Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger

by Beth Harbison

  It wasn’t just a place to live out her childhood fantasies of horses and stables and whatever old Spin and Marty episodes were shown on The Mickey Mouse Club reruns they played on Channel Five. When Burke and she started to date and fall in love, it became their place. Burke and his grandfather and often his brother as well, would work around the place while Quinn would sit on the patio with his grandmother Dottie, drinking iced tea and hearing tales of the old days while the wind hushed across the long stretches of green nothingness that were increasingly rare in the D.C. suburbs.

  The farm was sacred space.

  Surely Frank knew how much it would hurt her to bring this up this way. Surely he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think he had to … would he?

  “He took her there?” she said. Her voice sounded so much stronger than she felt. Her throat was so tight she felt like someone was strangling her, yet it sounded like she had the conviction and anger appropriate to a woman who has found out, just in the nick of time, that she’s been betrayed. She’d ask the questions she had to ask, even though she didn’t want the answers. She needed the answers, and she’d get them. She was a detective, she was fucking Columbo or something, with a pretend pad and pen in her hand, saying, And what, exactly, do you know about that?

  “I really don’t want to say more. You know enough. Ask him now. How could he deny it?”

  “Apparently he has for some time!”

  Frank shook his head. “I can’t betray him anymore, it goes against Guy Code.”

  “Fuck Guy Code!” How could anyone look at a woman in the pain she knew was contorting her face and burning in her eyes, and think it was sufficient to give a small, yet powerful, detail without follow-up? “What. Else. Do. You. Know. About. Her?”

  Long pause.

  “She’s a stoner,” he finally said with a shrug, though his tone was one of disgust.

  Ah.

  That should make her feel better.

  She was lesser than Quinn, because Quinn wasn’t a stoner. Quinn was the opposite. How comforting. She was totally anti-stoner. But so was Burke! Burke was as straight and narrow as they came! She’d never seen him have anything stronger than a beer, and he usually opted for milk at that.

  Yet he’d taken some stoner chick to the farm and banged her there? This was either a huge flaw in Frank’s story or it was the detail that dropped the Price Is Right Plinko chip into the $5,000 slot of her lingering doubt about Burke’s faithfulness.

  Her throat tingled and she thought she might pass out, a big white unidentifiable splash in the street gutter that people wouldn’t even slow down before running over.

  What was that? A sack of sweet feed?

  She straightened, with some effort in the now-ridiculous dress, and tried to breathe and walk off the shaking that emanated from a spot in the center of her being.

  Her heart.

  Then Frank delivered his final blow, which she’d never have time to figure out whether it was an incredibly clever manipulation via lies-so-weird-they-had-to-be-true or just truth-is-stranger-than-fiction.

  “Actually, she got stoned there with Rob.” He looked at her earnestly, his wavy dark hair short and controlled just like his demeanor, versus Burke’s wild mane. And Frank’s eyes were a serious amber brown, in contrast to Burke’s heartthrobby blue.

  It made Frank easier to believe somehow.

  He considered for a moment before adding—as redemption for Burke?—a lame, “That did piss Burke off.”

  “But…” Her mind couldn’t compute. Couldn’t make sense of this. Couldn’t do the math. Yet couldn’t stop trying. Rain Man trying to add every single number in the phone book. Rob was a hired hand who’d moved out, what, a year ago? Ages ago. It was weird enough to say that Burke had somehow condoned this, but adding the detail—Rob—that conceivably had credibility and the vague insinuation of a time frame … well, honestly, she just would never have given Frank credit for being that creative. He was very smart, but in a left-brain, numbers sort of way.

  Weaving these perfect, weird details for her just seemed out of his league.

  Hell, it was even out of her league, and she was what she would normally consider a fairly wily woman.

  “But he hates…,” she tried, then lost her voice. Or her point.

  Or her soul.

