A Toast to Starry Nights (34 page)

“Where's your
enthusiasm?”
Accented with Jazz Hands. “You've been living in sin with him for over three
years. Time to tag him as being off bounds to other women.”

“I don't know. I have no enthusiasm when
it comes to wedding planning. I dread the wedding. Seriously dread it. Like,
from when we hung up earlier until I got here, I was trying to think what I
want and other than what I outlined before... I'm at a loss.”

The Cheshire Cat smile emerged. “Ooh,
but that's where I come in and line your ducks in a row.”

“Jet, will you be my wedding planner?” I
hope that wasn't too much to ask. But her organizational skills and eye for
detail would be beneficial. And if she really wants to live vicariously through
my wedding, she can have the Full On Wedding Planning experience. In fact,
she's welcome to it.

Green eyes widened like Ralphie's when
he got his Red Rider BB Gun that Christmas morn long ago. “Yes, but only if you
agree not to argue. I have a list prepared of topics we need to settle.”

Okay. She made lists already. Sigh.
Bring it on. “Alrighty... let's cover the topics.” Like 'therapy', the sooner I
can get it over and done with, the faster I can move on.

“First off, location. If you aren't set
on The Aquarium, what do you want? I don't see you having a church wedding.
Outdoors? The beach?”

I closed my eyes. Where to have it? I
don't know. “I like the idea of outdoors, but not the beach. Need shade if it's
daytime and no tripping hazards at night.”

From under a stack of bridal mags, Jet
pulled out a notebook with a pen clipped to the cover. With a flip of her
wrist, paper got exposed to receive her ink. “Okay... so woodsy. I can find
woodsy.”

“Next topic.”

“Invitations. I took the liberty of
ordering some samples,” and with that, a padded envelope stuffed to the point
of distortion made its grand appearance. Putting the notebook on her lap, she
began pulling out handfuls of vellum, parchment and ribbon.

“Some?” I reached out and nabbed several
to look at. “Did you hold a printer up at gunpoint?”

“No, I just requested samples from a lot
of online shops. Oooh, here, look at this one. You said Moroccan Nights...
check it. Awesome, huh?”
I don't think I've ever seen Jet this giddy. Kid on Christmas morning. The
invitation she held consisted of a black heavy parchment folded in thirds, with
the two outer flaps folding over to cover the center panel, held closed place
with a gold-edged cobalt blue ribbon that wrapped around the paper bundle. When
opened, vellum printed in raised silver ink spelled out the details, with a
crescent moon wrapping around a star taking center stage at the top. The inside
of black parchment possessed a blue liner that matched the ribbon, speckled
with golden stars.

The texture of the paper, the glitter of
metallic embossing, perfection for a nighttime festivity.

“I don't think I want to see any others.
This one is awesome.” Seriously fucking awesome.

“Well, look at this one. Pick another
couple as backup then ask Dmitri which he likes most.”

“This one is so
Count of Monte
Cristo.
Seriously, his gothy heart will adore it, but okay, show me another
you think I'll like.”

So she did. A solid hour of groping
paper textures and touching raised ink. Of rubbing across metallic
embellishments to make sure they didn't transfer off-- a mark of poor heat
setting. I found my backup, a more traditional invitation with a black filigree
border on cream colored linen.

I looked over at Jet, who kept taking
notes about things I commented on and such. This side of her eagerly embracing
matrimony for someone else, really took me by surprise. My voice shone with
admiration. “I think you missed your calling as a wedding planner.”

“Maybe I did, and then again, maybe when
this is all over and done with, you will think differently. Guess we'll have to
see, eh?” Jet smirked.

“Okay, we got invitations. What's next?”
I was starting to get into the groove of nailing out a plan. With Jet taking
the helm, a lot of the anxiety lifted from my shoulders.

“Attire.” To punctuate that statement, she
pulled out the big gun. Her laptop, went unnoticed propped up against the side
of the couch closest to Jet until she hauled it up to place on her lap. As she
opened it and got the browser running, she said, “You mentioned what colors and
non-traditional and whatnot. I found the coolest site ever. Custom made
clothing. Here.... take a look.”

Curiosity wandered in my mind as I took
in the images Jet displayed for my delectation. The model wore a navy blue
gown, a one-shouldered creation with a sweetheart neckline and shoulder
straps-- three straps total. One actually held the gown up, while the other two
slid down the arm in artful disarray. Where the straps met the bodice, a
sparkling star brooch shimmered. The skirt wasn't poofy, but fell to the ground
in gentle folds. A pretty clean silhouette, but decidedly feminine. I suppose a
petticoat would make the skirt more formal looking with a little extra volume,
but it wasn't needed.

Yes, I could picture myself getting
married in such attire. “I like that. A lot. What about you? What have you
picked out on here for yourself?”

Jet smiled and with a click of a button,
showed me a similar dress, with the strap on the opposite side of the gown she
shown me moments before. Knee length chiffon, with a tiny Watteau cape
cascading from the shoulder towards the hem. “That is pretty. I like. And
again, I think you have a potential career in planning weddings, because so far
you've been spot on.”

“High praise, indeed. Especially coming
from one who I could easily mistake for being allergic to the state of
marriage. Besides, I've known you for ages. It's easy to gauge what you'd like.
That, and I have exquisite taste.”

“I'm not allergic to marriage. Just
weddings.”

“Your own as well?”

Maybe. I don't think I could admit it though.
“I want to marry him.”

“Who you trying to convince... me or
you? And why the wishy-washy act? Like two days ago you were all mermaids and
sharks. Now... might as well get a Justice of the Peace and head to the
courthouse.”

You know, that does have its appeal, but
his family expected to partake of the festivities. The thought of eloping to
Croatia so the Branimirs could be in on the wedding passed as a glancing
thought-- my research showed Croatians celebrate big. Which is the opposite of
what I want. Back to square one.

