“Relax,” said the photographer. “Rain on your wedding day is good luck.”
So I relaxed. We needed all the luck we could get. The streets were overwhelmed with puddles and our handful of guests had to play hopscotch to reach the church. My mother came into the room where I was getting ready ten minutes before the wedding was to start. She kissed one cheek and patted the other.
“I’ve never seen you so happy,” she said. “That warms my soul.”
“Is Sam here?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Your brother wouldn’t miss your wedding, my boy.” She smiled. “I know you butt heads but he still loves you.”
I shrugged like it didn’t matter but it did. The relationship I had with my brother wasn’t my choice. He always hated me, even as children, and over the years his resentment had just deepened. When she left I texted Yara.
You still want to do this, right?
WHY?! She texted back right away. Did Ferdinand say I was a flight risk?
I laughed as I stared down at my phone. He had.
Even with all of her trepidation about the wedding I never doubted she’d show. Ferdinand asked what her flight risk was, and I brushed him off even though I knew he was serious.
I’ll be there, Lisey. I love you deeply.
When Yara walked into the church, her shoulders and face were spotted with raindrops. She looked ethereal…glowing in the dim lighting of the chapel. My heart beat wildly in my chest and I smiled so much my cheeks hurt. She looked steadily on as she walked down the aisle, her eyes fixed on my face, holding a small bouquet of white flowers. She didn’t smile back at me, her face neutral. It looked like she was trying to be brave, but I didn’t see that at the time, that was something I realized later.
As we took our vows, we were interrupted by the rumbling sound of thunder. I had to pause twice just so she could hear me. And when Yara said, “I do,” the lights flickered and everyone gasped. What foreboding. The only time she was herself the entire night was when we were alone for a few minutes in the bathroom while I held up her dress so she could pee. She giggled and hid her face while I teased her for being helpless. We kissed at the sink as she washed her hands. And then later when we walked hand-in-hand back to our hotel instead of hailing a cab, letting the rain soak through our wedding clothes so that when we finally got to the lobby we left puddles all over the floor.
I booked a suite on the tenth floor; the elevator ride was long and excruciatingly cold. When we reached the door, I stopped her so I could carry her inside. She made a show of rolling her eyes and acting irritated, but I knew she liked it.
“That was fun,” Yara said, once we were inside the room.
“The wedding?” I asked, only half serious.
“The rain,” she replied simply, turning around so I could unzip her dress.
I had an idea. “Can you go stand right there…by the window?” I shrugged off my suit jacket and tossed it over a chair.
She narrowed her eyes, but surprisingly did as I asked, walking stiffly to stand in front of the wall of glass. Behind her was the city, the lights colored and twinkling. I took a picture of her standing there, her mascara running, and her white dress plastered to her body. I could see her nipples and the pink of her thighs where the material clung to skin. Long tendrils of her hair were stuck to her neck. She was more beautiful than she’d ever been in that moment, and I had to look away so she wouldn’t see the emotion on my face.
“Yara Lisey,” I said, setting my phone down.
When she smiled her lips puckered as she tried to bite back laughter.
“It sounds nice,” she said. “Like a musician’s wife.” She wiggled her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips.
“Help me take this thing off, will you?”
She turned her back to me again and I unzipped the dress, licking rivulets of water off her neck and back. She shivered and I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or me. When she turned around there was that hungry fire in her eyes, so I kissed her good as she flicked open the buttons on my shirt.
Later we lay in bed, waiting for our room service and touching each other almost shyly like we’d never done it before.
“You’re a husband,” she said. “Is that weird?”
“No, not even a little bit. I knew I would be as soon as I saw you, English.”
“You haven’t called me English in weeks,” she said. “I missed it.”
I thought back, trying to remember why. “I guess we’ve just been busy.”
“Busy?” She frowned. “Too busy for nicknames?”
“Too busy for affection. Isn’t that fucked up? The weeks before a wedding all of the softness in a relationship goes away.” We hadn’t fought very much, but there had been days of quiet stiffness when neither of us chose to speak to the other.
She laughed. “Well it’s over now, thank God. We can get back to living.”
“Yara Lisey,” I said.
And then the doorbell rang with our food and I stood up to put my robe on. I was happy, so happy; the way you feel when you realize that out of the billions of people on the planet you’ve found your one.
She didn’t stick around long enough to change her name.
Back then Yara cared more about Petra than I did. I thought her fixation would stop after we were married. But I think Petra is ultimately why she left. Or maybe I just need a reason to understand why she left and that’s the one I chose.
“Do you think she’s pretty?” she’d ask.
I did.
“Yes.”
“Do you think she’s into you?”
I did.
“Yes.”
“Do you think she understands you better than I can?”
I did not.
“No.”
“Why are you asking me these things, English?”
“Because I know you’ll tell the truth.”
She was right. It was hard for me not to tell the truth and she used that against me. Sometimes it felt like she was building a case with my truth. I started being an omission kind of guy, to field off Yara’s truth searching. I told myself I was protecting our relationship. For the first six weeks after we were married I was happy. Yara seemed happy too. She took to baking, which I’d never seen her do before. When I asked her about it, she blushed and said baking was what you were supposed to do when married.
