Never the Bride (10 page)

We went through a lot of straws back in the day. I had a pocketful at the funeral. She chewed through all of them in two hours.

I study her face. She doesn’t look much different than when she was a kid. She’s got a perfectly round face, ruddy and bright cheeks, and eyes that dazzle like a disco ball. She really is very adorable.

“Brooklyn, do you…”

“What?”

“How to say this.” I try to make eye contact with her, but she’s playing with her straw “Um…does God ever, you know, talk to you?” All casual-like.

“Huh?”

“Talk to you.”

Brooklyn laughs. “No. But I occasionally give him a piece of my mind. In fact, just last night I questioned why in the world he would create a dork like Gary Griffin. I mean, what’s the point? The guy’s a moron.”

“Right. Yeah. So when you’re talking to God about Gary the moron, does he…” My hands start talking, and I have to put them in my lap. “He doesn’t show up, does he?”

“Yeah, right.” She chuckles, but then stops. With the straw dangling out of her mouth she stares over the table at me. “Are you okay? Or do I need to call Dr. What’s His Name?”

“I’m joking,” I say, standing to grab my rag again.

“Yeah, well, that kind of sense of humor can put you in a strait-jacket.” She tosses her straw onto the table and stands. “I’m going to go shower. Can I borrow your stuff?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. Borrow away. Why not? I watch her climb the stairs and disappear. I let out a tense breath. Why in the world would I broach this subject with Brooklyn? With anybody, for that matter. I sound like a quack. “I sound like a quack!” I whisper to the ceiling. But I am alone, and if this or the conversation moments before is any indication, I’m starting to understand why.

As Brooklyn leaves for her night out, I am preparing for my night in. I get in my comfy clothes, fix some canned soup, curl up on the couch, and work on my proposal for Malia. I can’t write fast enough. All kinds of ideas are flowing, and after two hours, I’ve managed to put together a terrific game plan, along with a budget and long-term goals.

Yet, even as I am focused on the task I have been ordered to take on, I feel him…okay
Him
, nagging at me. I keep looking around, but He is not here. I listen carefully for noises downstairs, but all is quiet.

However, in the midst of the silence, there is a whisper. I don’t hear it with my ears. Deep in my heart, where I hardly ever go, something is being said.

I walk to the kitchen and make myself some tea, contemplating what it is that lingers in my heart. Not words. Not thoughts. Something else, yet complete and clear.

I take my tea and go to the computer, which is already on and logged in to one of my online dating pages. I sit there for a moment. I don’t understand why this is hard. These dating sites have never worked for me. And somewhere inside of me I always felt I was worth more than a profile on a page.

Still, my fingertips hover over the keys, barely touching their tops.

I sense Him, like He’s poised over my shoulder. “Give me a second, will ya?” I say. “I’m not fast like You. I didn’t create my little online world here in six days, you know.”

I don’t feel much sympathy back, so I sigh and hit Delete.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE YOUR PROFILE?

I stare at the question. I feel like I’m deleting myself. Or a version of myself—a hotter, sexier, more interesting version of myself, with pics of me, only in good lighting.

After this is gone, what is left? I chew my lower lip and try not to burst into tears. This is way harder than I thought it would be. Yet I have a sense that things can’t move forward until I give this up. But it’s like a smoker quitting cold turkey. I’m afraid of the withdrawal symptoms.

I punch the Enter key.

YOU HAVE BEEN DELETED
.

Gee. That sounds promising.

I look up. Don’t really know why. He has yet to hang from the ceiling like a bat or something. “Okay. All canceled. Satisfied?”

No reply.

I take my purple pen out of my pocket and run my fingers through the feather on the end. My twenty-four hours is almost up.

It takes four attempts, but I finally lay it on the desk and swivel around. “Here it is,” I say, pitching my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m ready. Come on. There’s a purple pen here.” I twiddle my thumbs and swivel in long, slow circles in my chair. “Just awaitin’ …”

Nothing.

I’m growing frustrated. He shows up when I don’t want Him to and doesn’t show up when I do. Who does He think He is?

Oh yeah.