“If I say something Willow-like, will
you not mock me?”

“Depends if you have a joint hanging off
your lips. Because if you did, then yes, I would mock you. Incessantly. For
years.”

Deep breath. “What if my past life thing
is what's making me drag my feet? Because I can't help but to feel they
overlap.” And so I laid it out. All of Ona's story. My childhood nightmares--
of the pillar into the depths of my mind and of the people who leaned over me
with terror and hate and the similarities of dread of being center of
attention, especially in a large room. Everything.

An hour later, the first things out
Jet's mouth were, “I hate to break it to you, but I'm the last person who'd be
objective about reincarnation. Balinese believe in it. I just love to give you
hell about things I know you dread doing. You're fun like that.”

Well, shit. There goes the one person I
thought I could count on for a lesson on why my skull fucking can't be real.
“So you're telling me that they are connected?”

“Why not? There are things in this world
that make less sense than reincarnation.”

Oh, such as? “It seems a cop out.” Step
right up! Blame your woes in this life one something that (may or may not have)
happened to you in a previous life! You too can blame other trauma for the
trauma in this incarnation! My inner Carnival Barker couldn't be quelled.

When my grandfather received a broken
neck in a car accident, he was positive he saw the Pearly Gates. According to
the doctors, it was a hallucination brought on by oxygen deprivation to the
brain. But the vision of those pearly gates was no less real to my grandfather.
And now I have my own twisted version of that. I wasn't in Ireland this
afternoon, but I was. Logic and emotion, the oil and water combo of life.

“In one way it is. But it's not up to me
to believe. It's up to you. What does your gut say?”

“My gut says I'm one step away from
being a loony toon fit for an asylum.” And that it was real. A thousand percent
real.

“Your gut is a retard.”

“Just don't tell my gut that to it's
face or it may want a dunce cap so it can cry in the corner properly.”

“Your gut is a pussy, too.” After a
piercing look and a frown on her face, the Great Jetnia once again shared her
wisdom. “He's nothing like Mike. He won't hurt you like Mike.”

“I know that already. Him hurting me has
never been an issue.”

“Then what is the issue? At the bottom
of it all, under all those excuses, what is it that makes you freak out like a
hippie on bad acid when weddings are mentioned?”

“I don't want to get married to have it
end before it should.”

“Do you think that'll happen?”

“Well, I almost married Mike... so
stranger things are possible. I sat through a couple of my mother's failed
marriages. How many people of our generation are divorced? It's not unheard of
for marriages to end only a couple years after the wedding. It's almost like a
ticking clock, and the wedding is the starting line for an invisible race
toward the end of happiness as I know it. ”

“What, do you think he's going to cheat
on you?”

“No.”

“Ah-ah-ahhh!” Jet waved a finger in the
air. “You forget the glorious factor of unwanted exes trying to find a position
in his life and yours.”

Yeah, I could go a very long time
without thinking about Lorryn. And I know deep down we haven't heard the last
from her. And Mike, well, I don't want to think about him at all.

“I saw Mike earlier. He was walking out
of the Bottle Shop on Wood street.” Jet's voice hammered in the sensation of
unease I have when the subject of Mike arises.

“Are you sure?” Wish Mike would
disappear beneath the rock he calls home.

“One cannot mistake his ass for anything
other than his ass. Trust me, I saw him. ”

“I think I saw his car a couple times
this weekend when we were at Farmer's Market. Blew it off as being a college
kid's ride.”

“I don't like him in town. Keep an eye
out for his shit-- he's dumb enough to try and approach when you're alone. Got
some mace or a taser?”

The thought of Mike taking advantage of
me being without company brought shivers to my spine. “Not yet.” But now it's
on my to-get list. Desperate to change the subject from what I brought up, I
tried bringing a lighter humor to the situation. “And I forget nothing.
Speaking of things that irk us, I promised Wiley you'd behave until after the
wedding.”

“I know. It was a part of the white flag
he flew when he apologized.” Jet moved her face closer to the laptop monitor.

Doth mine eyes deceive me or is that a
faint blush gracing Jet's cheekbones?

“Well, I'm glad you guys aren't at each
others throats. Thank you, by the way. For everything.”

“Don't thank me until this is over.”

No, my eyes do not lie. A definite
crimson shade tinted Miss Akbari's face. “So, aside from being an asshole when
drunk, what do you think of Wiley?”

Plop. There's my bobber out in the lake,
waiting for a nibble of my bait.

“He's a jerkoff when drunk. But he
sincerely apologized for being an assjacket and I, the gracious soul I am,
forgave him. Wiley isn't that bad... just an authority figure. I automatically
hate authority figures. But he's not a bad guy. Cute, even.” No comparison to
Ted Bundy yet? Something is afoot.

“Cute? How cute are we talking, because
he's not Dmitri cute.”

“No, thank the gods for that. I know
your sight is off, because there's no other way you could miss that guy's schnozz.”

“The term is 'aquiline'.”

“No, it's fucking huge. At least his
mammoth jaw balances it out.”

“Now you're just being mean again.”

“True. I can say that Dmitri gives Bruce
Campbell a run for his money in the chin department. And no, Dmitri is not a
troll. But he's not Wiley, either. All angles and hard lines.”

“I still want clarification about how
cute exactly you find the Best Man.” Because her admitting someone is
attractive happens very rarely. Jet is the sort who indulges in TMI with no
care, and it hardly ever relates to males.

Something's up, and I want to know what.

Long pause from my Maid of Honor.
“Kissably cute.”

Uh uh. Stop the car. “You kissed him?”
Jet was going to rip his head off, possibly defecate down the stump of his
neck. They sucked face? This does not compute.