A Mess of Reason

by A. Wilding Wells

  Roxanne is silent, both hands slammed over her mouth. Not a word comes from her—and let me tell you, this is a first. She just saw what I’ve been feeling all these tormented years. She’s finally figured it out. And I don’t give a rat’s ass that she knows. Good job, Rox—lightbulb moment.

  “Sure. You look hot.” The look in her eyes shakes me to my core. “Creed’s gonna love it, sweetheart.” I say the only words I can summon from my bankrupt state of emotions. Sounding like a satanic mortician, I feel myself closing up and shutting down. There’s no room for me in this anymore. He made the move I should have made ten years ago. I’m the douchebag—not him. He’s a Nobel-Prize-winning genius. A veritable rocket scientist. Me, I’m the sorry-assed loser who’s letting the single greatest woman I know ride off into the sunset without me.

  “Oh…” Her puzzled, sad voice says it all. No question, I’ve hurt her feelings terribly. And nothing about that feels good, but what the hell do I do?

  She turns and walks away, slips into the fitting room, closing the door as fast as she disappears behind it. I hear threads of muffled cries. I hear them through my pounding heartbeat, angst, and humiliation. I’m the reason all that just happened. The grim reaper, the master of moral code.

  “What the fuck was all of that?” Roxanne says in slow, pronounced syllables as she places her hands on my knees, giving me an unreal money shot of her jugs. The pleasant distraction tempts me to wedge my beer bottle right between them, but I stick with my better judgment and refrain.

  “Start talking, Guns.” (Remember…quarterback.)

  “I…agh…fuck, Rox. That was bad, wasn’t it?”

  She shoots me a challenging look. “Tell me I didn’t just imagine that scene? Tell me that just happened. Tell me?”

  “I…fuck…fuck me.” I get up and go to the fitting room door. Tess is gasping for air, crying like she did at her mom’s funeral, like she did when I picked her up off the dirt before her bull Legend nearly skewered her.

  “Tess. Open the door…let me in, sweetheart.” She says nothing. My forehead’s pinned against the door, holding me up. I’m terrified I might have just ruined a nearly perfect relationship with my best friend by crossing a line I never should have. I couldn’t stop. It just happened…it all came together in an exquisite little bubble, and I got carried away. There had been nowhere else I wanted my lips in that moment but on hers. I’d needed to taste her—it wasn’t a choice, it was a commandment from some place inside of me; my brain had nothing to do with it. That was all heart, all soul, all chemistry. I needed to be as close to her as possible and that kiss…dammit.

  In that kiss, the whole earth left us. It was just me and Tess standing there having the most intimate moment I have ever had in my entire life. What was I thinking, kissing her like that while she’s in her wedding dress? A sharpshooter should take me out with one bullet to the brain right now. That would solve everything.

  “Tess. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… Please let me see your face. Please open the door. Baby, let me in there with you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TESS

  “Go away, Scout, just…please leave! Please!”

  I can’t see him now. He’ll see right through me. Worse yet, he’s apologizing for it? Lemon in the wound…nice touch. What the hell was that? Finish it already, you’re better than that…aren’t you, Scout? Isn’t he?

  The kiss, though, oh…that kiss. It was just so…exquisite. A dream-like kiss you only get once in a lifetime but replay over and over. A snow globe sort of kiss that happens in slow motion, a kiss that feels like a rolling wave going through your veins, then smacking into your heart like a tidal wave.

  “Tess, I’m not leaving until you open this door.” His voice is the consistency of sour milk, a sharp contrast to the hard rattle of the door as he bangs it with his fists.

  Tough. Then you shouldn’t be apologizing for kissing me, you pussy. That’s what I should tell him. I’ve waited years for that kiss. Then, when it happens, I’m engaged, standing in my wedding dress at my fitting? Brilliant timing! To top off it…he apologizes? Ugh. If that’s not a warning sign, nothing is.

  “Tess, listen to me, I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to…I…you just look so…and I got…well. Fuck, Tess, any guy would have done that.”

  He needs to leave. He’s only making it worse. I’m going to literally kill him if he doesn’t shut up.

