Never the Bride

by Rene Gutteridge

  The march was playing. I love the “Bridal March.” Nothing can replace it. I cringe every time I hear a country song or bagpipes or something. My wedding, it’s got to be traditional.

  I was making my way down the aisle, rhythmically elegant, one foot in front of the other. My shoulders were thrown back, my chin lifted, and my bouquet held right at my waist. I once saw a bride carry her bouquet all the way down the aisle holding it at her chest. I shudder just talking about it.

  The train fluttered behind me, like it’s weightless or maybe there’s an ocean breeze not too far away. It was long, bright white, and caused people to nod their approval.

  I smiled.

  Then the “Bridal March” stopped, halting like a scratched record. I looked up to find another bride in my place, wearing my dress, standing next to my guy. I couldn’t see what he looked like; he was facing the pastor. But the bride, she looked back at me with menacing eyes, overdone with teal eye shadow and fake lashes.

  I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes and screamed again. When I opened them, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. A church full of people, looking at her. And what was I doing? Standing next to her in a bridesmaid dress.

  Gasping, I looked down. Hot pink! With dyed-to-match shoes! I glanced next to me and covered my mouth. It was me again, standing next to me, in green. Dyed footwear.

  And there I was again, standing next to my lime self, this time in canary yellow. On and on it goes. I counted ten of me before I woke up, gasping for air, clutching myself to make sure I was wearing cotton pajamas.

  “Thank God,” I said, but as I looked up, I saw a man in my room. He was backlit against my window, like the moon was shining in on him, but I don’t think the moon was out. A scream started forming in my throat, but I recognized that he was not in a stance that indicated he was going to stab me to death. There was no knife. Nothing but an easy, casual lean against my windowsill. Truly, no less scary.

  The scream arrived as I clamored for my lamp. I yanked the string three or four times before it turned on, but when it did, the man was gone.

  I realize I am standing in the middle of the hallway near Nicole’s desk. She is gabbing on the phone but looking at me funny. I go to the coat closet next to the bathroom. I always, always keep a spare change of clothes at work, just in case I have to do something like change my tire. Or someone else’s. It’s happened. I take out my least favorite suit, which is why I keep it here. It’s lilac with a boxy neckline that makes me feel like I should be a nanny. I head toward the bathroom.

  “Stone, get me the ad copy for the new Hope Ranch listings.”

  This is my boss, Mr. Coston, dragging me back to reality. He pops his head out the door as I pass by but yells at me like I’m down the hall. I don’t think he even remembers my first name.

  “Already on your desk, sir,” I say.

  He’s in his sixties, with a loud but raspy voice and shiny silver hair that tops a permanent look of disappointment. “What happened to you?”

  “Blown tire.” I hold up my suit. “I was just going to change.”

  “Fine. Then get me a latte. Lighten up on the sugar, will you?”

  “Right,” I mumble as he disappears. “Lighten up on life, will you?”

  I’m the office equivalent of a bat boy. I’m the coffee girl. It’s this one thing that sort of drives me crazy about my job. I do a lot of important things, but when I have to run get coffee, I feel like I’m falling down the rungs of the occupational ladder. It makes me wonder. If I had a job I could get passionate about, would I be so desperate for a husband? I could drown myself in work rather than my dreams.

  Well, either way, I’m drowning, and that’s never good.

  After I change and decide I really, really dislike the color lilac, I grab my purse and head for the neighborhood Starbucks. It’s five blocks away and I like that. It gives me time to walk and think on such things as to why Mr. Coston has been married for thirty-four years, the exact number of years I haven’t been married. He doesn’t mention his wife much and doesn’t even have a picture of her in his office. He doesn’t wear a wedding band, and when he does take a vacation, it’s with his buddies to golf resorts.

  It just seems like the world could better balance itself out, that’s all.

  I’m nearly to Starbucks. People are leaving with their white and green cups of bliss. The putrid smell of coffee will soon replace the putrid smell of old rainwater evaporating underneath the sun. I’m not a coffee fan. I’m high strung. The feeling everyone wants by drinking coffee I have naturally, just like my chestnut hair.

