Never the Bride

by Rene Gutteridge

  “So what you’re saying is that God is—”

  “Writing my love story. With my own purple pen. It’s very symbolic. God is like that. He loves to use things that mean something.”

  “And when you say appear,’ do you mean in the clouds? Or with a loud, booming voice? How does that work?”

  “He just appears as a man. A good-looking one at that.”

  “And when He appears, what does He say?”

  “He has a lot to say. And don’t get me wrong. I was skeptical at first. I mean, until He disappeared into a wall, I was pretty convinced I was being Punk’d.”

  “Is He…here now?”

  I glance around. “I don’t think so. It’s hard to know, though. Sometimes I can feel Him around but I don’t see Him.”

  “I see.”

  I feel like a stupid little kid again, but I force myself to take charge and consider all options. “I know this sounds crazy. Believe me. But I mean, it could happen, right?”

  “I think you know what I’m going to say.”

  I lean forward and engage the doctor. “Do you believe in God?”

  “I don’t know if that’s relevant,” he says carefully.

  “Just play along.”

  He does his little head-nodding thing. “Yes. I do.”

  “If He’s real, He could do this—appear to a human being. Right? I mean, He’s appeared to people before.”

  The doctor pauses a moment, then says, “Why you?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you think that God appeared to you, specifically?”

  I see his point. I sit all the way back in my chair and look around the doctors beautiful backyard. “I don’t really know,” I finally say. “But He has. For some reason, He loves me and He wants me to have a love story.” I laugh a little. “Sometimes I kind of get the feeling He wants to be in it. Does that sound weird?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I hate that question, and I hated it when I was nine too.”

  “I’m just trying to get you to think through all this.” He does a little gesture in the air, like that will help.

  “Believe me, I have.”

  The doctor crosses his fingers on the table. “Has God asked you other questions, perhaps the state of your eternal soul?”

  See, this is helping. The guy is thinking of things I hadn’t. “No. I mean, He’s just very caring. He seems to care deeply for me, but He doesn’t have to say it. I sense it. You know what I mean?”

  “That’s the problem, Jessie. Nobody’s going to know what you mean. This is unusual.”

  “Like UFO-sighting unusual?”

  “Exactly.”

  I put my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands together, staring down at the deck wood under my feet.

  “Have you been hearing voices?” he asks gently. “Seeing others, besides God?”

  “No.”

  “And nobody else around you is seeing God, is that right?”

  “Right. Wait! No, that’s not true. Twice someone else has seen Him.”

  This gets a little reaction. “Oh? Who?”

  “A pastor and a date.”

  “A date.”

  “Yes. A former boyfriend I’m seeing again.”

  “Uh-huh. Interesting. I can see the pastor, perhaps, but an ex-boyfriend?”

  “Look. You don’t know God. He’s very protective. He’s kind of…jealous.”

  Dr. Montrose sits a little straighter. “I do know Him. I go to church every Sunday.”

  “Oh.”

  Here Dr. Montrose loses his “I’ll save all the lost puppies” look and gets a bit defensive. “I’ve gone to church since I was a small child, and never once has God spoken to me. He’s certainly never appeared to me or to anyone else I know.” He adjusts his glasses to look at me better. “You think you’re the exception to that rule?”

  It stings. No, in fact. I’ve never thought I was the exception to any rule. Ever. Until God made me feel…exceptional.

  “Jessie, you must use some logic here. You must ask yourself why God chose to appear to you.”

  I look up at the doctor. “What you’re saying is that I’m nothing special.”

  “Now…don’t read into what I’m saying as something personal,” he says in that practiced, predictably kind tone.

  “But that’s what you’re saying, right? That if I understood that God wouldn’t just appear to a nobody like me, maybe this would all seem like nonsense.”

  The doctor doesn’t appear to be a bit flustered, which means the answer to my question is yes. He calmly reaches down and pets his little dog. “Jessie, you came to me, seeking help. People come to their wits’ end. They finally decide they need help after things get too hard. Isn’t that what happened to you? If you didn’t doubt this, why are you here?”

