by Jana Aston
Besides, we all know that ‘random’ is just a dull word for ‘fortuitous.’ If nothing else this has been a series of fortuitous events that will lay out the course for the rest of my life. And Vince’s. And our future children’s. Sorry to get ahead of myself, but it’s impossible not to look at him and think about the possibilities of commingling our DNA.
The possibilities are adorable, by the way. I’m envisioning they’ll all have dark hair and dark eyes just like Vince. Maybe one of them will look like me, a tiny blonde toddler with wavy hair and big blue eyes that she’ll use against us to get whatever she wants.
Us. There’s no us, I remind myself. There’s not, but maybe there could be? Vince looks at me like he gets me. Like he sees me. Do you know how rare that is? For anyone to really look at you past a cursory glance? To look at you like they see the real you? Like they want to know more than what you’re saying, they want to know what you’re thinking about too?
It’s rare. Like it’s never happened to me before Vince. Not like this. Most people, when you tell them you sang a taco song as a child because you believed that’s where tacos came from—from the song—would laugh. They wouldn’t ask you to sing it. They definitely wouldn’t remember all the words the next day and bring you tacos.
I slap my fingers against my forehead. I cannot believe I told him about the taco song. I told him a lot of things last night.
That’s when I tune in to Carol asking Meghan where she sees herself in five years. I always thought that question was a dumb cliche. Like no one really walks around asking people something so obnoxious, right?
Yet Carol’s asking. She’s really bringing the hard-hitting questions to the Grind Me café on a Sunday afternoon.
You know where I’ll be in five years? Divorced. Annulled, whatever. I’ll be twenty-seven and divorced. Hell, I might be divorced two or three times by then, who knows.
You know where I’ll be in twenty-five years? Mailing wedding invitations to my children. Just like my parents.
I should call my mom and ask her if her first marriage was to a complete stranger she had strong lustful feelings for. A man who made her want to do crazy things like believe in love at first sight and happily ever afters. A man who made her heart race and her stomach fill with swans. I know butterflies is the word everyone uses for that feeling, but swans mate for life so wouldn’t a stomach full of swans make more sense? Besides, did you know that female butterflies mate only once and then die as soon as they lay their eggs, while male butterflies flitter around mating with as many females as they can find until they run out of sperm?
The more you know, right?
Vince gives me a stomach full of swans.
I wonder if my mom’s first husband made her feel like doing crazy things in the hopes that he’d get it, that he’d catch her. That he’d want to be a little crazy right alongside of her.
I wonder if my mom’s first marriage felt like serendipity but ended in heartache. I’ve never asked much about that guy. I was ten before I even comprehended that my father wasn’t her first marriage, he was her second. They’d long since divorced by then and she was newly engaged. A relative had made an offhand comment about the third time being a charm and my life had tilted off its axis a bit. Third? She’d had a life before the union that produced me? A husband before my father?
Looking back I have no idea why it was unfathomable to me. I have an older brother courtesy of my father’s first marriage. I’d always understood that my dad had been married before, but the idea that my mom had also been married before had thrown me for a loop. The feeling had been much like discovering that Santa wasn’t real. I’d figured that one out during the Christmas of my seventh year when “Santa” had duplicated two of his gifts at both my mom’s and dad’s houses. The old man made a list and checked it twice, but he couldn’t figure out how to split my presents in half and drop them in two different locations without error? And why did Santa have to make two stops just because my parents couldn’t live in the same house? It didn’t add up to me.
I’d called bullshit.
‘Bullshit’ is a word that adults don’t like to hear from a seven-year-old’s mouth. My dad confiscated my new Lego set as punishment. It’d taken everything in me not to roll my eyes and point out that I’d just explained that I had the exact same thing back at Mom’s house, so as far as punishments go, it was dumb.
Meghan doesn’t tell Carol any of this, obviously, since this is her appointment and not mine. Meghan tells her about her career aspirations and a timeshare she wants to buy in Mexico.
