Don't Kiss the Bride: An Age Gap, Marriage of Convenience Romance

by Carian Cole

  He slowly pulls into the driveway and throws the truck in park.

  “Anybody home?” His forehead creases as he takes in the dark house, noticing how the thick curtains covering the windows don’t allow the slightest glimpse of light in or out. No visible blue glow from a television playing in the living room. Cobwebs cover the porch light, which hasn’t had a bulb in it for years.

  “My mom is home. She keeps it dark because she gets bad headaches.” I recite the lie well. After all, I’ve been telling it successfully for years. “Thanks for helping me today and giving me a ride.”

  “Not a problem at all.”

  I hesitate before saying good-bye, wondering if I’ll see him again. “Are you still gonna be working on that house? By the school?”

  He nods. “Yeah, we’ve got a few more weeks left there.”

  “Cool. I’ll probably see you around, then?”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  I bite my lip to hide my smile. “Well, have a good one, Jude.”

  “You too, Skylar. Stay outta trouble.”

  “I’ll try.”

  When he smiles, one side of his mouth lifts higher than the other. All of a sudden it hits me that I’m in a car alone with a super-hot, much older guy with ink-covered, tan muscles, hair to his shoulders, and eyes the color of slate. He’s not pretty or polished, but he’s got that whole rugged, sexy construction worker package. Tight white T-shirt, faded dusty jeans and worn brown work boots. Attractive dirtiness.

  I jump out of his truck and slam the door, but he doesn’t pull away. I realize he’s trying to be all noble and gentlemanly and actually watch me get to my front door safely.

  Sighing, I trek up the crumbling walkway to the house, then turn to wave at him with one hand on the handle of the rusty screen door. I force a smile that says, Yes, I’m home safe. Nothing to worry about.

  If only that were true.

  I feel kinda bad when he smiles and waves back before reversing into the street, because he seems like a nice guy. After waiting a few seconds to make sure he’s no longer watching me, I go around to the rear of the house and past the old camper my dad lived in. I step onto the wooden crate leaning against the house, slide my bedroom window open, and climb inside.

  Fluffle-Up-A-Gus, my cat, jumps off the bed and immediately sprints over to rub against my ankles, tail held high like a flag. I scoop her up and sink my face into her soft, mink-gray fur.

  “I missed you today, Gus.” She erupts into purrs and kneads her paws into my shoulder. “Did you miss me? Let’s get you fed.”

  I gently put her down and fill her dish with crunchy food, then pour water into her bowl from a plastic bottle.

  Yawning, I pull my clothes off and throw them into the hamper, then carefully squat over a large bucket behind the closet door. I wipe myself with a small square of toilet paper and place it in a plastic trash bag, then scoop the clumped urine from the cat litter in the bottom of the bucket, sifting it into the trash bag. I repeat the process with the cat’s litter box on the other side of the closet, then tie the bag up to throw away tomorrow.

  I begin my daily ritual of cleaning my face and body with baby wipes, then spray dry shampoo into my hair.

  Finally, I pull on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. Gus winds around my feet, seeking attention, which I love. Smiling down at her, I kneel in front of my small refrigerator to take out a bottle of water, two slices of bread, and a tub of butter. Worry about my car plagues me as I spread butter on the bread with a plastic knife. I chew absently, trying to calculate how many extra hours I’ll have to work at the boutique to pay for whatever’s wrong with it. There’s only so many hours I can do part-time, so it could take me weeks to pay it off.

  Seems I can never catch a break.

  Before I can settle into bed to watch TV, I unlock the three deadbolts on my bedroom door and peer out into the dark hallway. A sour, musty stench immediately fills my nostrils. My stomach roils with nausea. I can hear the television and see the dim flashes of light coming from the living room at the end of the hall.

  “Goodnight, Mom,” I call out, my voice wavering.

