Never the Bride (17 page)

“You have failed us as a gender.”

Blake smiles. “I know. Sounds shallow. But you asked. Generating mystery is always a plus.”

“What, like a secret admirer?”

“It’s a start.”

“Are we twelve?”

He thumps me across the shoulder and bolts. I jump up and chase after the turkey. Yes, he’s twelve. I look back. God is sitting in the sand. He’s watching the waves now. I want to go back, but…

“Come on, Turtle!” Blake is running backward, a puckish expression beckoning me. I chase after him and don’t look back.

I make it home way after dark and begin to scarf down Chinese takeout. Brooklyn somehow has the energy to go out after work, and I resist giving her a lecture. She’s not little anymore, but I see her that way. I still remember when she couldn’t button her pants or tie her shoes or reach the cereal bowls in the cabinet.

“Hey um, God, maybe You could watch over her tonight. Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid, or hook up with Stupid, if you know what I mean.”

Silence. He’s not around. I don’t feel Him near. I wonder if He’s still at the beach, sitting in the sand.

The rest of the workday went well. Brooklyn and I did some preliminary planning for Clay’s proposal. It didn’t seem to sting as much after I spent some time with Blake and drank two chocolate shakes.

I slurp my lo mein and wonder what reason God could have for
not hooking me up with Blake. I mean, I know I’m not God and can’t see all things, but sometimes there are things that feel so natural and so right. As humans, how do we know that they aren’t? What do we have other than our instincts?

Exhaustion keeps me from pondering deeper. I trudge up the stairs and throw on a T-shirt. I wash my face, brush my teeth, rinse with Act, take my vitamins, and floss. The bed calls me, but so does my laptop, glowing in the dark room. I decide to do a short blog about mystique. So far I’ve blogged about the Art of Wooing, Proposals Done Right, and What Men Need to Know About Women. I don’t understand why God wants me to blog. Maybe it’s to let off some steam, though if I blog about what’s going on with me and God these days, I’m certain to lose readers. Oh yeah. I don’t have any.

But wait. I lean toward the screen, peering through the darkness. There’s a comment left! By…JessieFan? I have a fan? The subject line reads,
THANKS FOR JESSIE’S CORNER
.

I lean back in my chair, cross my arms, and smile. JessieFan. That’s secret admirer—ish.

The sound of an out-of-tune piano indicates I have an IM. Probably Blake.

Nope. Turns out it’s God. At least that’s what His screen name reads. Very well could be a cute guy who knows it, flaunts it, and thinks he is…but under the circumstances, I’m betting it’s the real deal.

GET TO THE GLORY WEDDING CHAPEL AT 1 P.M.

“Huh?” Like the screen can hear me. But God can, so I say it again. Louder. “Huh?”

No answer, but another IM pops up.

TAKE THE RED TILE DISTRICT TROLLEY.

“That’s not what the ‘huh’ was for,” I say loudly. Sometimes I think He has a hearing problem. “I’m a little more worried about this wedding chapel thing. I mean, don’t You think I should meet the guy first? Sure, I know whoever You pick is going to be the perfect guy for me, but it’s a little awkward to just show up and get married. Plus I don’t have a dress, and I—” I stop blabbering and take a breath. Okay, I’m getting way ahead of myself. I should just show up, do what He says.

Obey.

Yeah. For once. I think He would appreciate that.

I shut down the computer and crawl into bed, first tucking in all the covers and smoothing out the wrinkles. I set my alarm, then swing my legs under the sheets, sinking into my feather pillow. It feels good to get off my feet.

“Hey.” Brooklyn’s in the doorway.

“Hey.”

Through the darkness, she walks toward the bed. She kicks off her shoes, and the next thing I know she’s crawled into bed with me, punching her feet to untuck the covers at the end. “I’m exhausted.”

“Me too. Why are you back so early?”

“I dunno. Just wasn’t that fun tonight. I mean the gang was there and everything. Thankfully Gary was nowhere to be seen. But it just got old after a while.”

I smile into the darkness. “Probably best,” I say. “We’ve got a long week. I’ve been working a little on Clay’s deal. I think we’ll have some—”

Snoring.