“What about your personal goals?” Carol asks and Meghan falters.
I feel you, Meghan. I feel you hard.
“You have issues with intimacy,” Carol tells Meghan and my heart stops because so do I! Who runs out of a post-cuddle session with a sex god? No one. No one does that. Not even if the sex god is their brand-new husband whom they’ve known for something under thirty hours. A well-adjusted normal person would never run. Granted, a well-adjusted normal person wouldn’t be in that situation to begin with, but still. He was playing with my hair and telling me he likes it just the way it is—without a time-consuming blow dry—and I ran out.
Speaking of blowing, I am blowing this all the blows. He probably won’t even want to date me after our annulment, which is going to be a real big problem for me because my ovaries strongly believe he’s meant to father my children and you can’t fight biological urges, it’s like trying to fight with fate. Perhaps I’d be able to fight the lust if he was annoying, but he’s not. He’s so not. Everything about him draws me in, makes me want more.
I know, I know. I’ve known him like ten minutes.
Crazy person, table of one.
“Your life isn’t randomly happening to you,” Carol is telling Meghan. “Your life is a compilation of the choices you make, both emotional and logical. Leave space for both. Don’t let your head talk your heart out of something you really want.”
Gah, Carol is so wise. I’m really glad I found her.
“Leave room for the unexpected, Meghan.”
Right, right, right.
Then Carol starts droning on about changes in the real-estate market and leaving room for growth in income properties. Then I miss a bunch of it because a group of teenagers have descended onto a nearby table so I’m now getting a mix of life coaching and homecoming plans.
In any case, I’m starting to wonder if Meghan and I want the same things out of these sessions. Still good advice though.
Carol and Meghan wrap up their meeting, agreeing to meet again on Thursday. I stay for an extra half hour because I am procrastinating like a boss and also because these homecoming plans are quite dicey.
When I get back to my apartment Vince is gone and I’m melancholy. The taco mess is gone too, the table cleared. The plastic cup from my iced coffee has been rinsed and placed in the recycle bin. He’s basically killing it as a husband. Good in bed, cleans up after himself, recycles.
In my bedroom the stuffed shark has been placed back onto my pillow. I take him with me to the sofa where I spend the remainder of the day binge-watching a reality show in which strangers paired up by relationship experts agree to marry each other at their first meeting. I’m not sure which is crazier, marrying a stranger you picked out yourself, or marrying a stranger a team of relationship experts picked out for you. I decide it’s a toss-up but it does make me feel better about my life choices.
Chapter Sixteen
“What’d you do this weekend?” It’s Monday and I’m at my desk working on quoting a wedding for next fall. I’d like to tell the client that they can get this entire package on a much smaller and more neon-lit scale at a variety of chapels across Las Vegas, but I like having a job so instead I input the numbers for a balloon drop as requested.
“I married the hot guy from the lobby.”
“Sure, sure.” He nods. “Do you have time to create a room block for the Swanson event before lunch?”
>
I stop typing and pull the decoy rings from my finger, the ones I have stacked next to my wedding band so that it’s not obvious I’m wearing a wedding band. Then I lift my hand up to Mark’s face and wiggle my fingers.
“You did not!” Mark’s eyes widen, then narrow as if he can’t quite determine if I’m serious or playing an elaborate joke on him.
“I did. Don’t tell Lydia, she doesn’t know.”
“Huh,” Mark replies. His mouth opens then closes without any words coming forth.
I nod.
“So”—he draws the word out slowly—“married?”
“Married.”
“Isn’t that something.”
“It’s something all right.”
“So what are you gonna do?”
“What do you mean?” I bristle, turning away to stick my decoy rings back on. “Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, it’s not like people who get married on purpose know what they’re doing either.”
“That is one way of looking at it.”
“Right?” I tap my pen against my desk, excited about this loophole. “Statistically I’m in good shape, don’t you think?”
