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

by Carian Cole

  Last year that suggestion would’ve caused me major anxiety, but this year, I’m totally fine with it.

  We wade through the sea of people to get to the center of the mall, and I snag us a small table while she goes to get us two strawberry-and-banana smoothies.

  “I got you a pretzel,” she says when she finds me at the table twenty minutes later. “It’s plain, just a little salt.”

  “Awesome.”

  “So, spill the tea, hon,” she says after we’ve sipped our drinks for a few minutes and caught our breath.

  I pull off a small piece of warm, soft pretzel and chew it before answering her.

  “What tea?”

  “With you and the hubby. How are things?”

  My chest twinges at the mention of Jude. I was hoping we’d get through the day without talking about him. The wounds are still raw and aching and I’ve been working hard at healing them with the help of my therapist.

  And Gus. Purrs and headbonks make all things better.

  “Things are the same. We’ve gone back to being friends.”

  “That sucks. I was totally team Jude,” she says, dipping her pretzel into a thick, bright orange cheese sauce. I’m not at a point where I could put something like that in my own mouth.

  “I was too,” I say sadly. “I’ve run the gamut of being totally devastated, to confused, to pissed off. I’m mentally exhausted. But I can’t be mad at him for doing what he thinks is best for himself or for me.”

  “True. I just think you two were perfect for each other. The way he looked at you, and talked about you… that shit was valid.”

  Hearing that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  I lift my shoulder dismissively, trying not to look as upset as I still feel inside. I’m becoming an expert at masking my sorrow.

  “Who knows,” I say. “Maybe someday things will change again. When he put the brakes on, he kept sorta hinting at maybe in the future, when I’m older, we could try again.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s stupid. You’re eighteen, almost nineteen. I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re not breaking any laws.”

  Jude and I have had this argument quite a few times since he ended things, and I’ve lost every time.

  “I know, but I guess it was bothering him.”

  “Maybe you should start bringing some guys over. Make him jealous. I bet he’d change his tune fast.”

  She’s right—Jude would probably lose his shit if I started to date guys right in front of him. Especially in his own house. If he brought women over, I’d be devastated. No matter how upset I am, I can’t do that to him.

  “I’m not going to resort to games,” I tell her. “He’s been good to me. He’s not a bad guy, I think he’s just… conflicted.”

  “Most older guys would love to be nailing an eighteen-year-old. Leave it to you to find one with some morals.” She picks up her phone, sends a quick text, then puts it back down in one huge robotic motion. “Are you sure you still want to live there? I don’t think I could. It’d be awkward as fuck.”

  “It’s not like I can move out, Meg. Not yet anyway. I can’t let myself fall apart. At least things are civil and friendly between us. All I can do is try to get over it and reset back to our original arrangement. Which is two friends in a marriage of convenience that was meant to help me get my life together.”

  She shakes her head. “I just hate this for you. If we had extra room at our house, I’d be begging my parents to let you move in.”

  Living with her and her family would be equally as awkward, just in totally different ways.

  “I know you would, and I love you for that. But I’m okay.”

  Her eyebrow arches at me skeptically. “Are you, though? Now it’s like you’re waiting to get divorced, but in the meantime, you have to live with your estranged husband. This is like a really bad movie. I don’t think you’re too young to date him, but I do think you’re too young to be going through this crazy bullshit.”

  “I’m fine,” I insist, trying to convince myself just as much as I’m trying to convince her. “Things just got complicated.”

  “That’s an understatement, Sky. I could never deal with all the shit that’s happened to you this year. My biggest struggle is totally trying to find the perfect outfit and a present for Erik.”

  I wish those were my biggest struggles.

  “Do you want me to talk to him for you?” she asks, slurping the last of her drink noisily with her straw. “Maybe I can talk some sense into him?”

  The hair prickles on my arms just thinking about how that conversation would go.

  “No, that will only make things worse. Trust me, he’s not a talker.”

  “The hot ones never are. I swear the better-looking Erik gets, the less he talks.”

  Megan has turned Erik into a total project. She convinced him to grow the front of his hair out, which now hangs just over his brows and has somehow made his puppy-dog eyes look sleepy and sexy. She’s totally overhauled his wardrobe, she split up his unibrow, and he works out even more. He literally looks nothing like he did when they started dating.

  “Your build-a-boyfriend skills have totally paid off.”

  She smiles smugly. “True. I just miss how he used to tell me how crazy he is about me all the time.”

  “How many times does he have to say it?” I snort. “If he says it every day, it won’t seem special anymore.”

  Her smile falters. “I’m afraid maybe he doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

  I pat her hand. “I’m sure he does. Go easy on him.”

  I’ve hung out with her and Erik together and she has nothing to worry about. He’s totally into her. She’s just a bit high maintenance when it comes to relationships.

  She blows out a sigh. “Okay. I’m recharged. Let’s go finish this shopping excursion. I still have to find Erik the perfect gift.”

  “I see you caved and went shopping with Megan,” Jude says from the kitchen when I finally get home. I drop my shopping bags in the foyer as I take off my shoes.

  “Never again,” I reply, eyeing a huge box leaning up against the wall near the front door. “What’s this?”