  I’m about to open the door, and then I see him, in all his glory.

  two

  He’s sitting at one of the outside tables in front of Starbucks, busily texting. I pull out my phone and pause. I know exactly whom he’s texting. My phone vibrates almost instantly.

  PLAY HOOKY.

  Before I go on, I have to explain Blake to you. It’s complicated, but stick with me.

  Blake is my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids. I grew up to be smart, sensible, and brunette. He grew up to be smart, sensible, and hot. We’ve been through a lot together, but I never could shake the attraction to him that I’ve felt since we were sixteen.

  I remember the exact day he went from irritating to irresistible. We were at a birthday party. Our birthdays are nine days apart, and his mother was always kind to include me since my mom had a hard time organizing events, or even dinner, for that matter. Blake never minded. We shared many friends.

  Anyway, it was the smallest thing. One second he was Blake. And the next, when he offered to pour my drink for me, he became more. My heart skipped a beat and for a second I thought maybe something was wrong. I stared at the fizz swelling over the top of the plastic cup, dribbling down the side. His finger caught it, swiped it. He took a napkin and cleaned the rest. He looked at me and said, “Sorry about that.”

  It’s no Casablanca moment, but that’s when it happened, when everything changed.

  I’ve never spoken a word to him or anyone else about it, because there is a certain feeling of safety knowing that he is my best friend and that we’re close for no other reason except we like each other.

  It’s just that he’s also hot.

  But trust me, I’m not going to do anything crazy like declare my love for him. I’ve seen My Best Friend’s Wedding, and it doesn’t end well for the chick friend.

  Anyway, this is a usual routine for us. He texts PLAY HOOKY, and I meet him down at the Starbucks under the guise of getting my boss coffee. Since my boss is a Starbucks junkie, this has worked out well.

  I snap my phone closed and decide to play a little trick on him. He’s busy watching women walk by, so I sneak up behind him and in a deep, sexy voice purr, “Hey, baby, wanna share a latte?”

  Blake sits up and whips around, his eyes wide. He sees me and cracks up laughing. I slide into the other seat at the table. “That was fast!”

  “I was on my way here. Coston needed a latte, pronto.”

  I observe Blake for a moment. He always seems out of place at Starbucks. He works construction, houses mostly, and his clothes often have a fine layer of sawdust on them. He’s rugged and muscular, with caramel wavy hair that complements his tanned skin. I like the fact that he always has a sunglasses line and that he refuses to wear anything but Ray-Bans.

  For my birthday one year he bought me a pair, since I’d given him a hard time for years, declaring Target’s were just as good. Turns out I was wrong. Ray-Bans rock. I still have the pair that he gave me. They’re locked in my safe-deposit box because I couldn’t live with myself if I lost a pair of two-hundred-dollar sunglasses.

  He props his sunglasses on top of his head and grins, and by “grins” I mean melts my heart. “I’ve got something to show you!” He takes my hand and guides me through a small crowd. We are walking the opposite direction of my work, toward a two-block stretch of quaint shops.

/>   He drops my hand and starts talking with his hands, which I notice immediately because usually he has them stuffed deep into his painter jeans. “She called the company this morning, asked for our help designing the inside of her shop. It’s right up here.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “You build homes…”

  “I know, but I think she just called, maybe because it’s my dad’s company, but—”

  “Who?”

  He stops and gestures toward a storefront. It’s obviously unoccupied, but inside a couple of people are milling around. One in particular is catching Blake’s eye. And mine. The plain glass window is busy with reflections of the street, but through all that I can see her. She’s practically glowing among the dust and clutter of an unfinished room. And bending over. Let’s just say she’s…taut. All of her. Head to toe. Even her neck looks in shape.

  I fold my arms. “You’re gonna stop building homes to make, what is it, shelves or something?”

  Blake smiles. “For Veronica Steele, yes.”

  I take a deep breath. I had never actually seen her in person until now. I’d seen a picture of her…okay pictures. Lots of them. This woman, whose name sounds like she stepped straight out of Harlequin, USA, was Blake Lightner’s college obsession.