  “Tess, it was wrong. I never should have, I made a mistake…I crossed a line. Please forgive me, baby.”

  His words hit me like a farewell whisper, jarring me with whiplash. I can’t handle it; my insides are screaming for him to shut up. He regrets it? He never meant it? A mistake? Is that really how he feels about that amazing kiss…about kissing me? I go to the door and swing it open. He practically falls on me and I explode. As in nuclear.

  “You want to see me? Fine, then, get an eyeful…look at me now! Don’t. I. Look. Hot!” I’m louder than loud, mad as a cat thrown into a lake.

  “Sweetheart…stop, please. I’m sorry…”

  “Sorry? Oh, come on! Don’t you just love my dress? Look, I’ll spin for you.” My fists are clenched, my words sterile, coming out as a verbal slap in his face by the looks of it.

  “You want to die, don’t you? Do you like the back—doesn’t my ass look awesome in it? Want to touch me? Do my tits look big in it? Do they?”

  All my reason is gone, my unremitting fury spills out like poison. “Come on…touch me…kiss me. Not now? Oh, sorry, no…that would be a mistake! Yeah, you’re right that was a mistake, Scout. A big fucking mistake!”

  My mess of emotions, in need of editing, somehow continues to erupt.

  “Tess, let me just…”

  “Just nothing. You’ve said enough. Now leave me the fuck alone because I’m engaged, in case you forgot—I’m getting married to someone else. See…remember…didn’t I show you my big ring? Look at it!” I wave it in his face like a drunk holding the key to a liquor store. Then I slam both hands onto his chest in thundering claps of force while marching him backwards toward the door. “Now get the fuck out of my face, Scout!” Never in my life have I been so mean to someone. So cruel, raw, base, awful. The look on his face—as though he’s witnessing a murder.

  Then he turns and walks out. No looking back. Just like I’d told him to. Out. Gone.

  “Tess. Tess…oh my God…” Roxanne sweeps me into her arms and I slip right through them like a wet, used rag plastered onto the floor. I cry. And I cry. I cry, because my foolish boldness might have just chased the most important person in my life right out of it. I’m sure he hates me right now. I’m sure he never wants to see me again. I’m sure he thinks I’m the biggest cesspool of bitch roaming the earth. And that’s exactly how I feel.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SCOUT

  What a moron. Why did I ever let that happen? Now she hates me. Now my best friend and the one woman I would do anything for hates me because I crossed the line and kissed her. Rule number one: don’t kiss your best friend if she’s a gorgeous, sexy woman who’s engaged to someone else. Why could I not just be happy with our friendship? Why did I have to go and kiss her? Everything gone, in one dammed kiss. Who knew kisses could be so damaging? Kisses are supposed to be soft, sexy, provocative…leading…but no. Not that kiss. That kiss was laced with arsenic. That was the was the kiss of death. The black-masked kiss.

  Christ almighty, and I thought I didn’t know what to do before. I have to repair this; I cannot let her hate me. I cannot live my life without her in it. I’ve just ruined what should have been one of the most magical moments in her life, her wedding dress fitting. Yeah, I took that sweet dream of a day and smashed my big fucking guns straight through it. Brilliant.

  I do the only thing I know to do: revert to my teenage years. I head over to the Piggly Wiggly grocery store where the biggest bubblegum machine in town sits and I cash in a twenty-dollar bill for quarters. Thirty autographs later, fifty-seven plastic bubb
les filled with toys—most of which I give to passing-by moms with whiny kids—I find the prize. A big, blingy, plastic emerald ring. As well as stretchy handcuffs, a scratch-and-sniff dog poop tattoo (that I will let her put anywhere on my body…including my forehead), and a lucky rabbit’s foot.

  Next, I grab a huge box of mini-Chiclets from the top shelf of the candy aisle. A coconut cake from the bakery. A six-pack of beer. A bottle of Jose Cuervo, and last but not least, the ingredients for my sicker-than-the-average homemade macaroni and cheese that makes her cry when she eats it.