  This just sounded too true, if only in its very falseness. It didn’t matter what Burke hated or approved of, maybe there had even been some perverse fetishish pleasure in going for someone deliberately opposite Quinn. Still, it was the timing that stung like lashes from a whip. “It’s been going on that long?”

  Frank gave a half shrug. In cynical retrospect, she would believe it was meant to look sympathetic. Or maybe commiserative was the better word. Hey, I know, it sucks, that shrug implied. I’m so sorry you’re going through this, but give the jerk what he deserves. Because he clearly expected her to be outraged by this news.

  As pretty much any self-respecting woman would be.

  But all she could think about were weird little clues, tiny things that she’d ignored—though consciously—time and again. There had been scratch marks on Burke’s shoulder once when she was massaging his back. She’d noticed them, thought the curve of them seemed pretty distinct and specific, yet she didn’t even question him about them because she completely trusted him. She just figured there had to be a reasonable explanation.

  Because there’s always a reasonable explanation for things, right? How many times had she been worried about something and been 100 percent sure the only possible outcome was that something awful had happened, when, in fact, a little series of innocuous things had happened?

  She didn’t enjoy being angsty and upset. She didn’t want to be Jealous Girl. Jealous Girl is just so uncool. She’s Walter Mitty’s wife, the harpy nag who gains power with a wedding ring, then demands an accounting of every moment her man isn’t with her. The fat actress in every old movie who lost her guy to Marilyn Monroe or Myrna Loy or Katharine Hepburn. Jealous Girl was Insecure Girl, and she did all kinds of ugly things that turned life into drudgery for everyone around her.

  Quinn wasn’t Jealous Girl! She honestly thought she was a good catch because she didn’t freak out about every little thing! Once upon a time, she would have been all, Ugh, I hate those girls!

  But here she was, pacing on hot, rough pavement in what was once a beautiful wedding gown, her mind racing with angry, suspicious, painful thoughts.

  A couple of times he’s told me the same story more than once, without remembering he’d already told me. Is that because he thought he’d told her?

  Those times he said he wanted to stay in because he was “tired,” even though he obviously would have had hot sex with me if he’d seen me—was he having hot sex with her instead?

  Oh, my God, hotter sex with her?

  Was that even possible?

  The pain of imagining it was awful. Him touching her, stripping her, her hands on him, her mouth on him—that was Quinn’s man, that was Quinn’s body to love, he reserved it for her. She knew every single millimeter of it, knew which muscles hurt just by touching him, he never even had to say a word. No one else would know, or care probably, that he held his tension in his shoulder blades; that the arch of his foot tightened when he ran, and that that turned his calves to tight painful ropes; that for some reason his left upper body was usually tighter than the right but his right lower body was tighter than his left.… All those meticulous little details that Quinn had so proudly believed proved she loved him better than anyone else ever could.

  Had he cupped this other girl’s face and kissed her while he was on top of her, moving inside her? God, that was the worst of all. Him kissing her. Kissing was so much more intimate than the rest. Emotional.

  Not that the rest didn’t matter. Not that the rest didn’t exist. Apparently it did. This puzzle had so many more pieces than she’d anticipated. Had he ever been with her the same day he was with Quinn? Had her kisses still been on his lips
when she, Quinn, kissed him?

  She felt like she was going to puke.

  “Why would he do that to me?” she asked Frank, though she wasn’t really looking to him for an answer. How could he have it?

  “You know him. He did it because he could. He did it because he always wants more. More money, more attention, more pizza, whatever, he’s like a six-year-old who thinks of no one but himself.”

  And she did know Burke. She knew he was completely capable of being a child. Wild, irresponsible. His sense of humor was sometimes raunchy, his timing sometimes inappropriate. Sometimes he laughed too loud, drove too fast, pushed too hard. But in spite of that—perhaps even because of some of it—he was wildly charismatic.