  We stand there for a moment, Blake observing Veronica and me observing Blake. He’s got this weird expression on his face. It’s part thirteen-year-old with an SI swimsuit issue and part dumbfounded, Why didn’t she choose me? That part I can relate to.

  Still, it irritates me. “What? And you need my approval? What do you see in her?”

  We both look. We both know. Legs like a giraffe. Hair like a wild pony. Curves like a coastal highway.

  “What’s not to like?”

  “She’s just very giraffey I mean, sure, her neck is long, her legs are long, but don’t you think she’s a little out of proportion? She’s got short arms, or maybe a long waist, but either way, she’s very giraffey.” I know. I sound stupid. I get this way when Blake gets this way.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of gazelle.” He’s staring like we’re five-year-olds at the zoo and the zebras are mating.

  “Well, good luck finding a vet for the two of you.” I sigh a little. I’m being hard on him and I know it. The truth is, he’s always loved Veronica. I’m about to apologize for my snarkiness when his attention is diverted by another woman walking by. It’s just for a second, but I see it. “I’m not sure they can cure you of the bad case of shallow-itis you’re suffering from.”

  Blake’s gaze slides sideways. “I am not one of those guys.”

  “I hate to shatter your perfectly solid opinion of yourself but people who hold on to old flames and refuse to let go are pathetic.”

  My words are harsh. Not as harsh as I want them to be. But Blake’s sensitive, which is why I like him and why I hold back. And yes, that’s holding back. Especially when I offer a small smile. I stand there for a moment, drowning in my own subtext.

  Veronica is bent over again. We’re both staring.

  “Well,” he says, and I can’t tell at all if he’s being serious or not, “is it curable?”

  “This girl’s gotta get back to work. Enjoy the show.” I walk toward Starbucks, checking my watch. The line is long, but that is a good thing today. I need some time to cool off. I feel foolish. And hopeless.

  How can I, Jessica Stone, compare to that? Leggy. Blonde. Owns a business. Steele will win over Stone any day of the week.

  I sigh loudly—too loudly—and the woman in front of me turns, offering a sympathetic smile. “This line is barely crawling.”

  I stand on my tiptoes to see what’s going on. Short on baristas? Nope.

  “It’s that she’s blonde,” I tell the woman in front of me, who is a carrot top—curly and afro-like.

  She peeks around the line to look. “Yep. The men always feel like they need to chat up a blonde.”

  I didn’t know redheads felt the same way. Huh.

  “What is it about blondes?” I ask her.

  She fluffs her curls. “No idea. I hate her. Look.”

  I stare at the young barista, who really doesn’t seem to be doing anything out of the ordinary She’s taking orders, smiling at customers, counting change. But somehow when she does it, it seems sexy.

  I am fully aware that I am discriminating by hair color. And I’m also fully aware of how shallow that makes me.

  The redhead finally gets to the front and begins ordering. I chew a nail, wondering if I should text Blake, just to make sure things are okay But then I notice a man. He’s standing in the corner, near the wall of coffee mugs, noticing me. The second thing I notice is that when I notice him, he doesn’t stop noticing me. He doesn’t look away. He locks eyes with me, and I look away first. He’s cute! Slightly rugged but not above a button-down cotton shirt. A nice, gentle smile. Compelling eyes.

  “Ma’am?” By the tone, I realize the barista has probably been trying to get my attention.

  “Oh, uh, sorry.” I shuffle forward. “Grande latte, skim, extra foam.”

  “For?”

  “Jessie.”

  I hand over the money and glance back at the guy. He’s still staring at me. He looks familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him. It’s not his face. It’s…the way he’s standing.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say as the blonde dumps the change into my hand. I scoot out of the way and stand near the bar where the coffee comes out. The red-haired woman is standing nearby. “Hey,” I say to her, “is it just me or is the guy over by the mugs staring at me?”

  She nonchalantly glances over. “The motorcycle dude?”