  I can’t see her, but I’m sure she’s still there—on the old, green couch. It’s been months since I’ve attempted to venture out of my bedroom, but I know she’s surrounded by piles upon piles of stuff, possibly reaching the ceiling by now. To get to any other room, or even the front door, I’d have to squeeze through narrow pathways and climb over stacks of boxes and junk covering the floor. The kitchen and bathroom are so filthy and crammed I stopped using them two years ago. Even the old camper is filled to the brim with old clothes, blankets, fake plants, holiday decorations—you name it. My hopes of moving into it when it was empty were dashed when she had it filled in less than a month after my dad left.

  My mother is a hoarder.

  I’ve been forced to take refuge in my bedroom, unable to use the bathroom and running water like a normal person. There’s probably two hundred bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and liquid soap out there amongst the chaotic piles, but if I try to take any, my mom will have an epic fit. I have to keep my bedroom door locked at all times because it’s valuable real estate in her eyes. A twelve-by-fourteen space for her to fill with thousands of dollar-store items, life-size animal statues, treadmills, or faux fur coats.

  She never uses any of the things she buys. They just get added to the museum of her belongings. But in some whacked-out way, it all gives her a kind of satisfaction that I will literally never, ever, understand.

  My father lived in the camper for almost four years, unable to deal with it all. Then one day he was gone, leaving me with a note of apology and the reality of fending for myself in the jungle of this house. He tried to talk to her many times over the years, to get her to seek help, but she refused. I’ve done the same, but she won’t listen. She shuts down and clams up. Now, she barely speaks to me. How can she when we have to wade through mountains of garbage to physically be in the same space? Instead, I have to call or text her to communicate. I used to wonder if she cared about what this was doing to me. If she worried about me climbing through windows, using a bucket as a toilet, and hiding in my room with my cat.

  There’s no use in wondering, though, because I already know the answers.

  I close my door and relock it with a sigh of relief. I’ve managed to create my own little safe world in here with Fluffle-Up-A-Gus. We have everything we need to survive. It’s almost as if the nightmare on the other side of the door doesn’t exist.

  But it’s also slowly starting to feel like I don’t exist, either.

  Chapter 3

  Skylar

  “When are you getting your car back?” Megan asks as we walk our third lap around the track. A light fog is lingering in the air, dampening my skin and frizzing my hair. I’ve had PE first period every year, and my senior year is no different. It sucks getting all sweaty and worked up first thing in the morning when I’m barely even awake, but the plus side is I get to take a hot shower afterward. It fixes my dilemma of not being able to shower at home, and doesn’t spark any suspicion from my classmates. During the summer, I had the interesting and skeevy experience of having to drive to a truck stop to shower twice a week.

  No one knows how bad my mother has gotten. Not even Megan, and she’s been my best friend since fourth grade. After a while she just accepted that I was one of those people who never had friends over. We’d be crazy not to hang out at her house, anyway. They have a theater room and a pool.

  I swat a gnat out of my face. “I’m not sure when I’m getting it back. The mechanic texted me this morning and said he’d let me know after he figures out what’s wrong with it.”

  “Hopefully it won’t take long. I can pick you up every morning, but I won’t be able to give you a ride after school because I have all sorts of shit scheduled basically every day.”

  The only extracurricular activity I have is a part-time job.

  “That’s
okay. I can walk after school to the boutique or home. I’m going to ask Rebecca if I can work the weekend for some extra hours. Who knows how much this is going to cost me.”

  “You should’ve just gotten a used Hyundai. They come with warranties. The ’vette is cool, and it was free, but it’s practically falling apart.”

  “A Hyundai is just a car. It doesn’t have any character.”

  Or sentimental value.

  The ’vette was my grandfather’s. He bought it as a project car a few years ago, with the hopes of totally rebuilding it and giving it to me as a high school graduation gift. I’m sure it was, in a way, a plot to keep me from dropping out. I used to sit in it in his old garage, dreaming about when I could drive it. Unfortunately, life had other plans, and it was left to me in his will. Now his dream for the car has become mine. Until then, I’m proud to drive it as-is.

  Mrs. Stephens, our gym teacher, shakes her head at us as we stroll by the bleachers she’s perched on. “Ladies, you’re supposed to run around the track.”