I take her hand in mine, like I used to when she was little, and I settle into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It’s like I am tapped on the shoulder by dread. I sit straight up in bed, and the first clue that something is wrong comes with how the light enters my room…from up high. It is sort of blinding, and I shield my eyes as they water.

I barely see the alarm clock through the tears. But I notice something immediately. The dot is gone.

The a.m. dot.

“What time is it?” I shriek as I rub my eyes frantically, trying to clear them. But Brooklyn isn’t in bed. My heart sinks. If
she’s
already out of bed,
how late is it
?

Brooklyn comes around the corner, brushing her teeth and grinning through the foam. “Lazy head.”

“What time is it?”

She spits and returns. “After noon. I beat you up. ’Course I went to bed before the moon came out, so that probably explains it. But I feel so—What’s the matter?”

I grab the alarm clock. “Is it 1 p.m.? Is it? Is it one?”

“Don’t have a cow. You don’t turn into a pumpkin if the clock strikes twelve. Maybe sleeping in did you some good.”

I jump out of bed and scramble to my closet. “What time is it, Brooklyn? Exactly. The exact time.”

“You just looked at the clock.”

“I set it fast. Often. It gets a little out of control sometimes.”

“It’s twelve-thirty.”

“No. No! I have no time to get ready!”

“For what?”

“One of us needs to be at work right now! Why aren’t we at work?” I throw on a yellow blouse and appear in front of her. “What about this? How does this look?”

“Canary-ish.”

“Then help me! Help me pick out something!”

“Good grief calm down, woman. What is the occasion?”

“It’s…it’s hard to explain. I’m going to a wedding chapel.”

She sets down the toothbrush and moves past me into the closet. “Okay midday wedding, you’ll want a spaghetti strap—”

“No, it’s not a wedding. At least I don’t think so. I can’t—I can’t look like I’m showing up for a wedding, even if there is one, because then I look desperate. Do you know what I mean?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and then Brooklyn spots something in my closet. She grabs a pair of black slacks. “Here. Dull for me but wears well on you. Add that aqua, sleeveless number right there and you’ll be fine.”

“Really?” I quickly shove myself into them. “This is good?”

“Come on. To the bathroom. Let’s do your hair and add some makeup.”

“I don’t have time!” I protest, but then I look in the mirror and realize I better make some time.

“Here, put this cream on.”

“What’s it for?”

“Your face.”

“I know that. But I don’t need—”

“Trust me, you do. Now let me fix your hair.” I dab on the cream as I watch Brooklyn pull my hair back. She finishes, and I’m not kidding, I look worse than when I got up.

“Brooklyn, what did you do? My hair looks all tangled and pieces are falling out and—”

“It’s called a messy ponytail. Trust me, it’s a good look. It makes you look sexy.”

“It looks like I didn’t try to fix my hair at all.”

“Exactly. Now, let’s go with a light gloss.” She swipes some across my lips, but I can’t really get my eyes off my hair.

“I just don’t know. I mean, it looks like I got up but my hair stayed in bed.”

“Sis,” she says, turning to me. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“But am I a fashionista?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I’m wrong about this, but by the way you’re acting, I’m thinking there’s a guy involved, right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s…complicated.”

“You look fabulous. You’re screaming, ‘I’m sexy without trying.’”

“I’m more comfortable with, ‘I’m trying not to be sexy.’”

“Just go! It’s twenty till.”

“Oh!” I rush downstairs, grab my bag, and run to catch the trolley.

I like the trolley. Aside from the fumes that seep in, it’s a nice ride. The seats are comfortable and face inward so you don’t have to turn to look out a window. An elderly couple sits across from me. The woman is fussing over the man’s collar, and he lets her. Afterward he pats her lightly on the cheek, and they go back to watching the scenery pass by.

“Red Tile District, next stop.” The trolley slows and two other people get off with me.

As I step off the trolley I think at first I hear God clapping for me. But no. Turns out it’s a clap of thunder, and before I’m on the sidewalk, it’s pouring.

“Show-off,” I mumble. Just like God to make sure I’m incapable of hiding behind hair, makeup, and somewhat stylish clothing. Though I think my hair might’ve actually improved.

Heavy with extra water weight, I drag myself toward the chapel. It’s getting cold and I feel myself shiver, but maybe that’s just anticipation.