  He shoves his hand through his hair. It’s gotten longer since we first met and I can’t deny I love the way it looks. “A Christmas tree. I thought maybe it’d be nice for us to have one.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised by his use of the word us.

  He flashes me a grin as I wander into the kitchen then goes back to stirring something on the stove. “I actually ordered it a few weeks ago and it came today… so if you’re not into it, I’ll throw it in the basement.”

  Ah. So he bought it before. When we were experimenting with being perfect together.

  The ache stirs in my heart again. We could’ve had a romantic Christmas together. He was doing so good being a boyfriend. Sweet. Fun. Caring. Sensual.

  And then he quit.

  Just. Like. That.

  Trust is such a fragile gift. I’m not sure I’ll ever give it again.

  “You can do whatever you want with it,” I say, and I can tell by the way his jaw tenses that my words come out a lot harsher than I meant them to.

  Oh, well.

  “Aunt Suzy sent me home with her homemade chicken, veggie, and rice soup, do you want some?”

  “I had a smoothie and a pretzel at the mall.”

  “Pretzel is twisted bread.”

  “And?”

  “And you’re supposed to eat more than bread.”

  “I don’t put meat in my mouth, remember?” I say, wondering if my aversion to blowjobs contributed to him not wanting to be together.

  He turns to look at me, his lips set in a hard line. “Then just pick the chicken out.”

  “I can’t eat something that meat’s been bathing in.”

  “Okay… I’m only trying to help you eat new things.”

  “I know, but you don’t have to worry about me.”

  I watch as he pours
the soup into a bowl. “I’m not worried about you; I care about you.”

  Instinctively, I cross my arms over my chest, as if it can somehow protect my heart from getting hurt anymore. Him continuing to be nice to me does hurt. Not that I want him to be an asshole, but him outright saying he cares about me makes me want to smack him.

  “Can we talk?” he asks, setting his bowl on the island and settling down on a stool.

  Those three words make my heart jolt like it just got zapped with electric shock. My brain has already thrown up conversation possibilities.

  Is he going to ask me to move out?

  Is he sorry, and wants to try again?

  Is he involved with someone else?

  “Sure,” I say.

  “It’s about Christmas. I told Aunt Suzy we’d be coming together. And then…” He stares down at his soup. “Well, you know,” he says. “I still want you to come but I really don’t want them to know what’s going on between us. They’ll just worry.”

  “There’s nothing going on between us,” I reply.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess I do. Do you really think I should go with you, after you know?”

  What’s wrong with us that we can’t even say that we were a couple for a little while, and now we’re not?

  “I think we’re mature enough to spend a holiday together as friends. I mean, we are still friends.” His eyes search mine, and I wonder what he’s looking for. Forgiveness? A shadow of longing for him?

  I look away, because what I see in his is that same glint of desire I’ve always seen. That same need, that same possessiveness. That same intense adoration that makes my heart flutter.

  Does he even realize his own eyes betray him?

  “We’re still friends,” I agree, resisting the urge to throw in his face that I’m also mature enough to be in a relationship. I don’t want to be a bitter bitch, though.

  He looks boyish and cute eating soup out of a big bowl, wearing a soft black sweater, with his hair hanging over his shoulders. He looks cozy and I miss having his strong arms around me, my hand in his. I yearn to nuzzle into his neck and breathe his cologne and hear his laugh.

  “Do you want to watch a movie with me?” I ask softly. Just sitting next to him on the couch will soothe the torment in my heart and make things feel normal again.

  “I can’t, Skylar.” He clears his throat and pushes his bowl away. “I have plans.”

  Nodding, I smile weakly. “Okay.”

  An hour later, I hear his footsteps in the hall, then the front door opening and closing. I jump up and watch him get in his truck from my window, trying to decipher if he’s dressed for a date. He’s wearing his usual jeans, boots, and black shirt, which tells me nothing. Jude’s not really a date-dresser.

  Where is he going?

  The only times I’ve ever seen Jude go out at night is to do a job estimate, or to do something with me.

  He didn’t knock on my door to say good-bye.

  I can’t remember the last time he called me Sparkles.

  My stomach churns and burns, sending me to my nightstand to get some DGL tablets.

  Everything hurts.

  I light lavender-scented incense and put on my Pink Floyd playlist. I turn off my light and click on my galaxy projector night light that Jude surprised me with the day after we drove around and then went to the cliffs. He wanted me to be able to see all the stars at night whenever I wanted to. I almost smashed it the night he told me he didn’t want to date me anymore, but now I’m glad I didn’t.

  I like having all these stars to make wishes on. Eventually, one will come true.

  Dazed with emotion, I stare at the ceiling of stars and try to lose myself in them. I’m not sure how much time passes, or if I dozed off, but the chirping of my message app startles me back to consciousness, and I quickly grab my phone. Megan is with Erik, so it has to be Jude.

  Unknown: Hi, sweetheart.

  I frown at the glowing screen, knowing I’m not sweetheart, but wishing I were.

  Me: I think you have the wrong number.

  Unknown: Is this Skylar?

  Me: Who is this?

