Never the Bride (7 page)

“It’s vodka,” Lakeland whispers to Garrety. “Women don’t do vodka well.”

“Well,” Garrety says in a loud voice, as if I’ve suddenly turned deaf, “we’ll just call this a
dry run
and forget it ever happened.”

“Think she’s going to be okay?” I hear Lakeland ask as they walk down my steps.

“Look, she probably just got her heart broken or something, you know?”

I turn and stare through my screen door. There he is, sitting on my couch like it’s his own home. I watch the officers get in their car and drive off.

Again, against my better judgment, I walk in. I am normally panic
prone. Spiders. Mice. Snakes. Strangely, though, ghosts don’t seem to trigger anything. I don’t want to touch him, for fear that my arm will go straight through his, so I give a few exaggerated gestures. “Come on. Come now. Let’s go. There’s no need to make a scene. Let’s go.”

He settles back in the couch.

I feel remarkably calm, if not the slightest bit delusional. “Okay this isn’t happening. You are not happening. My parents sent me to a psycho head…head…shrinker when I was nine to get rid of someone like you.
You
aren’t coming
back
!”

He grins. “I said no one else can see me. I didn’t say I was imaginary.”

I back away, clutching my stomach and feeling my forehead for a fever. I turn away from him, breathing hard and feeling like I probably should’ve had a drink. “Okay. Okay. I’m losing it. Okay. Officially losing it. Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Okay.”

“You know,” he says.

I cringe. I was hoping he might have disappeared.

“Dr. Montrose wasn’t totally psycho. He just didn’t
get you.”

Whether he’s real or not, this guy’s right. Montrose wasn’t psycho. I was. Am. In the middle of being. I turn, jamming my finger into the air. “No. No. No. You don’t get to just spout things, about me that I already know to…to trick me. I know these things, and therefore I could be making all this up. Yes, me. Making it up in my head. Maybe Montrose was right…”

I hadn’t thought about that quack doctor in years. I hated that man. He was very tall and thin, with darker skin, thinning hair, and a tiny mustache that twitched like mouse whiskers. He wore perfectly
round glasses that always made him look surprised and therefore made me feel like I was in some odd way always surprising.

I remember in one session, he said I should try bossing my imaginary friend around. My mother always told me not to be bossy so this was very confusing to me, but I realize this might come in handy right now. So I look him in the eye, point my finger to his face and say—nothing, because he interrupts me.

“Your phone is about to ring. It’s Blake. Your blonde-obsessed friend, as you so affectionately coin him. Don’t answer it.”

It rings. I look at the caller ID:
BLAKE LIGHTNER
. For a second, I almost snatch up the phone and scream for help, but I have no idea how I’m going to explain this, and Blake’s probably calling about some fabulous date he had. So I withdraw my hand.

“Okay
that
I wouldn’t have known.” So my theory that I’m going insane is unwinding. I look at him. “Who are you?”

“The one you accused of never doing anything to help you. Some people call me God. Occasionally in vain.”

It’s very odd, because I’m literally about to take God’s name in vain. I’m not usually the cussing type. It’s just that certain situations—this would be a good example—cause questionable language to invade my vocabulary.

“God. Right. God has shown up in my living room. That’s funny.” I let out a halfhearted laugh, because secretly I feel like I’m going to burst into tears. Of course, laughing makes me look just as hormonal and insane, and I fear that I may land in a psych hospital either way.

“Is that so hard to believe?” he asks.

I study his quizzical expression, beautiful eyes, square chin, and
sculptured cheekbones. This is a guy that I’d notice, you know? If he’d been at speed dating, I’d have marked him down. So my insides wiggle at the weirdness of it all. Not that I ever imagined God coming down to meet me, but if he did, I’d, well, I just think he’d lean more toward the Morgan Freeman look with a voice like James Earl Jones, or he’d have long wavy hair like Colin Farrell tried. I don’t know. This guy, he just doesn’t fit the mold.

I cross my arms. “
God
has never been in the business of coming to my rescue. Or doing anything for me, for that matter.”

“You gotta lay off those inflammatory generalizations.”