The chapel is small, known mostly for impromptu weddings. A few celebrities have made their mistakes here. It’s always open but mostly bare, probably so people won’t steal things. I look around and I’m alone, so I sit in a pew near the back and listen to the rain let up.

Perfect timing for the rain. Of course. God has an ornery side.
My dad always used to tell me God had a sense of humor, but I never believed him. What kind of God would steal parents away?

I never did much asking
why me
when my parents died. I wasn’t the only kid who’d lost her parents. Why
not me?
A stretch of bad luck was easier to swallow than a God who decided it was their time to go. A well-meaning old woman told me at the funeral that my parents were so special that God wanted them in heaven with Him. I remember thinking that was the most selfish thing I had ever heard.

I try to squeeze the moisture out of my hair and shirt. It’s really no use. I’m drenched and there’s no hiding it. The question is, what am I doing here? And why is He so late?

I hear the door creak open. Strange. Usually He doesn’t use doors.

I turn and He’s smiling at me and about to say something, but I cut Him off. “Don’t even ‘hi’ me.” I stand up. “First of all, not funny. I mean, if You had to bring rain, why not drop a hint and tell me to grab an umbrella?” I walk toward Him. “Second, You’re late. I realize you have Your ‘business’ to run, but since You ‘own’ Your own ‘business,’ You can be wherever You want, whenever You want.” I hold up my hand to stop Him from interrupting. “Third, You better make this quick because I have to get to work. As You might recall, I have a small business to run, and if it doesn’t run, I might be sleeping on the streets. So…” I pause. I smile, because He’s still smiling at me, with a look of amazement on His face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be, you know, me so much. I get a little wound up. So…what are we doing here?”

“Well, hello, you two.” The voice comes from behind me. I whirl around to find a minister walking up the aisle, black robe and all. He’s grinning expectantly. “What can I help you with today?”

I realize something. “Wait a minute.
“You two?”
You can see Him?” I pitch a thumb behind me.

God looks unnaturally surprised, but not as surprised as the minister, who is looking at God and nodding.

I throw up my arms and laugh. “Oh, right. Of course. You’re a man of God. You two probably meet on a regular basis.” I cross my arms and smile at God. “So? What’s going on here? Is there a special reason we’re here or is it just to chat?”

God smiles. A little. I’ve never seen Him smile a little. Usually He’s either not smiling or He’s giving it His all. God glances back and forth between me and the minister. “I just stepped in to get out of the rain.” He is now looking at me. “It’s still raining. Maybe we could sit and chat.”

I feel myself growing a little angry. “You didn’t bring anyone with You?”

“Bring anyone?”

“You know what? Forget it. You two have fun chatting. I have to go to work. And blog or something.” I march out, pushing the door hard as I exit. Not surprisingly, it’s sunny. The pavement is still wet, though, and it splashes on my ankles as I return to the trolley stop.

Is it just me, or is God playing head games?

Enter.

Enter.

Enter.

But no amount of pounding on the Enter key will get the error message off my computer screen. It has, however, gotten Malia’s attention. She’s staring at me over her book.

“I’m fine!” I say loudly, before she has a chance to ask.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I roll my eyes. What did I just say? But then again, this is Clay’s proposal day, and Malia knows, deep down inside, I’m not fine. I simmer down as I hear the bell ring, indicating a customer has come in. Malia leaves her counter to go attend. A lump forms in my throat. Why can’t anything go right?

Enter.

Enter.

Enter.

“I hear if you spit on it, that works.” Malia now stands above me, smiling.

I can’t smile back. “I’ve got to get this proposal video online. In an hour this guy is planning to get his girl to the Web site we made for her. It’s on the computer, but it won’t link to the site.”

“Call Fine Computer Techs. That’s what we hire them for.”

“Okay. Maybe.”

“Don’t you need to get to the beach for Clay’s proposal?”

“Yes.”

A long pause indicates she’s hoping not to have to state the obvious. She rubs my back in small circles, then says, “Brooklyn’s already there.”

“I know.”

Malia wraps her arms around my shoulders, leaning over me like a protective mother bird. “Jess, remember what we talked about? What did we nickname him?”