself to make sure I was wearing cotton pajamas.

“Thank God,” I said, but as I looked up, I saw a man in my room. He was backlit against my window, like the moon was shining in on him, but I don’t think the moon was out. A scream started forming in my throat, but I recognized that he was not in a stance that indicated he was going to stab me to death. There was no knife. Nothing but an easy, casual lean against my windowsill. Truly, no less scary.

The scream arrived as I clamored for my lamp. I yanked the string three or four times before it turned on, but when it did, the man was gone.

I realize I am standing in the middle of the hallway near Nicole’s desk. She is gabbing on the phone but looking at me funny. I go to the coat closet next to the bathroom. I always, always keep a spare change of clothes at work, just in case I have to do something like change my tire. Or someone else’s. It’s happened. I take out my least favorite suit, which is why I keep it here. It’s lilac with a boxy neckline that makes me feel like I should be a nanny. I head toward the bathroom.

“Stone, get me the ad copy for the new Hope Ranch listings.”

This is my boss, Mr. Coston, dragging me back to reality. He pops his head out the door as I pass by but yells at me like I’m down the hall. I don’t think he even remembers my first name.

“Already on your desk, sir,” I say.

He’s in his sixties, with a loud but raspy voice and shiny silver hair that tops a permanent look of disappointment. “What happened to you?”

“Blown tire.” I hold up my suit. “I was just going to change.”

“Fine. Then get me a latte. Lighten up on the sugar, will you?”

“Right,” I mumble as he disappears. “Lighten up on life, will you?”

I’m the office equivalent of a bat boy. I’m the coffee girl. It’s this one thing that sort of drives me crazy about my job. I do a lot of important things, but when I have to run get coffee, I feel like I’m falling down the rungs of the occupational ladder. It makes me wonder. If I had a job I could get passionate about, would I be so desperate for a husband? I could drown myself in work rather than my dreams.

Well, either way, I’m drowning, and that’s never good.

After I change and decide I really, really dislike the color lilac, I grab my purse and head for the neighborhood Starbucks. It’s five blocks away and I like that. It gives me time to walk and think on such things as to why Mr. Coston has been married for thirty-four years, the exact number of years I haven’t been married. He doesn’t mention his wife much and doesn’t even have a picture of her in his office. He doesn’t wear a wedding band, and when he does take a vacation, it’s with his buddies to golf resorts.

It just seems like the world could better balance itself out, that’s all.

I’m nearly to Starbucks. People are leaving with their white and green cups of bliss. The putrid smell of coffee will soon replace the putrid smell of old rainwater evaporating underneath the sun. I’m not a coffee fan. I’m high strung. The feeling everyone wants by drinking coffee I have naturally, just like my chestnut hair.

I’m about to open the door, and then I see him, in all his glory.

He’s sitting at one of the outside tables in front of Starbucks, busily texting. I pull out my phone and pause. I know exactly whom he’s texting. My phone vibrates almost instantly.

PLAY HOOKY
.

Before I go on, I have to explain Blake to you. It’s complicated, but stick with me.

Blake is my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids. I grew up to be smart, sensible, and brunette. He grew up to be smart, sensible, and hot. We’ve been through a lot together, but I never could shake the attraction to him that I’ve felt since we were sixteen.

I remember the exact day he went from irritating to irresistible. We were at a birthday party. Our birthdays are nine days apart, and his mother was always kind to include me since my mom had a hard time organizing events, or even dinner, for that matter. Blake never minded. We shared many friends.

Anyway, it was the smallest thing. One second he was Blake. And the next, when he offered to pour my drink for me, he became more. My heart skipped a beat and for a second I thought maybe something was wrong. I stared at the fizz swelling over the top of the plastic cup, dribbling down the side. His finger caught it, swiped it. He took a napkin and cleaned the rest. He looked at me and said, “Sorry about that.”

It’s no
Casablanca
moment, but that’s when it happened, when everything changed.

I’ve never spoken a word to him or anyone else about it, because there is a certain feeling of safety knowing that he is my best friend and that we’re close for no other reason except we like each other.

It’s just that he’s also hot.

But trust me, I’m not going to do anything crazy like declare my love for him. I’ve seen
My Best Friend’s Wedding
, and it doesn’t end well for the chick friend.

Anyway, this is a usual routine for us. He texts
PLAY HOOKY
, and I meet him down at the Starbucks under the guise of getting my boss coffee. Since my boss is a Starbucks junkie, this has worked out well.

I snap my phone closed and decide to play a little trick on him. He’s busy watching women walk by, so I sneak up behind him and in a deep, sexy voice purr, “Hey, baby, wanna share a latte?”

Blake sits up and whips around, his eyes wide. He sees me and cracks up laughing. I slide into the other seat at the table. “That was fast!”

“I was on my way here. Coston needed a latte, pronto.”

I observe Blake for a moment. He always seems out of place at Starbucks. He works construction, houses mostly, and his clothes often
have a fine layer of sawdust on them. He’s rugged and muscular, with caramel wavy hair that complements his tanned skin. I like the fact that he always has a sunglasses line and that he refuses to wear anything but Ray-Bans.

For my birthday one year he bought me a pair, since I’d given him a hard time for years, declaring Target’s were just as good. Turns out I was wrong. Ray-Bans rock. I still have the pair that he gave me. They’re locked in my safe-deposit box because I couldn’t live with myself if I lost a pair of two-hundred-dollar sunglasses.