Never the Bride (23 page)

He jots something down. “This is the name and number of a
colleague of mine. He’s superb. He’s not quick to go straight to medication either. He really believes in the benefit of cognitive behavioral therapy.” He hands it to me.

I stand and he starts to stand too. “No, please. I can see myself out.”

He sits back down.

“Thank you for your time.”

“Certainly. Jessie, it was good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Dr. Montrose.” I open the back patio door and let myself into the home, clutching the piece of paper in my sweaty palm. My feet feel light. My head is spinning. I walk slowly through the house toward the front door, and my eyes are drawn to the scribbled, colorful drawings on the walls.

Then I see it.

I remember the day I drew it. I was sitting in his office. He seemed particularly agitated with me that day. I was on the floor, and he asked me to draw a picture of this little boy that was always following me around. I hated Dr. Montrose’s crayons. They were all broken, mismatched, the paper torn off. But he insisted I draw anyway.

So I did.

I drew me, drew my little friend—and then scribbled him out.

Dr. Montrose called it a breakthrough. “You see, Jessica? You
do
know that he isn’t real. You just have to believe it. Today you believed it.”

And now it hangs on his wall as proof that I finally believed that nothing existed.

I glance back and Dr. Montrose is busy clearing his breakfast dishes, so I step closer to the drawing. The color is brilliant and appropriate…peach for the skin, yellow for the hair, aqua blue for the eyes.
The lines are smooth. The coloring flawless. I stare into the large, round blue eyes of the boy who lived in my mind for so long. For months I drew so much comfort from him. Until one day I scribbled him out.

All of my childhood struggles are here. Framed.

Reduced to crayon.

I let myself out and sit in my car for a long time.

Logic. Okay. From now on, logic it is.

It’s been the most intense three weeks of my life, like a constant, unrelenting power ballad. Clay and I talk three or four times a day, see each other every other day It’s like old times, like three years haven’t gone by Well, maybe not the same. I’ve grown more confident in myself; I’ve refused to put Clay on a pedestal. I keep reminding him he’s lucky I’ve taken him back, and he always nods enthusiastically, like he is, indeed, the luckiest guy alive.

He texts me more than a guy with a big ego would. He’s very gushy always pouring out his feelings. And I’m an empty cup, ready to be filled with all that gush.

It’s a hectic day at the store. We’ve had three new clients sign up this week, and we’re starting to get backlogged, so Brooklyn and I came in early to try to get ahead. We’re getting along better, as long as I don’t mention God and she doesn’t mention Clay.

Speaking of God, He hasn’t been around, which makes me realize Shrinkhead was right…He was a figment of my imagination all along. Not that I don’t believe in God. I know He’s out there somewhere, and He’ll look in on me when it’s needed. But logic, for once in my life, has prevailed. God isn’t
that into
me.

The hardest thing to swallow, besides leaving the idea that God
was
that into me, is the idea that I quit my job and started a new job on the advice of an imaginary sidekick. But, to the credit of my split personality, things are thriving, so maybe I shouldn’t worry so much.

I try not to think about any of it, to just focus on my love life—to live in the moment. That’s what they say, right? You’re not promised tomorrow? So today is all I have, and what I have right now is what I’ve always wanted. This man adores me. Gwyne was never right for him, but maybe having Gwyne in his life molded him into the right man for me.

Except he’s really into my blond hair, and I’m growing kind of bored with it.

For once, though, I try not to overthink it.

Clay texts me, asks me to go to dinner at some place I’ve never heard of but swears is “the bomb.” I tell him I’ll meet him there. Brooklyn has left to run some errands for our next proposal. Soon, Malia is nearby, pretending to need something near the counter, but I can tell something is up. She has one of those faces that can’t hide eagerness.

“So, I guess you and Clay are doing well?”

“We are.”

“Seems like you’re having a lot of fun.”

“I am.”

“He’s treating you right?”

“Better than right.”

She’s nodding and smiling like she’s agreeing with it all, but there’s a deep crease between her eyebrows that is in obvious disagreement.

“You shouldn’t worry so much about me,” I say to her. She looks surprised. “Malia, I know you disapprove.”