  I stare at the deck. “You know, I never questioned that my imaginary friend was weird. It wasn’t until someone pointed it out to me that I became self-conscious.”

  “Sometimes that’s what we need to help us get out of something we’re not able to get out of ourselves.”

  “What do you think is wrong with me?” I can’t help my shaky voice.

  He does sound very sincere. “Jessie, I think you’ve been through a lot in your life and this is a coping mechanism. Perhaps you’re lonely, you miss your parents, you’re trying to make sense of it all.”

  I lean back in my chair, trying to hold back the tears. “It’s just that He was so nice. And funny.” I look up toward heaven, falling into old habits of randomly talking to God, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, aggravating as all get out”—I quickly look back at Dr. Montrose—“but somehow it seemed like He was annoying me for my good. It wasn’t all cupcakes and daisies—He wasn’t into doing it my way. At all. In any part of it. He’s really into His own plan. But we had some good times together.”

  “Good times together. Hmm.” Dr. Montrose is peering at me like I’m a petri dish. “Yes, well, wouldn’t we all want a God like that?” Silence passes between us. “My wife died of cancer four years ago.”

  I sit up straight. He’s never told me anything personal before. I never really considered that he had a life of his own. “I’m so sorry.”

  The doctor nods. “Do you know how many prayers I prayed? Night after night. All day long. I wept and wept. I cried out. I…begged.” His hand goes to his mouth like he’s just said something mildly inappropriate. “But she still died.” He picks the dog up with shaky hands and holds it in his lap. “So yes, Jessie, I suppose we all would want a God who laughs and plays and writes love stories for us. We all want that. But what we want and what is real isn’t the same thing.”

  “But—”

  “If God wants to write your love story, then surely He would want to save the life of a dear woman like Margaret. Don’t you think?”

  I nod, unable to look him in the eye.

  He pets the dog in silence. “You’re a smart girl,” the doctor finally says. “I always knew that about you. You must apply logic to this situation, and that’s when you’ll understand the truth.”

  I’d agree with him in theory, but I remember God too well—the way He smelled and the sound of His voice and the touch of His hand. “But, what about faith? Where does that come in?”

  The doctor smiles. “Have faith in yourself, Jessie. You’ve overcome this once. You can overcome it again.” He puts the dog down. “Do you have a piece of paper? A pen?”

  “I, uh…yes, I think so.” I dig through my purse. “Here.”

  He jots something down. “This is the name and number of a colleague of mine. He’s superb. He’s not quick to go straight to medication either. He really believes in the benefit of cognitive behavioral therapy.” He hands it to me.

  I stand and he starts to stand too. “No, please. I can see myself out.”

  He sits back down.

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “Certainly. Jessie, it was good to see you again.”

>   “Thank you, Dr. Montrose.” I open the back patio door and let myself into the home, clutching the piece of paper in my sweaty palm. My feet feel light. My head is spinning. I walk slowly through the house toward the front door, and my eyes are drawn to the scribbled, colorful drawings on the walls.

  Then I see it.

  I remember the day I drew it. I was sitting in his office. He seemed particularly agitated with me that day. I was on the floor, and he asked me to draw a picture of this little boy that was always following me around. I hated Dr. Montrose’s crayons. They were all broken, mismatched, the paper torn off. But he insisted I draw anyway.

  So I did.

  I drew me, drew my little friend—and then scribbled him out.

  Dr. Montrose called it a breakthrough. “You see, Jessica? You do know that he isn’t real. You just have to believe it. Today you believed it.”

  And now it hangs on his wall as proof that I finally believed that nothing existed.

  I glance back and Dr. Montrose is busy clearing his breakfast dishes, so I step closer to the drawing. The color is brilliant and appropriate…peach for the skin, yellow for the hair, aqua blue for the eyes. The lines are smooth. The coloring flawless. I stare into the large, round blue eyes of the boy who lived in my mind for so long. For months I drew so much comfort from him. Until one day I scribbled him out.