“Sure, sure.” Mark nods along in the way one does when they’re humoring a crazy person.
“I’ve totally got my shit together, Mark. In fact, I created a room block for the Swanson event an hour ago and emailed it to you. So there.” I think marriage really suits me. For example, this morning I had a banana for breakfast instead of Cheez-Its and just now I sent that thing to Mark because I knew he needed it before he even asked. I think I’ve matured this weekend. It feels quite satisfying.
“Thank you for the email. I enjoyed the link to the new eyeshadow palette from Urban Decay.”
“Oh, crap. I included the wrong link?” Why am I such a disaster?
“Yup.”
I turn back to my keyboard and open a new email to Mark, attaching the correct link this time. Copy-pasting links can be the devil itself but at least I didn’t send him a link to porn. That would never happen, but only because I don’t use my work computer to look at porn.
“What in the hell are these?” Mark is holding one of the badges I made for Lydia last night, a look of confusion on his face. I can’t blame him because the badges are fairly ridiculous, if I’m using ‘ridiculous’ as a word that means ‘made of awesome.’
“Life achievement badges for Lydia,” I reply with a glance at the clock. I’m meeting her for lunch in ten minutes so I need to get moving. The employee cafeteria is a six-minute walk from my desk, because this place is huge. “It helps motivate her to complete adult tasks if she earns a badge,” I explain even though it’s obvious.
“Uh-huh.” Mark squints.
“Gimme.” I hold out my hand palm up. “I’ve got to meet her for lunch. I’m going to try the salad bar today because I’m married now and that’s the kind of bar married people hang out in.”
“That sounds right.” He slaps the badges into my palm. “Have fun.”
Fuck my life, salad bars are depressing. I stare at the pile of lettuce, cucumbers and green pepper on my plate and wonder if this step of adulthood is really necessary. The only thing that can salvage this is cheese. And ranch dressing. I slide my tray down the line and examine the rest of my options. I wonder if I like chickpeas? I wonder if Vince likes chickpeas? I wonder what the hell he does all day at the strip club?
Seriously though.
Is he reviewing invoices for toilet paper and replacing burnt-out neon light bulbs?
Doubtful.
I should probably learn how to pole-dance, take an interest in his interests. That would be a super wifely thing to do, wouldn’t it? I drop four servings’ worth of croutons onto my salad, then go off in search of Lydia. She’s already got a table so I plop down across from her with a huge grin. I cannot wait to hear about her weekend.
“So”—I dive straight in—“how was it?”
By “it,” I mean sex.
Lydia blushes, fidgets and bites her lip.
“Good,” she says, looking anywhere but at me.
“Good? That’s it?” Lydia’s inability to gossip is even more disappointing than this salad I’m eating. I’ve been looking forward to hearing the dirty details all weekend. Being nosey is such a burden at times, but I sigh and press on. “We’re both talking about sex, right? The sex was good?”
“So good.” Lydia’s fighting back a smile, her lips twisting.
“On a scale of one to hung, what are we talking about size-wise?” I hold up my hands, palms facing each other, and draw them apart, then closer, then apart again, waiting for her to tell me when to stop. “Was it smaller or larger than average?” I suspect Rhys is packing. I don’t want to brag but I’m a pretty good dickstimater. A dickstimater is a word for someone who is good at guessing dick size.
“I can’t tell you that!”
“Right. Because you’ve only seen the one dick and you don’t have anything to compare it to. Just tell me if it was longer or shorter than a stick of butter.”
“Longer.”
“Thicker or thinner than a can of Coke?”
“Thinner! It felt like a can of Coke, but definitely thinner. Oh, my God, I can’t believe I just said that.” Lydia gasps and slaps a hand over her eyes. I laugh and pull out the badges I’ve made for her. I’ve got a blow job badge, a sex badge and a butt stuff badge. I place them on the table in a row between us lined up in a row.