“It’s nothing like that. It’s just that I want you to be happy.”

“I am.”

“Your sister is worried sick about you.”

I smile a little. “Yes, well, now she knows how I’ve felt all these years.”

Malia laughs. “True enough.”

“You know, Blake isn’t too happy with me either.”

“He’ll get over it,” Malia says. “We’re both protective. Overly protective, I guess.”

“It’s good to know you care.” I check my watch. “I guess I better go. Clay’s taking me to some fancy-shmancy place tonight.”

“That wining-dining phase can be a lot of fun.”

I grab my purse, come around the counter, and put an arm around Malia. “I think he gets me. And that’s what I’ve always wanted…someone who knows me and still likes me and—”

Suddenly, behind Malia, something grabs my attention. I let go of her shoulder and walk over to it. Sitting right on top of her counter is a box of purple pens.

I don’t dare reach out and touch. I want to. I want to grab them all and never let go. Don’t.
Don’t.
But my fingers twitch and tingle. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Sweetie? You okay?”

“Um…Malia…when did these arrive?”

“What?”

“These pens. These purple feather pens.” My hands hover over them without touching.

Malia comes over to look. “I don’t know, hon. I think yesterday. This is the first shipment of these weird pens that we’ve gotten. I don’t even remember ordering them.” She reaches out to grab one. “Why? You want one?”

“No! No, no. No…” I back away with my hands out.
Smile
so you’re not a freak. “Um, just admiring them, that’s all.”

Malia looks down at the one in her hand. “Really? I think they’re kind of junky. Who would pay four bucks for a pen like this?”

“It has character. And flair.”

“I need to go put them out on the floor.” Malia grabs them and disappears down an aisle.

“No. No.” I whisper this to myself as I head out the front door. “It’s just a coincidence. Coincidences happen all the time. Now, stop talking to yourself or you’re going to look crazy.”

I get in my car, turn on music, and drive to Skye Bleu. Its large neon-on-black sign hangs over a dark and brooding building with reflective windows and an enormous glass door. This doesn’t look Italian. I was really hoping for manicotti tonight.

I park in back and walk to the front. It’s nice to know someone’s going to be meeting me here. I so love that I’m not alone or the third wheel or even meeting girlfriends. This feels good.

I round the corner and there he is, leaning casually against a railing.
When he sees me, his face lights up. I approach and lean in for a kiss. He steps back and looks me over. “Stunning.”

“Thanks,” I say.

And then, from behind his back, pop three roses. Red, no less. “Oh, how kind.” I smile and take them into my hand. Okay, so I was sort of expecting him to go with daisies since I’ve dropped the hint a time…or ten. But you know what? I’m a woman getting flowers from a man who takes the time to buy them for me. Maybe I’ve misjudged roses. They are the international symbol men use to express their love. I have no room to complain, right?

I shake off my thoughts and gaze up at the building. “This place looks interesting.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t been here,” Clay says, taking my hand and pulling me along. “It’s the newest place to be. You seriously haven’t been here?”

“I’ve been busy with the business,” I say. Shout, actually. The music roars overhead as we enter. A large room with many lights, but few that actually light up the place, greets us. A smoky haze lingers at the ceiling. Strobe lights, all seizure-like, make me blink fast. People are dancing. Bartenders are slinging drinks toward customers. “I thought we were eating!” I shout.

“We are!” he shouts back. “There’s a really cool restaurant in the back!” He pulls me along, weaving us through the crowd of moving and swaying bodies. I look around. This is the kind of place where the girls slouch because they’re too beautiful otherwise. I don’t even have the ability to slouch.

That strobe is about to make me insane.

Soon enough we’ve made it out of the strobe light and into some decent mood lighting. The music still pulses through the walls, but at least there’s room to move. I glance down at my khakis. I am really not fitting in here, but Clay looks comfortable so I pull myself close to him.

“Table for Matthews,” he says. The woman nods, glances at me, then offers to guide us to the table. We sit down in a cozy half-circle booth. The menus are already on the table. A candle stands tall, barely flickering, in the center. It’s the first time I can hear myself think.