  I see the motorcycle dude. Scary and not at all looking like a latte guy. “No, the other guy, standing by the mugs.”

  “Um…”

  “He seems kind of intense. I mean, to just blatantly stare, you know?”

  She doesn’t say anything. Now she’s staring at me. I’ve got two people staring at me.

  Thankfully my drink comes up. I grab two sugars and tear them open. I pour. I stir.

  I wonder if he’s still watching me. And then I realize that I had been so distracted by his intensity, I forgot to be cute. I look back up, this time with a cool smile on my face, but he’s gone. I peer out the window. Maybe he’s waiting outside. But no. He’s gone. Probably the lilac suit.

  I rip open two more packets and pour furiously. Stir so hard coffee drips. I grab four napkins and scrub the counter. Two more packets and I don’t bother stirring this time. I secure the lid and walk outside.

  Yes, sometimes I ruin his coffee simply because I’m in a bad mood. But the man should count his blessings. I could add something much worse than sugar.

  I make it back quickly because when I’m mad I walk fast. I deliver the latte to Mr. Coston, who is busy on the phone explaining to someone that just because a person died in a house doesn’t mean it’s haunted.

  Back at my desk, I gaze at the shiny silver banner that hangs across the wall behind me. It’s been there for two weeks. It looks tacky against the marble lettering of Coston Real Estate. It reads, HAPPY TENTH ANNIVERSARY! The exclamation point bothers me. I’m certain that the banner was meant for a married couple. If not, then the exclamation point is unnecessary because maybe someone isn’t excited about being at the same dead-end job for ten years.

  I can’t complain too much. They did bring me literally pounds of my favorite candy. I open my desk drawer and plunge my hand into a bag of dark chocolate M&M’s. You wouldn’t know it by looking at the situation, but I’m a bit of a risk taker. I’m allergic to chocolate. Not in an airway-closed-off kind of way but I do swell. Sometimes my lips get puffy, and I won’t lie, it’s a good look for me. Other times I’m not so lucky, and an eyelid will droop or something. Dark chocolate and chocolate in liquid form give me the least trouble. But when I do indulge, I have to make sure I’m not due for a date or a presentation or something, because I never know exactly
what’s going to swell.

  Since I’m stuffing my face with chocolate, why not continue down what Nicole would call a self-destructive path? I log on to Matches.com. The opening page has one match being lit by the other’s charm. It’s kind of cute, except the song is corny, so I turn down the sound. I log in and punch in my password, Dark Cocoa. My screen name appears: WELCOME, LEGALLY_BROWN.

  The front doors of the office open. I quickly minimize the page and smile as my co-worker Christa enters. She peeks over the counter.

  “Hey, Jessie.”

  “Hi, Christa. How are you?” And your perky, beautiful self?

  “Good. I can’t wait for after work. You’ll be there, right?”

  I pause. I had no intention of going to her bridal shower in the break room. I was going to cut out early to avoid it. But the bright smile that must’ve won the guy—now fiancé—over starts to fade and she seems a little hurt. “Of course,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  She claps her hands. “Yay! All right, see you then!”

  She bounces down the hall, and all she’s missing is a team to cheer for. I pull up my Matches.com page again.

  Ugh. NO MATCHES blinks like a hazard light. Why did they have to make it blink? Blinking is for excitement and road hazards.

  Maybe it’s a subtle message that I’m on the wrong road.

  It’s noon and I tell Nicole I’ll have to skip our planned lunch because I have to go get something for Christa. Nicole says it’s fine because she wants to decorate the room a little more. How a break room can look any better with streamers is beyond me, but I let it go. I don’t want to become that bitter person who stands people up at their bridal showers because I’m insanely jealous.

  I find an open meter in the Paseo Nuevo district, parallel park like a moron, and walk a few blocks to get to the gift shop that is my home away from home.

  I notice an awful lot of men shopping today. These are the cool ones, who are shopping a few days before Valentine’s to get the exact right gift. They’re thinking ahead, not running out and grabbing something in a hurry. Their women, whoever they are, are lucky.