  And she had won his heart. She—Quinn Morgan Barton—whose Awkward Phase had gone on longer than many other girls’ in junior high, who had always thought just a little too much about things, and tried just a little too hard to do everything right—maybe sometimes erring on the side of being too dull for a guy like Burke—she had won his heart in ninth grade and had been with him ever since, almost seven years.

  Yes, they’d had their challenges now and then. There was that time they’d broken up because he refused to go to the homecoming dance, and then, while they were broken up, he went with Tammy Thomas, whose stupid name made her sound like a brand of shoes and whose stupid face could probably model for the ads. That had sucked. But he’d done it to spite her for dumping him and, in some weird way, that was better than him doing it without regard for her at all.

  At least he was thinking of her.

  But for the most part everything had been good between them. No, they’d been great. The two of them were the best of friends, they had a long history, god knew they had amazing chemistry.

  They loved each other.

  He’d loved her enough to propose. She hadn’t even seen it coming, but he’d done it, he’d proposed, and here it was, their wedding day.

  Or was it?

  “Why are you telling me all this now, Frank? Why now?”

  “Because you need to know before you go in there and marry the wrong guy.”

  She sank down next to the curb again, her own private rise and fall of service, and hugged her knees closer to her, her feet stinging against the hot pavement of the gutter.

  There was a steady drumbeat of, This isn’t true, this isn’t true, this isn’t true, this isn’t true, thrumming in her head.

  But she didn’t buy it.

  “But why now? Why at the last possible minute?” She met his eyes. “Why not, I don’t know, yesterday? Last week? Last month? Just how long have you known all this was going on?”

  “I’ve known it all along. I thought you knew—I mean, how could you miss it?—but I guess you didn’t want to know. It wasn’t until today that I realized maybe you really didn’t get it. You missed every hint.”

  “Hint?”

  “There were a million of them. Hell, I gave you a million of them!”

  “Jesus, Frank, you might have a million thoughts in your head, but if you throw me a balloon, all I’m going to catch is the balloon!” She threw her hands in the air and came perilously close to hitting him in the face. Which she wouldn’t have been sorry for at all. “Who wants to leap to conclusions only to have their heart broken?”

  “I understand,” he said, in an infuriatingly calm voice. “But sometimes you need to be realistic.”

  “I thought I was, Frank.” She practically spit his name. “Right up until this moment, I thought I was. Because no one gave me the benefit of, apparently, the facts.”

  “But you knew them, Quinn. Come on. Deep down, you must have known.”

  Had she? Her stomach tightened at the thought. Had the occasional worry or moment of mistrust been significant, or just paranoia? Didn’t everyone have doubts in a relationship now and then? Didn’t everyone occasionally think the person they loved might be … attracted to other people?

  “I think you’re mad at the wrong person,” Frank concluded.

  “No, I’m not! I’m mad at all the right people. I’m mad at you, I’m mad at that sonofabitch in there”—she gestured toward the church—“and I’m mad at myself most of all. Myself and you. And him.” God, she hated everyone.

  He gave a soft laugh. “I guess that about covers it.” He looked as if he wanted to reach for her, to comfort her, but thought better of it. “I’ve known you a long time, Quinn. In fact…” He held a breath for a moment, pent up, then expelled it. “I … well, I kept hoping you’d see what was going on. The truth. I would never treat you like this.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “You are not seriously making a pass at me.”

  “Quinn, I want you to be treated the way you should be treated. You know me, you know who I am. There’s no need to sell myself to you, I’m not right either, I’m sure, or you would have seen it a long time ago. That’s not what this is about. I told you what my conscience said I had to tell you. What you do with it is up to you.” He stood up and dusted off his pants. “I’m going in now. I’ll let them know you’re on your way, no matter what you decide to do once you’re in there.” He shrugged. “And, Quinn, I’m really sorry to have done this … this way. Or at all. I just didn’t know what else to do at this point. I couldn’t sit on it without giving you a straight shot.”