I hold up a finger to retort, but my lips and finger freeze as I watch him hop off the arm of the couch and head out of the room.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer as he goes upstairs.

I follow the stalker, a.k.a. God, taking two stairs at a time because he’s vanished like he might’ve just floated all the way to the top. I’m out of breath as I fly into my bedroom. I stand in the doorway, my fists planted on my hips, breathing hard and trying to rationalize why I would follow a stranger into my own bedroom. This is how people
turn up on 48 Hours.

I decide I will stop referring to him as Stalker because that just makes me look like an idiot. Referring to him as God makes me look crazy, but I’ll take crazy over idiot.

He is sitting on the left side of my bed, Indian style. I’m about to protest, because I never, ever, ever sit on my bed with my shoes on. It completely grosses me out when I see someone else do it to my bed or anyone else’s. I start to demand he take off his shoes when I notice his boots on the floor. He’s actually in his socks.

And surrounded by my journals. My journals! I gasp, because I notice he is also holding my feathered purple pen. Nobody holds my feathered purple pen! It’s my own personal holy grail. My heart is pounding even as I stare at it.

I hold up my hands. “Back away from the pen. Please. Just put the pen down.”

He does. Into the pocket on his shirt. And picks up one of my journals.

“Hey! Ever heard of the word
private
?”

“I already know your thoughts.”

“That’s right. You’re psychic.”

“Omniscient.”

“And can I just add
intrusive?
I mean that in the nicest way.”

He waves the journal in his hand. “Did you know that out of your one hundred nine journals, you have penned twelve hundred fifty-six ways a man could propose to you?”

Yes, I’m huffy, but I don’t care. I mean, the gall of this guy. I would say he just pulled that proposal number out of the air, except I have a bad habit of counting things. Numbers like me and I like numbers. He is correct.

“Well,” I say, gesturing toward the journals, “we see the way my pen translates into real life.”

“Jessie, if you could ask me for one gift, what would it be?”

“If you are God, which I am not saying I believe you are, don’t you already know?”

“I do.”

“Then you tell me.”

He plucks the purple pen out of his pocket, swings his legs over
the side of the bed, and stands up. Normally this would cause me to instinctively reach for my Mace—or possibly toss my hair. Instead, I stand there, a little rigid, as he comes right up to me.

He’s staring at me, directly into my eyes, like he might actually be able to read my mind. I should note that it’s not a serial-killer kind of stare, where red flags are going off and every hair on your body is standing up like a Chia Pet. I actually feel kind of calm. His face is eight inches from mine, and I have to tell you, I’m a personal-space kind of gal. Normally I’d go all air traffic controller on him and fly him right out of my safe zone. But I don’t. I just stand there like a geek, worried about my purple pen but not worried why this man is staring at me.

In a quiet, controlled voice he says, “You want your love story. So much so that you fight tears every night, wishing there were someone beside you.” He points behind him. “Someone to sleep right there on that side of the bed. He has to be a left-side-of-the-bed sleeper because you’ve been sleeping on the right side far too long to change now.”

I scratch my hairline, trying to hold back tears. “It’s just personal preference. I’m not a bed zealot or anything.”

He smiles. “You leave space for him. You want the one who matches the man you’ve written about year after year.”

Drip.
One tear down my cheek.

He walks into my bathroom. I follow him. “You’re not asking too much,” he says. “A guy who wipes up at the sink, who wears cologne to enhance and not cover up, and, these are your words not mine, someone who understands the importance of Lysol.’”

I feel weak. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to help you.”

“Why? I don’t even like you. I haven’t stepped foot in a church since—”

“August 15, fourteen years ago.” He exits the bathroom. I glance at the sink. Water droplets! I quickly wipe them up and hurry to follow him. He’s standing near the window…like in my dream the other night. “I know it’s hard,” he says. “There are some things I just can’t answer for you yet.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” I can also see him twirling my purple pen between his fingers like it’s some kind of good luck charm. I let go of that theory—that it’s a good luck charm—four years ago, but I still don’t like anybody touching it. Blake grabbed it once to jot down a phone number. He never made that mistake again.

He smiles and stops twirling the pen. “I can write this story for you, if you’re willing to give me the pen.”