  Oh, and I almost forgot the card. Hallmark. God, I love you, Hallmark. You exist solely for douchebags like me, don’t you? Some sorry-assed excuse of guy had to have come up with you because he fucked up so friggin’ royally that the only thing he could do—besides shower his love with gumball-machine prizes—was apologize with a cheeseball card that she could tuck in her panties drawer amongst a bunch of pot-fuckin’-pourri sachets. I find a sympathy card that is the most syrupy thing you could possibly dream up. Because yes, I may have just killed our relationship, and this will hopefully help bring it back from the dead.

  After I make the mac-n-cheese, I open up every last packet of mini-Chiclets. Side note: she loves these because of that sexy gap between her two front teeth. Yeah, well, she can hold three of these little suckers in there. How adorable is she? I know I’ve told you already. Pretty much the most ever. I cover the entire coconut cake with thousands of mini-Chiclets. It’s her favorite cake next to a Hostess mash up—but that’s more of her birthday cake. This is her greedy pig-out cake. Everyone should have a version.

  I put the plastic bubble holding the blingy ring right smack dab in the middle of the cake top. The ring, to be clear, is a promise ring. As in, I promise to never fuck up so badly again. I promise to love, worship, and cherish you for the rest of my life—as your best friend. I promise to not ever cross the line again…unless you want me to. Maybe I shouldn’t do that one? Anyway, I intend to keep all the promises because I love the shit out of her even if I can’t have her the way I want her—in the deepest part of my heart.

  I decide to go in full-force entry. I’m not knocking this time. I have every right to march right in and lay my heart on the line with the fattest apology ever known to mankind. Plus I’m scared shitless that she won’t let me in if I knock. So basically it’s more of a bank robber move. I promise you (ring or no ring), I will be stealing her heart back even if I have to use the stretchy handcuffs.

  My arms are loaded down Santa-style. Opening the front door without a shitload of commotion is practically impossible, but I manage. She’s nowhere. I keep walking until I find her, because wherever she is, that’s where the party’s gonna happen.

  The bummer is, I find her face down on her big fluffy bed. And yeah, you guessed it: she still has on her wedding dress. Time for some mandatory fun.

  I climb onto the bed to lie right next to her, my entire body pressed tightly against hers. Since she hates me right now, she doesn’t move, not one inch. So I start scratching her back gently. More of a pet than a scratch…sort of like a Hey there, remember me? I love you so damn much it’s killing me kind of a pet.

  Still nothing. The vibe is clear: kind of a Hey there…go fuck yourself.

  I get off the bed and go into phase two of Win Back my Girl. I realize maybe you’ll think this is over the top, but she’s worth every ounce of thought that I’ve put into this. I spread out a bohemian-looking scarf that I’d been saving up for her birthday. On top of it I put candles—little scented ones that hopefully stir her toward me. Then the mac-n-cheese and the cake covered in mini-Chiclets. Two shots of tequila for each of us lined up on a small wooden board (yes, I brought glasses), the beer, and finally the syrupy card. Oh, and one spoon, because I plan on feeding her. That’s just how we roll. Then I wait.

  Nothing. I know she knows it’s me and not an ax murderer. But, she hates me this much.

  Phase three. I steal three mini-Chiclets off the cake and go around to her side of the bed. I lie right next to her again. I twist her head toward me so there’s not a chance she can miss me. Her eyes are closed, of course. Why would she want to look at me? I’m an asshole. I slide my finger in under her big gorgeous top lip and proceed to place the Chiclets into the gap between her teeth. Still nothing.

  Phase four. Tickle time.

  Backfire. She’s crying. Fuck. I’m sucking at this.

  Phase five. I sit up against the headboard and pull her into my lap. I just hold her, rocking her the tiniest bit while I sing her favorite songs in a near whisper.

  Nothing. Well, I’m lying. Nothing but tears. Lots and lots of tears.

  Phase six.

  “Tessie girl…hey baby. I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you. I love you. You’re the only girl in my heart. You’ve always been my girl. You always will be. I promise I won’t hurt you ever again. You have to believe me. I need you not to hate me. Please, love…stop hating me. It’s killing me. You’re my shot of tequila, my mini-Chiclet, my mac-n-cheese…my everything. How am I going to have a beer if you won’t open it with your teeth, because I brought everything for an I’m-sorry picnic except for that. You see, Tess, I know I fucked up. I made a mistake and I did something that I shouldn’t have, and I’m trying to tell you that I won’t ever wrong you like that again. Can we go back in time and just erase it?”