  Then he went into the church, his gait certain, if not confident. And why wouldn’t it be? He wasn’t the one whose life was just shattered. He’d be okay no matter what. Obviously he’d made something of a confession to her, but it was equally obvious that his life—his heart, his sanity, his well-being—didn’t depend on what she did.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the carved wooden door after he’d gone through it. It felt like forever. She was completely numb. Part of her wanted to never move again. To never have to do anything again. Her world had been shattered, and she wanted to just collapse into a million little pieces on the ground, the million little puzzle pieces she would otherwise have to put together in order to make sense of this.

  Then she heard her mother’s voice calling to her. “Quinn! Come on! Come in here! Everyone’s waiting!”

  And that was duty’s call.

  Mechanically, she got up and started to walk toward the door, aware that her veil was askew, that she’d sweated her makeup into something of a blur, but unaware of the gum she’d sat on that was now sticking to her dress, and marched to the internal beat in her head, morbidly in tempo with the “Wedding March.”

  It can’t be true, it can’t be true, it can’t be truuuue, it can’t be true.

  That beat carried her all the way up to the altar. She was aware of eyes on her, but she met no one’s gaze. Not even Burke’s, though she knew—she could just feel—it was questioning.

  What’s wrong? What’s going on?

  No clear answer formed in her head. She didn’t know what was going on, exactly. She was dazed, being carried on a rickety raft by an ocean of adrenaline.

  She didn’t know what she was going to do until she was right there by his side.

  That’s when it all came clear.

  She drew her hand back and slapped him with all the power of every unacknowledged hurt he’d ever inflicted on her.

  Then she turned and ran back down the aisle, out of the church, followed, not by the undoubtedly stunned Burke, but by his best man. His brother.

  Frank.

  * * *

  Five hours later, as the night crept over town, Quinn sat alone in her shop—she had refused her friends’ well-intended offers of help and support, half ready to strangle the next person who offered either—opening presents, writing awkward thank you anyway’s for them, and repackaging them to ship back to the sender.

  And all the while, her anger grew stronger and stronger, like hoofbeats from an oncoming calvary.

  She couldn’t believe she’d put so much trust in Burke. Couldn’t believe it. Everything seemed so clear now.

  Yet, as
clear as it was, she still worried about how she’d struggle when her current anger dissolved tomorrow, or the next day, into sadness.

  She put her pen down and cracked her knuckles. Her hand was killing her from all this writing. If it were thanks for wedding gifts it would have been a lot more fun. But this? Explaining. Apologizing. Wondering which recipients would understand and which would be angrily tucking into their returned gifts, wondering if she’d opened them and made toast with them first.

  And why did she need to do the explaining anyway? Apart from the million things he should have done to prevent this catastrophe to begin with, he should have gone straight to the pulpit and done the one gentlemanly thing there was left for him to do: tell the guests that the wedding was off, it was entirely his fault, and … whatever. Offered them cake to go or something. Gotten Ziploc bags and plastic forks and let everyone have at it at one of the many traffic lights along Route 7 on the way home.

  And maybe assured them right then and there that their gifts would be returned by him, so she wouldn’t have to be sitting here wondering which guests thought she was the kind of inconsiderate runaway bride who thought the damn Vitamix was her right just for letting them sit their butts on the pew for an uncomfortable forty-five minutes while she dithered about whether or not she actually wanted to have the party she had invited them all to.

  How many of them thought she was a flake who just had second thoughts for no good reason?

  Now she’d have to spend the whole damn night packing stuff up for UPS to get the next day.

  When she was supposed to be in Jamaica!

  Middleburg, Virginia, was most definitely not Jamaica. It was just the same old scenery she’d been looking past for twenty-one years.

  She’d wanted more. She’d wanted to broaden her horizons, open her world, grow with him. With Burke. The man she’d loved since he was a boy of sixteen and she was a girl of fourteen.

  That was laughable now, given the truth.

  How many other people had known the truth before she’d even put on the blue silk garter?

  What were they thinking about her now?

  What would she be thinking about her now?