“I think that was in the nineteen fifties.” I laughed.
Yara waved a spatula at me. “So what do we do now then?”
I came up behind her and kissed her neck. “We fuck,” I said. “It’s the new baking.”
She threw her arms around my neck, still holding the spatula. I felt cake batter drip down my neck as she kissed me.
“Good,” she said when she pulled away. “I hate baking, it’s such a fucking bore.”
I saw Petra a few weeks after Yara and I were married. I was at Ferdinand’s house with a couple other people watching a Seahawks game. Yara was working the nightshift at the restaurant. I’d forgotten about the text until she walked in, and then I felt guilty. I’d deleted it so my wife wouldn’t see—or rather so she’d not have a reason to be angry with me.
I was sitting on Ferdinand’s couch between Brick and a guy Ferdinand grew up with named Erick. When Erick went to the kitchen to grab another beer, Petra took his spot next to me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey.”
“Sorry about that text,” she said, ducking her head. “I was drunk.”
“Drunk texting is never good,” I said. I was trying to make things light, but she nodded somberly and looked down at her hands.
“I know. One of my friends took my phone from me before I could send another.” She laughed and I smiled stiffly wishing the game would come back on and give me an excuse to end the conversation.
“The truth is I needed to say this in person.” She cleared her throat and looked around nervously. I did too. The guys were all in the kitchen with their be
er waiting out the commercials.
“I…uh…well, I am in love with you, David,” she said. “I know you’re married, and I know this must be awkward, but I needed to tell you.”
I stared at her. Why did this feel like a set up?
“Why did you need to tell me?” I asked.
Petra looked stricken. She opened and closed her mouth and then glanced over her shoulder to see where everyone else was.
“I thought you should know,” she stammered.
“I’m in love with Yara. I’m married to Yara. Why would I need to know that?”
It looked like she wanted to cry. I softened my tone. “Petra, I’m with Yara.”
She stood up abruptly and nodded her head. “I see,” she said. “I just thought…”
“You thought wrong,” I said firmly.
She left before I could say anything else. Ferdinand came over as soon as she was gone.
“What was that about, man?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Listen, I’m going to take off. I think I’ll stop at The Jane so I can see Yara.”
He nodded still looking at the door.
I needed to touch her. See her face. She’d been right about Petra—even though she’d never come out and directly accused her—she’d acted suspicious of her since they’d met. Female intuition, my mother always said, was never wrong.
When I walked into The Jane I didn’t get the welcome I was expecting. Yara spotted me right away, but instead of greeting me, she turned her back and walked toward the kitchen. I grabbed the only available bar stool, telling myself it was busy and she hadn’t meant it. I waited for her to come back, my unease climbing by the minute. When she finally emerged around the corner, she was carrying a tray of food and wouldn’t look at me. This wasn’t like her. No matter where we were, we caught eyes. I always found her from the stage when she was at one of our shows.
“Yara,” I said when she walked back around the bar. She grabbed a glass and glanced over at me while she poured a beer.
“You seen Instagram?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, I have.”
I opened the app and there it was, the first picture that popped up was a group pic Brick had posted thirty minutes ago, right after I left. I hadn’t even realized someone had taken a picture. Petra was sitting next to me on the couch and she must have just said something because we were looking at each other. I ran a hand over my face and glanced at Yara, who was leaning over the bar talking to a customer. She pointed something out on the menu and then turned her head to look at me. I could see the hurt in her eyes. I tried to see the picture as she saw it: Petra in very short shorts, leaning toward me in what looked like intimate conversation, one shoulder exposed when her shirt slipped down. My mouth was slightly open as I said something to her. It looked like we were having a grand ol’ time instead of how uncomfortable the situation actually was.
I stayed until the game was over and the bar cleared out. Yara still hadn’t come over and I didn’t entirely blame her.
Understanding comes with knowledge. Knowledge comes with time. I tell myself that in time Petra will do for me what Yara did. Fill the void, consume me with her quirks, and love will override the doubts.
She does not. But that’s my fault, not Petra’s. It’s not true what they say, that you can only give your heart away once. That’s the philosophy of the young. The old know better, they know it’s not the heart that you give away, but the mind. Fuck…shit…the mind is a powerful thing. It controls the heart, but most people don’t know that.
I have to find her.
Dear Yara,
The band’s in London November 12th. Want to catch up?
David
So casual. So nonchalant. You’d think we were only acquaintances, that we’d once sipped a couple of beers together instead of tattooing love on our skin and reciting marriage vows. I read the e-mail again and analyze the shit out of it. How can I not? I count out the words: thirteen. The punctuation: four. His name, my name. They used to go together. A flippant, casual turn of phrase: catch up. In the end, there’s only so much psychoanalyzing you can do to a thirteen-word e-mail. I move on with my life, feeling rather pathetic. But not before I e-mail him back. And okay, sure, I don’t move on with my life. I am stuck. What does moving on entail? Forgetting? Forgiving? Being happy? Besides, I know what he wants to talk about. I know why he’s coming. He wants his divorce.