  She smacks me. Thank God!

  “I don’t want to erase it.”

  Touchdown. Holy spike the ball…what?

  “Tess…what?”

  “Why are you you so sorry you kissed me? Am I that awful? Why do you feel like it was a mistake?”

  She still won’t look at me. Her face is planted in my chest right against my heart. My heart, which is pounding like I was just given an adrenaline shot that could wake a dead elephant. Imagine the rampant confusion racing through me.

  “Tess, I need you to look at me. I need to see your eyes, baby. It’s me…come on.”

  Nothing. So I do it for her. I tip her head back, pull her chin up so she can’t for anything avoid me now. And then I see those three little Chiclets wedged between her teeth and I bust out laughing because she’s a melted-box-of-crayons mess. Her face is red and raw, mascara is running in rivers down her cheeks, her eye makeup is smudged to a point that she looks like a crack whore. Her hair is knotted, mangled, and stuck to her face. But the pink, green, and red Chiclets that sit happily between her front teeth make her look like Christmas morning to me. She’s just the most beautiful mess of a creature in the entire world and my heart melts all over again, like it has a thousand other times.

  “You’re laughing at me? I hate you.”

  “I know you do. But I love you. Now open your eyes and look at me.”

  She does. She looks not just at me—she looks into me. And fuck if I don’t want to kiss her like I did before all over again. But this time…this time, I don’t. This time I stop and I talk.

  “You don’t want to erase it, sweetheart?”

  “No. But you do. So whatever.”

  “And that makes you…?”

  “Sad.”

  “You liked that kiss?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Want me to kiss you again like that?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I hate you. You want to erase it.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Hand me a shot of tequila. I smell it,” she says, pinching my nipple really friggin’ hard. I let her. Maybe inflicting pain on me will help her. Fine.

  “Sure.” I reach over, grab it, then do the honors by pouring it right into her mouth. She swallows it in one smooth gulp. Then I grab one for me and sink it back.

  “Another,” she manages to squeak out. I indulge her again. And myself as well.

  We sit in silence. I’m so confused, I’m not quite sure where to jump in. I’m feeling damned if I do, damned if I don’t. She liked the kiss…but hates me? Liked the kiss…but doesn’t
want me to do it again? Hates me for wanting to erase it, even though she hates me for doing it? I need a help line here. Anyone? Tell me this isn’t confusing. Part of me wants to rip my brain stem out.

  “Why did you tell me it was a mistake?”

  Thank fuck for our good buddy and in-house therapist Jose—now we may be able to get this party started.

  “Because I made you cry. Because you were in your wedding dress getting ready to marry Creed. Because I think I crossed the best-friend line. Because I thought I’d lost you over it.”

  “But not because you didn’t like it?” she says with a wee sob, a sound that might come out of a child’s throat.

  “Jesus, Tess. I fucking loved it. That was the greatest kiss of my life back there.”

  “Yeah…really?”

  “Yeah, I swear to you…best ever.”

  “Oh,” she says, looking at my eyes for a second with the smallest crack of a smile on the corner of her mouth. “Hand me a beer, can you?” I grab two. She opens one after the other with her bottom teeth. The Chiclets are still wedged between her two front teeth, though most of the color is worn off them, smeared onto her lips and making her look more like a crack whore clown.

  “So you came here to apologize for making a mistake that isn’t a mistake?”

  “Yep.”

  “So what does that make it?”

  “I think that’s up to you, baby. Do you want me to kiss you again?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Do you want me to feed you? I made you mac-n-cheese.”

  “You did? You made the mac-n-cheese?” Her eyes tear up again, making my heart swell like a balloon.

  “Just for you…the one and only.”

  “Feed me.”

  “Thought you’d never ask. You wanna suck the Chiclets out first? Or are you saving those for later?”

  “You take them out, you know the rules: you put ’em in, you take ’em out.”

  “Anyway I want? Like old times?”