  Unknown: Your father. I want to say Merry Christmas. It took me forever to get your phone number from your mother. She wouldn’t tell me where you were or how to get in touch with you. I was hoping we could talk?

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 41

  Jude

  I decide to go visit Uncle Al at his bar in Boston as a way to put space between me and Skylar.

  My mood gets worse as I sit in traffic for over an hour with nothing to think about except that I wish I’d stayed home to watch a movie with her. When I finally get to the bar, I park my truck and walk down the street to a convenience store for some smokes and a pack of gum. Lighting up, I lean back against the brick wall of the side of the store and stare at my phone. I want to send her a text message. Something cute like we used to—but that will only make things worse.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a guy having a cigarette halfway down the alley. He tosses something into a nearby dumpster, and that’s when I notice another dude behind him, in the shadows, slowly creeping up behind him with a bat in his hand, raised and ready to swing. It takes me a few seconds to figure out what’s going on, but when I do, I act on pure adrenaline, run up behind him, and tackle him, causing his swing to go wild. When the bat glances the side of the smoking guy’s head with a thud, I wrestle the attacker to the ground. His punches are pathetically sloppy, and he misses me every time I duck to the side. I decide to put him out of his misery and land a fist square to his jaw. He puts his hands up to shield himself from my next punch.

  “Lemme go, man. I don’t want any shit with you,” he says, spitting blood onto the sidewalk.

  “Get the fuck outta here, asshole,” I say, “or I’m gonna kill you with your own bat.”

  He slowly rises and runs toward the other end of the alley, and I pick up the bat and hurl it at him. I let out a low whistle as it flies and spins through the air, heading straight at him like a torpedo until it nails him in the back of the head.

  “Woohoo!” I yell. “Nailed you, you bastard!”

  “Fuck!” the guy yells, and he falls hard, then stands a few seconds later and staggers toward the alley fencing—scaling it and then disappearing.

  Pumping with adrenaline, I turn and help the guy up who was almost just mugged. He rubs the back of his head.

  “You okay, man?” I ask.

  “Think so,” he says. “What the hell just happened?”

  “That motherfucker tried to knock you out and mug you.”

  “Shit.” He twists his neck from side to side and winces. “Thanks… for what you did.”

  “No problem.”

  “I was just standing here—”

  I smirk. “You were standing in the wrong place. Not from around here, are ya?”

  “Not really.”

  He runs his hand through long, dark, wavy hair, checking his head for damage. Something about him is familiar, but I can’t place him.

  “He didn’t hit ya that hard, I grabbed the bat as it was coming down. I think it just stunned you for a few seconds.”

  “Good to know,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Fuck this night.”

  I put a cigarette in my mouth and search my jacket for my Zippo. “You got a light?” I ask. “Think I lost my lighter.”

  Nodding, he tosses me a box of wooden matches.

  “Thanks.” My knuckles sting as I cup them around my mouth to light up my cigarette. I gotta stop punching people. “You need directions someplace? A ride? You look lost,” I say as the guy stands there, bewildered, looking up and down the alley.

  He shakes his head and laughs. “Just having a really shitty night. I’m not ready to go home yet.”

  Exhaling a cloud of smoke, I nod. “I’m in the same boat. I was just headin’ to a bar my buddy owns down the street. Gonna have a drink, may
be shoot some pool or play darts to clear my fuckin’ head. Want to join me? You stand here much longer you’re probably gonna freeze to death or get mugged again.”

  He takes a phone out of his pocket and stares at it like he’s waiting for it to ring. Minutes ago, I was doing the same thing. There’s some bad mojo in the air tonight.

  “Ya know what?” he says. “Why not. I owe you a few drinks.”

  Grinning, I wipe my hand on my jeans and hold it out to him. “Name’s Jude Lucketti. My friends call me Lucky.”

  “Asher Valentine.”

  Motherfuck me. I just saved Asher Valentine—lead singer of one of my favorite rock bands, Ashes & Embers—from getting mugged. I knew he looked familiar. Skylar’s gonna lose her mind when I tell her—she’s crazy about this guy.

  “The singer?” I say.

  He shrugs. “On some days.”

  This dude looks tired. Like he wants to be anyone but himself right now, and that’s a mood I can relate to.

  “Not today,” I say, leading him down the dark street. “Today you’re just a guy going to have a drink.”

  Uncle Al’s bar is old, dark and dingy. A real hole-in-the-wall—the kind of place you wouldn’t even notice unless you were looking for it. And not many people are. Only the old regulars still come here to hang out and drink away their lives every day. Anyone else would be afraid to come in. But it’s a damn good place to forget about the world for a while.

  I nod at Uncle Al and two old guys when we walk inside the musty room. None of them look away from the tiny, dust-covered TV playing behind the bar.

  “Hey, Lucky. What’ll ya have tonight?” Uncle Al says.

  “Give us two Long Islands!” I yell as we sit at my usual table in the back. “Good for you?” I ask Asher.

  He nods. “I’m easy.”

  Uncle Al brings us our drinks and pats me on the back before he heads back to his station behind the bar.

  “That hits the spot,” I say after taking a sip. It burns going down, and I wish I’d had dinner.