  “What’s the point of running if no one’s chasing us?” I reply, smiling innocently.

  Unamused, she pushes her dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “At least walk faster. You’re not out here to exercise your mouths.”

  Megan laughs as she ties her long, brown hair up in a ponytail. “This humidity is gross,” she says to me. “I don’t want to exercise anything.”

  “Same.”

  “Friday night we should—” She stops short. “Whoa. Holy biceps, Batman.”

  “Huh?” Confused, I follow the path of her eyes, which leads me directly to Jude, who’s walking down the sidewalk toward the house he’s been working on. A small plastic bag from the convenience store a block away swings from his hand.

  “That’s him,” I say.

  “Him who?” she demands with her eyes still riveted on him.

  “The guy who gave me a ride home. Jude.”

  He turns, and a slow smile spreads across his face when he recognizes me. A pack of classmates sprints past us on the curve of the track, momentarily blocking him from our view.

  “You guys are doing it wrong,” he jokes after they pass.

  “We’re exercising our mouths,” Megan replies, walking slower and forcing me to do the same so we stay in line with him.

  Laughing, he turns his attention to me. “How’s the car? Any news?”

  “Not yet.”

  Mrs. Stephens blows her whistle at us. “Ladies, if you don’t start moving, you’re both getting detention. Mr. Lucketti, I’m sure you remember what that’s like.”

  My cheeks heat with embarrassment. Did he actually go to school here when he was younger?

  Jude flashes her a cocky grin. “C’mon, you know you miss me, Mrs. Stephens.”

  “Keep walking, Lucky.” A hint of affection laces her voice.

  “You didn’t tell me he was hot,” Megan says, after Jude has disappeared behind the new walls of the addition his crew is building. “How could you leave that part out?”

  “I wasn’t checking him out, Meg.” That might be a lie. I may have checked him out a teeny bit. “He’s like, in his thirties.”

  “True, but he’s still a total snack.”

  “I didn’t know he went here. Has Mrs. Stephens been working here her entire life?”

  Megan shrugs. “Probably. I’ll bet that whistle is the only thing she’s ever blown.”

  I make a face at her. “Gross. I’d rather not visualize her blowing anything.”

  “I’d like to visualize blowing that guy. Did you see all those tattoos? Does he have a cute, younger brother?”

  “Calm down. I just got a ride from him. I didn’t interview him for his biography.”

  She glances over at the house, but Lucky is nowhere to be seen. “I hope guys are that good-looking when we’re that age. I don’t want to marry someone cute and then have him go all bald and doughy on me.” She shudders dramatically.

  I bump my shoulder into hers. “You’re crazy. When you marry someone, you’re supposed to love them no matter what. It’s part of the vows.”

  “Let’s make a promise to see how we feel when we’re in our thirties and married with kids. We have to honestly confess to each other if we’re still attracted to our husbands.”

  I know us and our friendship. We will definitely be having this conversation in fifteen years.

  “Why are you even thinking about marriage and kids? We haven’t even graduated high school yet.”

  She shrugs. “Isn’t that the end goal? Big wedding, two kids, a nice house, successful career? My mom’s already planning my wedding, and I’m not even dating anyone.”

  “That’s not what I want.” We head toward the doors to go inside. “I’m not ever getting married.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still stuck on that living-in-an-RV-with-a-bunch-of-cats idea?”

  Megan wants what her parents have. A big house on a cul-de-sac. A family. Lots of get-togethers. Successful careers. I don’t blame her, because in her world, that’s pretty close to perfect.

  But my world is different.

  “What’s wrong with living in an RV? I can go anywhere. Live anywhere. I don’t want to be trapped. In a place or with a person. I want to be free.”

  She raises her eyebrow. “Then someday your free ass better park that RV in my driveway to visit me.”

  “Damn right I will. And if you’re not happy with your doughy husband we’ll drive off in it like Thelma and Louise.”

  “Deal.”