“You made badges!” She beams, peering over my handiwork before sliding the sex badge off the table and running it between her fingers. “This is very nice work, Payton.” The girl really does love her badges. She fingers the other two with the tip of her finger before pushing them back in my direction. “I haven’t earned these yet,” she says and I know it kills her a little bit because she’s an overachiever.
“He didn’t want a blow job?” I’m appalled.
Except. Except Vince didn’t let me give him a blow job this weekend either. Good Lord, maybe blow jobs have gone out of style? Hahah. Honestly, I crack myself up.
“He said not till Wednesday,” Lydia replies like that’s a thing.
“Excuse me?” I spear a cucumber with my fork and drag it through the ranch dressing before popping it into my mouth.
“I don’t know.” Lydia shrugs. “That’s what he said.”
“Hmm,” I hum around the cucumber in my mouth. God, I really am funny. Also, I need to hum on Vince’s dick, pronto.
“So what did you do this weekend?” Lydia asks. “Besides make badges for me?”
“Oh, you know. The usual.” Married Vince, I want to say. I want to tell her everything and get her advice, but now isn’t really the time. Everything is so new for her with Rhys and I don’t want to make it all about me. Maybe I can just talk around it a little? I stab a green pepper with my fork while I contemplate how I can talk about this without really talking about this.
“Did you know, statistically speaking, arranged marriages have a much higher success rate than those of individuals who choose for themselves?” I chew on the green pepper as nonchalantly as possible. Green peppers taste like slivers of green ice and depression.
“I have heard that, yes,” Lydia replies with a small laugh. “Were you binge-watching Married at First Sight again?”
More like living it.
“Maybe,” I admit. “It could work though, don’t you think?”
“Well, I suppose there is some merit to it.”
“Right!”
“A team of psychologists could match suitable partners, I guess. They’d likely have a good handle on compatible personality traits, and they’re matching people who are actively seeking a life partner, so everyone’s goals are the same.”
“Just like fate!” I nod my head as I say it.
“No, I don’t think psychology and fate are anything alike.” Lydia is shaking her head in response to my vigorous head-nodding.
“Hmm.” Dammit.
&n
bsp; Chapter Seventeen
I’ve just gotten home from work and changed into a tank top and pair of pajama pants Lydia made from an old sheet when there’s a knock on my door. I think we all know who that is.
“Thank God you’re here,” I announce as I swing open the door. “I’m glad you finally came over. It’s weird the way you’ve been avoiding me.” I give him a cheeky grin as I eye him from head to toe. Sweet baby Jesus, does he look good. He’s wearing a suit and tie and he still looks pressed even at the end of the day. Seeing him makes me flush all over with excitement and anticipation. Seeing him makes the swans in my stomach swim in rapid little circles. I don’t know why, but he just does it for me. Destiny has done me a real solid in tossing him in my path, that’s for sure.
He does that little headshake thing I’m already familiar with. Then he rolls his eyes at me for good measure.
“Cute,” he mutters as he strolls past me. “Real cute.”
He’s carrying a brown paper grocery bag. The kind you get at the expensive grocery store because hipsters love retro and the environment. Vince is not a hipster so I can only assume he shops there because the groceries are fancy as fuck.
“You keep going on and on about how much you like me, but then you disappear. It’s weird, right? You should really get your shit together before you give me a complex.” I shake my head as I close the door behind him.
“Uh-huh,” Vince mutters heading straight for my kitchen.
“Did you bring me groceries? Thank God, I’m starving. I had a salad for lunch, which sucked, by the way, and I ate the last of my Cheez-Its in the shower yesterday.”
Vince pauses, the bag hovering over my countertop. “What?” He squints at me like I’m talking nonsense. Then he does a slow perusal of what I’m wearing and scowls. “So you’re in your pajamas and you have no food in the house? What were you going to eat for dinner, Payton?”
“Um…” I wrinkle my nose, head tilted to the side. “I don’t think it should come as any great surprise to you that I don’t always think things through.”