I stare at the pen. “Everything I’ve accomplished in my life, I’ve done myself. Me. Alone. Why should I trust you now?”

“You haven’t asked me for help.” He looks at the purple pen, and I study his expression. He seems to know its importance. “Of course, you can keep doing things your way. If that’s working for you.”

I look him in the eyes, study every minuscule movement on his face. He sits down on the edge of the bed and slips his boots on.

“So you take the pen. Then what? You want me to sit down, shut up, and stay out of your way?”

“Oh no. You’ll be busy.”

“Doing what?”

He finishes lacing up his boots and stands. He holds out the purple pen. I snatch it from him, my fingers quickly running back and forth over the feather. I take a deep breath of relief.

“You have twenty-four hours to decide if you want to give me that pen.” He brushes by me and toward my bedroom door. I clutch my pen, thankful to have it back, then turn to follow him.

Except he’s gone.

I hurry to the door to look down the stairs, but there’s nothing. No movement, no footsteps. All is quiet.

I turn and go back into my bedroom. Not all one hundred nine journals are on my bed. Just a few, scattered around the bedspread like there’s no particular order to them. There
is
an order to them, and I promptly return them to my closet and refile. My heart’s not into it, but I straighten the bedspread anyway. Wrinkles bother me. But not as much as what just happened. I’m still having a hard time figuring out if I need to exorcize a figment of my imagination.

It’s a weird thing, but I feel peaceful, like I’ve just had a spa day.

I decide to go brush my teeth, because cleaning anything always makes me feel better. I brush a full five minutes as I stare into my mirror, trying to find that nine-year-old girl who was so confused and so lonely. Is she back?

I finish up and decide to change into my pajamas and say goodbye to this Valentine’s disaster once and for all. I go downstairs, check the locks, turn out the lights, and head for the bathroom to do a final wipedown.

But as I wipe up the water droplets and step outside my bathroom, I hear a loud thud downstairs.

I scurry down the stairs, waving my purple pen. I knew it! The guy’s already gone back on his word. “Hey!” I yell into the darkness as I actually fly off the fourth stair and hit the carpet, barely landing on two feet. “Hey! You said twenty-four hours!”

“Do you have a guy in your room?!”

The front door shuts, and there stands my sister, Brooklyn. Even in the dark, her bright blond hair shines like the moon is hovering above her. I flip on the light, only to notice two suitcases in her hands. She blinks at me, her heavy eyelashes batting in spite of themselves. Her gaze slowly climbs the stairs.

“Good grief, no. Not that I know of.” I add this because the guy has proved he can appear without warning. I glance upstairs. Everything seems quiet.

“Then who are you talking to?” Brooklyn flops onto the couch,
tossing a pillow to the floor. I walk over, dust it off, and put it back in place.

“No one. What are you doing here?”

She sighs and sulks. Vintage Brooklyn. “My play closed tonight. Gary kicked me out.”

Not sure what one has to do with the other, but somehow everything in Brooklyn’s life is connected. She goes through men like cats go through mice, and I am having a hard time feeling any bit of sympathy for her.

“I won’t mention he fell for the leading woman.”

Oh. Ouch. Okay, that helps. “Wow. You okay?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m more concerned about why I didn’t see this coming.” She kicks her feet onto the coffee table. “I can read men, Jessie. You know that. I can look across the room and tell you if a guy is interested in me or not. So where did I go wrong with Gary?”

Where should I start? I keep my mouth shut and straighten the magazines she’s kicked to the side.

“I think I need to reevaluate my life, Jess. Just try to understand why I seem to end up with dysfunctional men over and over.”

I know this seems harsh, but it’s the truth: these guys don’t strike me as dysfunctional until Brooklyn gets ahold of them. Just a candid observation.

One of her suitcases has tipped over, and I lift it back upright. She is glaring at me. “I’m taking my room back. I don’t care what you say!”

“I know. Your suitcases did the talking for you.”

That steams her. She hates when I talk to her in a matter-of-fact voice. She’s kind of a drama queen and tone is everything to her, so
when I don’t have a tone it freaks her out. I smile as she clomps upstairs. It’s not the first time she’s barged back in. My place is like her own personal halfway house.