“Wow, Clay, this is quite a place.”

“I know.” He grins. “They have one of these in New York too. It’s where all the celebs hang out. And I swear, you look like the paparazzi should be following you.”

I smile a little and forgive the cheesy line. Clay was always one for going over the top while trying to make an impression.

Clay grins at me. “Oh, don’t be modest,” he says. “You’re beautiful. You had me at ‘hello.’”

Oh, brother. Not the
Jerry Maguire
line. Ugh. Call me grumpy, but that line irritates me. I smile again like he’s just made my day, secretly hoping we can move past cliché, quickly.

I know this place is fancy because all the waitresses look alike and the menu has only five choices. I do love good food, but I can also do a burger or a steak. For Clay, though, I might learn to love the caviar life. Not sure how he’s affording all this, but for the time being, it’s not my problem.

We both order the halibut, and Clay picks out our wine. Soon enough we are snuggled together as he pours my glass.

“Just a little,” I say, holding my hand out.

“Yes, I know,” he smiles, pouring way more than a little. “You don’t drink much. Weird, but I respect that.”

I can get a buzz off cooking wine evaporating from a skillet. I take a small sip, just to be polite, and thread my fingers between his. “This is nice.”

“Yeah.”

I glance up at him and catch him smiling at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, I can tell. Something.” I poke him in the ribs.

“Okay, look.” He turns to face me. “Jessie, this might sound, well, you know, really strange.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know. I just get this feeling like…it’s timing. This timing. I can’t get over how I was there and you were there and…it feels like it means something.”

I squeeze his hand. He is looking deeply into my eyes. As deep as a human can look, anyway. “I’m certain it does, Clay. Timing means everything, you know?”

“Yeah. And I really think now would be a great time to just go for it.”

My heart flutters, then stops, then restarts at twice the speed. “Really? Clay…really?”

He kisses me on the cheek, then moves his lips to my ear. “Let’s move in together.”

I drop his hand. Accidentally. I quickly pick it back up from my lap. He moves away from my ear to look at me. He’s smiling, sort of that sultry eyelids-half-closed kind of look. Funny, but it’s not a good look for him.

“Look,” he says. “I know. This is what caused problems for us before. I asked, you sort of freaked out, and things went downhill from there.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

He asked, I said no, he moved on to Gwyne who moved in with him four weeks later.

“Jess, don’t we have something special here?”

I nod.

“And let’s face it, we’re not getting any younger.”

Thanks for the “we.”

“Come on,” he says, stroking my cheek. “I don’t want to be without you.”

I’m starting to wonder if it’s that Clay doesn’t want to be
without.
The guy is striking me as having the inability to be alone. But then he touches my chin. “I love you.”

So, this is it? This is my “finally”? Except moving in together is more like a “maybe.” Still, I find myself thrilled to hear those three little words.

I look at him and we have this moment. My whole body feels warm. When his fingers touch my skin, it tingles.

“I love you too.”

I like shopping at night. Around eleven o’clock, the store is mostly empty and they’re restocking the shelves. I want to hum, but I don’t, because there’s something stuck in my throat.

Hesitation?

Regret?

Pure joy?

Maybe fear.

I don’t know. All I know is that next weekend, I’m moving in with Clay Matthews. It feels real and good and—okay, maybe a little bit misguided. But isn’t relationship all about compromise? And didn’t God tell me I wasn’t ready for marriage, anyway?

I’m about to order baloney from the deli when I hear, “Jessie?”

I almost don’t turn because I am trying not to react to voices these days. But I recognize it and glance over my shoulder. “Nicole!”

“I didn’t recognize you with the, uh, wig?”

“No, it’s mine.” I tug at it and smile, though it’s getting a little annoying having to explain this all the time. “Just trying something new.”

She pulls me into a hug. “Where have you been? I’ve left a couple of messages.”

“I’m smack-dab in the middle of a whirlwind romance.”

Nicole steps back. “Shut up! Really?”

“Really,” I say, beaming and swinging my arms like I’m twelve. “It’s been unbelievable!”

She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the cheese. “Tell me all about him.”