  All of my childhood struggles are here. Framed.

  Reduced to crayon.

  I let myself out and sit in my car for a long time.

  Logic. Okay. From now on, logic it is.

  twenty

  It’s been the most intense three weeks of my life, like a constant, unrelenting power ballad. Clay and I talk three or four times a day, see each other every other day It’s like old times, like three years haven’t gone by Well, maybe not the same. I’ve grown more confident in myself; I’ve refused to put Clay on a pedestal. I keep reminding him he’s lucky I’ve taken him back, and he always nods enthusiastically, like he is, indeed, the luckiest guy alive.

  He texts me more than a guy with a big ego would. He’s very gushy always pouring out his feelings. And I’m an empty cup, ready to be filled with all that gush.

  It’s a hectic day at the store. We’ve had three new clients sign up this week, and we’re starting to get backlogged, so Brooklyn and I came in early to try to get ahead. We’re getting along better, as long as I don’t mention God and she doesn’t mention Clay.

  Speaking of God, He hasn’t been around, which makes me realize Shrinkhead was right…He was a figment of my imagination all along. Not that I don’t believe in God. I know He’s out there somewhere, and He’ll look in on me when it’s needed. But logic, for once in my life, has prevailed. God isn’t that into me.

  The hardest thing to swallow, besides leaving the idea that God was that into me, is the idea that I quit my job and started a new job on the advice of an imaginary sidekick. But, to the credit of my split personality, things are thriving, so maybe I shouldn’t worry so much.

  I try not to think about any of it, to just focus on my love life—to live in the moment. That’s what they say, right? You’re not promised tomorrow? So today is all I have, and what I have right now is what I’ve always wanted. This man adores me. Gwyne was never right for him, but maybe having Gwyne in his life molded him into the right man for me.

  Except he’s really into my blond hair, and I’m growing kind of bored with it.

  For once, though, I try not to overthink it.

  Clay texts me, asks me to go to dinner at some place I’ve never heard of but swears is “the bomb.” I tell him I’ll meet him there. Brooklyn has left to run some errands for our next proposal. Soon, Malia is nearby, pretending to need something near the counter, but I can tell something is up. She has one of those faces that can’t hide eagerness.

  “So, I guess you and Clay are doing well?”

  “We are.”

  “Seems like you’re having a lot of fun.”

  “I am.”

  “He’s treating you right?”

  “Better than right.”

  She’s nodding and smiling like she’s agreeing with it all, but there’s a deep crease between her eyebrows that is in obvious disagreement.

  “You shouldn’t worry so much about me,” I say to her. She looks surprised. “Malia, I know you disapprove.”

  “It’s nothing like that. It’s just that I want you to be happy.”

  “I am.”

  “Your sister is worried sick about you.”

  I smile a little. “Yes, well, now she knows how I’ve felt all these years.”

  Malia laughs. “True enough.”

  “You know, Blake isn’t too happy with me either.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Malia says. “We’re both protective. Overly protective, I guess.”

  “It’s good to know you care.” I check my watch. “I guess I better go. Clay’s taking me to some fancy-shmancy place tonight.”

  “That wining-dining phase can be a lot of fun.”

  I grab my purse, come around the counter, and put an arm around Malia. “I think he gets me. And that’s what I’ve always wanted…someone who knows me and still likes me and—”

  Suddenly, behind Malia, something grabs my attention. I let go of her shoulder and walk over to it. Sitting right on top of her counter is a box of purple pens.

  I don’t dare reach out and touch. I want to. I want to grab them all and never let go. Don’t. Don’t. But my fingers twitch and tingle. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Sweetie? You okay?”

  “Um…Malia…when did these arrive?”

  “What?”

  “These pens. These purple feather pens.” My hands hover over them without touching.