Hi David,
Yeah, sounds good. Let me know when and where.
Yara
My e-mail is a word shorter.
I’m that petty.
Why now? It’s been three years. He’s met someone. I can feel it.
A YEAR BEFORE THE FUCKING E-MAIL
It’s Friday night. I put on my only dress and a pair of ripped tights, and head to Posey’s for her monthly get-together.
“Look nice,” she’d told me. “None of that Seattle grunge you’ve been wearing.”
The weather is getting warmer, people are wearing fewer layers and more smiles as they walk about the city. It’s comical to see, everyone clamoring for the sun. We look like children gazing up at the faces of our parents, dim smiles and glassy eyes—winter’s presence still paling our cheeks. I’ve known Posey since grade school. She kicked a boy’s arse once when he told me I was ugly. Right there on the playground. She was suspended from school for a week, but that hadn’t mattered to her. Even when her mum took away her Gameboy she’d insisted that he deserved it.
I still remember the shock and glee I’d felt watching it all unfold. Someone was standing up for me.
“Who’s ugly now?!” she’d screamed, standing over him, staring down at his bloodied face.
Even back then Posey had worn androgynous clothes. I remember the long sleeve black button-down and the black jeans hanging limply on her skinny frame, an emo child warrior with blood on her knuckles. She’s insane but those are the sorts of people you cherish. After we graduated I went to university for boring shit—business classes—and then switched my major to hospitality management, while Posey got a degree in art history and now ran a gallery in central London. Her life is beautiful, a reflection of everything she is. My life is also a reflection of everything I am, and that’s quite embarrassing.
I stop at a flower shop a block from her flat and pick up a bouquet to take with me: Marsala calla lilies mixed with grape hyacinth—she’d be more impressed with their names than the actual flowers. Posey lives in a flat right on the river, just a ten-minute walk from my place, which is significantly less posh. Her parties are always the best. She gets the top shelf liquor and plays only eighties music, which is fine by me. Dancing drunk to the eighties is life. But, more than that, she makes a point of inviting handsome men as an incentive for her girlfriends to attend. I’d be fine with just the expensive booze, but I suppose the scenery is a nice plus. When I arrive, the party is in full swing. A man I’ve not seen before is dancing with Sharon, the sluttiest of all of my friends. She has her leg propped up on his hip and is swinging an invisible lasso over her head as she grinds against him. He’s into it, biting his lip and staring at her jiggling tits. They aren’t good tits, they’re just tits. When he sees me he stops dancing and runs a hand through his hair like he’s forgotten where he is. Sharon doesn’t notice, she spins around and grinds her backside against him, whipping her hair from side to side. We stare at each other for a moment, the Dirty Dancing soundtrack is playing and I feel like I should be carrying a watermelon. I break eye contact and squeeze past them to find Posey. She’s in the kitchen taking a tray out of the oven, a cigarette stuck between her lips.
“Who’s that guy dancing with Sharon?” I ask.
“Fuck,” she says. The movement of her lips makes ash fall from the tip of her cigarette and onto the tray she’s holding. Something sizzles.
“I fucked up the appetizers again. Oh, that’s Ethan,” she kicks the oven closed with her foot, “a work wanker. Cooks the gallery’s books. He�
�s sexy but sort of an arse, if you know what I mean.” I know what she means. And then she adds, “I hear he has a massive Moby.”
Moby Dick is my favorite book. She knows it bothers me when she makes penial references around it.
I ignore him because every other girl isn’t. I’m not one to feed into fandom. Eventually, toward the end of the night, when I’m getting ready to leave, he walks over looking sloshed and holding a beer. He looks at me expectantly. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. It’s me he’s come for.
“Haven’t you noticed?”
“Noticed what?” I ask. I’m surprised he’s broken away from his fan club. I look around him to see if there are any girls trailing behind him.
“I’ve been eye-fucking you all night. I thought it was obvious.”
“Hmmm,” I say, setting my drink down and digging in my purse for my lipstick. “I’ve noticed you eye-fuck yourself in almost every mirror and reflective surface you pass. I must have missed that part. Thank you for fitting me in, by the way.”
I drop the lipstick back in my purse and look away, bored. He’s very good looking. It’s almost hard not to look at him.
“Your name is Yara Phillips, you were born in Manchester, went to school in London, and traveled all over the US just for fun. Your friends say you’re a city whore, and also a man-hater, but that if I asked nicely you might say yes.”
“Ask what nicely?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. And my friends were fucking traitors. They could fuck off, the lot of them.
“I haven’t decided,” he says. “Dinner…drinks…a good fuck.”
He’s drunk. I decide not to be too hard on him. And besides, he took the time to gather some information on me. Not a complete narcissist, yeah?
I eye Ethan warily, the scruff on his chin, the deep-set eyes, the too-cool-for-school haircut. This boy/girl dance is exhausting. It feels the same each time: flirt, sex, date, disappoint, break up. I’m made of glass not steel.
Atheists Who Kneel and Pray Page 14