  The day drags. I’m bored and restless, watching the clock in every class, counting the minutes until three p.m. when I can head to work. I used to love coming to school every day. Up until around third grade, it was fun and exciting. I soaked up learning like a sponge and had lots of friends. I remember going to their birthday parties, wearing silly hats and singing. Eating cake. But right around fourth grade, things got worse at home. Or maybe I was just finally old enough to realize that things were always wrong. School became an escape.

  I couldn’t escape myself, though. Not the fears that skittered in my head or the sick feeling that clung inside my chest.

  I slowly withdrew from all my friends and classmates, until Megan decided I was going to be her best friend. She was the new girl, seated in front of me in class. On her first day, she turned around and blurted out her entire life story to me in one huge, run-on, rambling sentence. She was very animated—hands flying, black hair bouncing, eyes widening one moment and rolling the next. I blinked and nodded at her for a full ten minutes while she talked, caught in her spell.

  “You have really pretty eyes,” she said when she finally took a breath.

  From that moment forward, we were best friends.

  Sometimes I wish I could talk her into my RV dream. I’m going to miss her when she goes off to college and starts a whole new life. We’d have a blast driving around the country together, listening to great music, taking hundreds of selfies in new places. Instead, we’ll be communicating through text messages and video chat.

  The three p.m. bell finally rings, and I walk the mile and a half through town to Belongings, the boutique I’ve worked at for almost a year. Belongings sells local handmade items like jewelry, clothes, house decor, candles, candies, dolls, and even makeup and soaps. Although the shop looks rather small from the outside, it’s much bigger on the inside, broken up into four rooms. All the rooms are decorated as if it were someone’s real house—photos on the walls, jewelry in jewelry boxes, coasters and mugs set on tables—giving the feel of walking through a house where you can buy the things you like. I love the coziness of the shop.

  Rebecca, the owner, bakes cookies in the small kitchen in the back of the store, which used to be a tiny diner. Two years ago, she and her husband divorced. She’s thirty-two and has no kids, so apparently after they split she thrust herself into learning how to bake to keep herself “too busy to rebound into a bad relationship” as she put it. Turns out,
she has a talent for whipping up amazing desserts. She puts the cookies in cute little bags for the customers to take. Rebecca is always trying to get me to eat them, but I’ve never tried one. They do make the entire store smell delicious, though. Sometimes I think half the customers come in just for the cookies.

  The bell on the door of the boutique clinks as I swing it open, and the blast of air-conditioned air is refreshing after walking in the stifling heat. “Hi, Rebecca,” I call out. “Sorry I’m late today. I had to walk.”

  She looks up from behind a rotating display of crystal necklaces, and tucks her shoulder-length black hair behind her ear. “That’s okay. You know I don’t stress over things like that. Is something wrong with your car?”

  I plop my purse and backpack behind the register counter, and a wave of dizziness makes me clutch the edge of the display case. Kicking myself for not calling an Uber in this humidity, I unscrew the top off my water bottle and gulp until the feeling slowly subsides. “I had to have it towed last night.” Thankfully, I wasn’t scheduled to work yesterday since it was the first day of school. “Not sure what’s wrong with it, it’s still at the shop.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Don’t worry about being a little late when you need to be. Seriously.” Her gaze lingers on my face. “Do you feel alright? You look pale.”

  Nodding, I say, “I’m fine. It’s just really humid out. I was going to ask if you had anything I can do over the weekend? I don’t know how much this car thing is going to cost…” I trail off, embarrassed, and hoping she doesn’t think I’m trying to guilt her into extra hours.

  “Hmm.” She looks around the store. Her eyes suddenly light up. “Actually, I think I do have something you can do for me that I don’t have the time or the patience for. I need pictures of the store and the products to be put on social media. Apparently, I’m supposed to post at least a photo a day. That’s all the rage now and I’ve totally slacked off on it because it’s a huge time suck.”

  “That sounds like fun, actually. I follow a lot of people and products on Instagram. I’ve been trying to build my own following. I can check out other boutiques and get some ideas.”