  Malia comes over to look. “I don’t know, hon. I think yesterday. This is the first shipment of these weird pens that we’ve gotten. I don’t even remember ordering them.” She reaches out to grab one. “Why? You want one?”

  “No! No, no. No…” I back away with my hands out. Smile so you’re not a freak. “Um, just admiring them, that’s all.”

  Malia looks down at the one in her hand. “Really? I think they’re kind of junky. Who would pay four bucks for a pen like this?”

  “It has character. And flair.”

  “I need to go put them out on the floor.” Malia grabs them and disappears down an aisle.

  “No. No.” I whisper this to myself as I head out the front door. “It’s just a coincidence. Coincidences happen all the time. Now, stop talking to yourself or you’re going to look crazy.”

  I get in my car, turn on music, and drive to Skye Bleu. Its large neon-on-black sign hangs over a dark and brooding building with reflective windows and an enormous glass door. This doesn’t look Italian. I was really hoping for manicotti tonight.

  I park in back and walk to the front. It’s nice to know someone’s going to be meeting me here. I so love that I’m not alone or the third wheel or even meeting girlfriends. This feels good.

  I round the corner and there he is, leaning casually against a railing. When he sees me, his face lights up. I approach and lean in for a kiss. He steps back and looks me over. “Stunning.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  And then, from behind his back, pop three roses. Red, no less. “Oh, how kind.” I smile and take them into my hand. Okay, so I was sort of expecting him to go with daisies since I’ve dropped the hint a time…or ten. But you know what? I’m a woman getting flowers from a man who takes the time to buy them for me. Maybe I’ve misjudged roses. They are the international symbol men use to express their love. I have no room to complain, right?

  I shake off my thoughts and gaze up at the building. “This place looks interesting.”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t been here,” Clay says, taking my hand and pulling me along. “It’s the newest place to be. You seriously haven’t been here?”

  “I’ve been busy with the business,” I say. Shout, actually
. The music roars overhead as we enter. A large room with many lights, but few that actually light up the place, greets us. A smoky haze lingers at the ceiling. Strobe lights, all seizure-like, make me blink fast. People are dancing. Bartenders are slinging drinks toward customers. “I thought we were eating!” I shout.

  “We are!” he shouts back. “There’s a really cool restaurant in the back!” He pulls me along, weaving us through the crowd of moving and swaying bodies. I look around. This is the kind of place where the girls slouch because they’re too beautiful otherwise. I don’t even have the ability to slouch.

  That strobe is about to make me insane.

  Soon enough we’ve made it out of the strobe light and into some decent mood lighting. The music still pulses through the walls, but at least there’s room to move. I glance down at my khakis. I am really not fitting in here, but Clay looks comfortable so I pull myself close to him.

  “Table for Matthews,” he says. The woman nods, glances at me, then offers to guide us to the table. We sit down in a cozy half-circle booth. The menus are already on the table. A candle stands tall, barely flickering, in the center. It’s the first time I can hear myself think.

  “Wow, Clay, this is quite a place.”

  “I know.” He grins. “They have one of these in New York too. It’s where all the celebs hang out. And I swear, you look like the paparazzi should be following you.”

  I smile a little and forgive the cheesy line. Clay was always one for going over the top while trying to make an impression.

  Clay grins at me. “Oh, don’t be modest,” he says. “You’re beautiful. You had me at ‘hello.’”

  Oh, brother. Not the Jerry Maguire line. Ugh. Call me grumpy, but that line irritates me. I smile again like he’s just made my day, secretly hoping we can move past cliché, quickly.

  I know this place is fancy because all the waitresses look alike and the menu has only five choices. I do love good food, but I can also do a burger or a steak. For Clay, though, I might learn to love the caviar life. Not sure how he’s affording all this, but for the time being, it’s not my problem.

  We both order the halibut, and Clay picks out our wine. Soon enough we are snuggled together as he pours my glass.