Okay, so maybe I need to go to Him. Yes, that would be the proper, perhaps reverent thing to do.

And where would one find God at ten o’clock in the evening?

I stuff the pen in my pocket and grab my keys.

I didn’t really take into account how creepy churches are late at night. No glowing windows. Just haunting light shot straight into the sky, highlighting a steeple that from my angle looks more like a dagger.

We’ve already established I have an active imagination.

I don’t know why, but I actually go to the front door to see if it’s unlocked. Somewhere inside of me it seems like a church more than a grocery store should have twenty-four-hour access. But no, locked up like a bank vault. As it should be, with the thousands of dollars’ worth of sound equipment they’ve got in there.

I slink along the front wall, hiding in the shadows while acknowledging to myself that I really should go back to church. Maybe if I’d made myself go and dragged Brooklyn with me, she would’ve turned out a little more, I don’t know, like me. Of course, the question is, how would I have turned out?

I realize I should pay more attention to what I’m doing. If you’re going to break into a church at night, that should be your focus. I slide around the corner and am facing west now. The regular sounds of the night—distant traffic, dogs barking—bring a strange comfort. I look up into the sky. It is surprisingly bright. The stars pulse like they’re dancing to the rapid beat of my heart. Honestly, I have never done anything like this before. I have never shoplifted or cheated on a test or exaggerated on my dating profile. I believe in honesty and that people should not break into buildings, especially churches.

However, I am breaking in only to deliver something important, not to take anything. And I happen to know how to break into buildings with little damage because of the numerous times my sister has gotten us locked out of the condo.

I realize how I must look, with my purple pen hanging out of my pants pocket, my tire iron tucked under my shirt, and my eyes wide with what can only be described as guilt.

I’m on the secluded side of the church, where they keep the garbage cans and don’t keep the landscaping. It’s very alley-like except there’s not another building very close. A window, right above the air-conditioning unit, catches my attention. I should’ve brought a flashlight—but there is only so much one can stuff into a size A bra.

I give a quick glance around and decide it’s now or never. I hop onto the air-conditioning unit. The window is old and not super easy to pry open. It’s creaking like it’s doing a haunted-house impression, but finally I manage to shove it open enough to crawl in. I stuff the tire iron back in place.

Dusting off, I find myself standing in an office and being distracted by the coffee stains on the desk.

Move along, move along.

The door is locked, but from the inside. I unlock it and am now in a pitch-black hallway, which does not have the benefit of outside light. I let my eyes adjust as I follow the hallway around in a semicircle. Finally I come to the foyer and the sound of somebody tinkling. I pray it’s not me. Turns out it’s actually a little cherub fountain.

And beyond the fountain is the sanctuary. The doors are open, and the room seems to glow like a firefly. Not sure where the light’s coming from, but it’s definitely not as black as the rest of the church.

I like the stained glass and take a moment to observe it, then decide I better get my business done. Ahead is a lavishly decorated altar, with beautiful white floral arrangements and tall, thick, stately candles.

I start down the center aisle. Then can’t stop myself from humming the “Bridal March,” which then causes me to saunter like I’ve got a train flowing behind me and a hundred pairs of eyes watching me. I clutch my purple pen like a bouquet and take my time. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment and you don’t want to hurry it. I’ve seen girls rush down to the altar like they’re afraid the guy’s not going to wait any longer. I say make ’em wait!

I grin and nod, pretending to see people I love as they express their adoration while I pass by. Up ahead are Brooklyn and Nicole, side by side in bridesmaid dresses any woman would kill to wear. Nothing taffeta, nothing dyed to match. Simple. Graceful. Eggshell white with a scalloped collar and arm-flattering sleeves.

I reach the altar, pretend to hand my bouquet off, and turn. To nothing. I try to imagine what my groom will look like, but the only thing popping into my head is
Him.
Maybe that’s because I need a
good dose of reality—that I am here not for my own wedding, but to turn over my favorite purple pen to God, the pen that has written down a thousand hopes and dreams.

The wedding music is still playing in my head.

It’s like a compulsion. Before I know it, I’ve actually stepped onto the green-carpeted stage and grabbed a microphone.

“To my husband…”

I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous. But I’ve always wondered what my vows might sound like spoken. I’ve written them a hundred times, a hundred different ways. But I’ve actually never said them out loud.

“To my husband. I have waited so long for you. You have filled up the pages of my life before you ever touched my heart. But when you did touch my heart, you filled it more than words could ever express…”

I smile. This is sounding pretty goo—
Ahhhh!

“Freeze!”

I throw my hands up. The microphone drops to the carpet with a thud, but the purple pen is still in my clutches. A bright blinding light bounces toward me. I can’t see a thing; I only hear footsteps on the carpet.

“Don’t move!” More instructions. Okay, freeze. Don’t move. And come up with something clever. Quickly.

“Surrender your weapon! Now!”

Weapon? I look up at my hands. Oh, the purple pen. I’ve got lights and presumably guns pointing at me, and still, it’s a little hard to hand it over.
Surrender
the pen?

“NOW!”

I swallow and gently bend my knees. It takes three tries, but I finally set it on the carpet and stand back up.

The light lowers and behind it are my two best friends: Garrety and Lakeland.

“Oh, it’s our favorite speed dater,” Garrety says.

“Looking for your imaginary friend?” adds Lakeland.

I walk, as calmly as possible, off the stage.

Garrety peers at me. “Is that a tire iron sticking out of your—”

“Look,” I say, “I know how this appears.”

“It appears as though you jimmied the window open above the air-conditioning unit, which incidentally is tied to a silent alarm, and you’re now trying to steal valuable sound equipment.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything. In fact, I was giving God my…”

“Yes?” Lakeland leans in.

“My, um…” I look longingly back at my pen.

“What’s your name?” Garrety asks.

“Jessie Stone.”

“Lakeland, let me have a moment with Miss Stone.”

“Sure.” Lakeland steps to the back of the church and begins examining the sound board. Garrety sits on the highest step on the stage and pats it, indicating I should sit next to him. I do, because really I don’t see that I have any other options. I eye my pen, sitting on the carpet. The tire iron is awkwardly sticking out of my shirt, but I decide to pretend it’s not there, because he hasn’t mentioned it again and so I probably shouldn’t either.

“Now, young lady, why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”

I feel my eyes moisten. “It’s very complicated, Officer.”

“It always is. Just start from the beginning.”

I shake my head. “I don’t even know how to explain this.”

“When we came in, it sounded like you were rehearsing for a wedding.”

I nod solemnly. “Yes. I was.”

“So speed dating paid off?”

“No. I’m not even dating anyone. How pathetic is that? I’ve just always wanted to be married. I know it sounds stupid, but there’s something in me that needs that. I want it. I’ve dreamed my whole life of finding the right guy. But I’m thirty-four. Time is running out for me.”

Garrety shifts awkwardly. “You know, I was once like you.”

“You?”

“Me.” He smiles and rubs his bulging waistline. “I know, hard to believe. But I’m actually quite the romantic.”

“I can see that, I really can.”

“I’ve been married and divorced twice, and I can speak to the fact that as terrific as romance is, it’s not enough to carry you through the hard times. My first wife I married straight out of high school. She went to the prom with me, so I figured that was enough to get her to go through life with me.” He chuckles. “No such luck.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, patting his arm.

“After that, my self-esteem was pretty low. So I married a woman I thought was too good for me, just because she showed some interest. I thought I was pretty lucky that any woman of that caliber would even look in my direction, let alone date me.” He sighs a little. It’s obvious to me he’s still in a lot of pain over it. “Anyway, the entire relationship was tumultuous. She never got’ me, you know? She didn’t understand anything about me. She didn’t even think I was funny, and
that was the real dagger. I was never the best-looking guy around, but everyone had always told me I was funny Then here was this woman saying I wasn’t.”

I lean in to him. “God thinks you’re hilarious. He says you have a great sense of humor.”

Garrety eyes me. “Huh. So…that’s why you’re here? Because you hear God talking to you?”

I lean back against the step and cross my arms over the tire iron. “Let’s just say He likes to get into my business.”