“Rox, I swear to you, I have done everything in my playbook.”
“Dammit to hell! I thought for sure…! Well, we could just drug her, take her out the back way…you know, kidnap her.”
“Oh, you think I haven’t considered it?”
“Give me a minute; I’ll clear the hens out.”
I can tell she feels the same emptiness I do.
*
“Breathtaking…sight for the angels, sweetheart.”
I can’t remember a time when I’ve had so much shrapnel in my guts. I, too, may vomit. But I play it cool and calm, knowing what a roller coaster she’s got to be riding.
“Yeah? Thanks. I’m pretty…ah, I’m nervous as fuck.” Through watery eyes, she looks at me, while wringing her hands and walking around in circles like a chicken that’s just had her head cut off.
“I know you are, baby. I brought you some Dom. Can I pour you a glass? Liquid courage? A last toast?” I pop the cork, because frankly I need the courage as much as she does.
“You make it sound like I’m going off to the guillotine.”
“Choice words.”
“Yes, a glass is a good idea, I guess. Have you seen Creed?”
“I saw him a while ago. Don’t worry, he’s around. No one would leave you at the altar, princess.”
She gives me a small, fake smile, barely looking my way.
“Come here.” I pull her tiny body into my arms, holding her like I never want to let her go…so tightly that maybe I’ll be able to push the white-hot starbursts of pain straight out of her body into mine. Then I sing to her, because I know it’s her balm.
“A little toast,” I say as I entwine my arm with her laced-up white-gloved arm. I know I can’t get all sappy and heavy here; that was last night. It would be downright cruel for me to grovel now, just minutes before she’s about to take on a new life.
“I’ll meet you on the flipside.” I say it solemnly, along with a wink and a kiss on her forehead.
“The flipside,” she answers back, barely audible, lips quivering, eyes brimming over.
“So, you all set to fly off to Paris? Bags packed?”
“Yeah, right over there.” She points to the corner where her small, red leather trunk sits. The very one I’d given her in high school. The same trunk she’s taken to every rodeo.
“You still have that thing?” I’m chuckling because the girl could buy herself a train full of Louis Vuitton trunks and yet she keeps that old thing.
“It’s one of the first vintage pieces you gave me. It was my seventeenth birthday.”
She smiles a real smile. A big, glowing, full-faced smile. Then in unison we both say, “Janis Joplin.”
“I used my entire summer savings to buy that thing at auction, drove three hours to pick it up. You’ve probably put more miles on it than she did.”
I take half a step back, giving her a once-over. She’s magnificent. All I can do is wish to hell the world would stop spinning so I could hop off of it with only her at my side.
“Well, good, then you really are ready. Are you also ready for me to walk you down the plank?”
We both cringe as my words come out.
“I mean, give you away? Pass the torch? Dump you into hell’s lap?”
She comes at me with a right hook and it hits me like pure unadulterated love. “Stop it. You’re only making it more painful.”
“Good, then this is going to hurt. I need you to remember this moment.” With Tess in my arms, I lay the kiss of a lifetime on her lips. One of those kisses that feels “Star Spangled Banner” emotional in your guts. Knowing all the while she’ll need to pull away this time, because for me time is standing still…and in this bubble, she’s all mine, and I have no choice but to be selfish about it.
The tent bells rings frantically, startling the hell out of both of us, then Roxanne charges in. She’s breathless, her face beet-red as though she’s just run a mile sprint.
“I need to talk to you guys. I need to…holy fuck! Um, listen Tess, maybe you alone…or no…maybe you, Scout. Wait. Oh shit…shit!” She’s panting, waving her arms around, trying to attach words to her chaotic state of emotions as if she’s come straight from a crime scene.
“Rox, take a breath! Did someone have a heart attack out there besides you?” I ask impatiently.
She shoots from one side of the room to the other in wild-eyed storm-chaser mode.
“No, everything is not okay. I mean…yes! Everything is fucking great. Shit! No, I didn’t mean it like that…oh God, I don’t know…” She grabs the Dom and tips it back for a ten-second guzzle.
“What the hell, Rox?” I look at her, then back to Tess, who looks pale and flushed at once. A look of disquieted bedlam chases her flustered movements.
“I need to tell you guys something. Holy fuck! I don’t know which one of you I should tell. I just…oh, I don’t know…” As though she’s trying to choose between terrible and awful, she plants her hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief while looking at the ground.
“You are mad dog rabid! For God’s sake, tell us both already!” Tess is yelling, clearly freaked.
Rox whips out her iPhone, fingers it, then puts it in front of our faces.
Holy mother of God.
We all stand in wide-eyed silence while examining the image on Roxanne’s phone. I suddenly feel like I just found out Chuck Norris is my dad. But Tess…she falls to the ground. Roxanne and I follow her down, surrounding her in a group huddle. Rox’s gaze meets mine, the waggle between our brows a clear translation that Rosetta Stone should consider adding to their foreign language assortment.
“Tessie girl…oh, sweetheart.” I’m not going to tell her it’s okay, because what Creed did is by all definitions of the word not okay. I’m also not going to tell her I’m sorry, because I’m happier than the day I found out the IRS was giving me a lottery-winning-sized refund. We’re in a group sway as I give Rox a scatter, sister shake of my head. After planting a kiss on Tess’s head, she scoots out of the room—but not before giving me the classic exaggerated holy-fucking-sweet-Mary-and-Jesus look.
We sit on the floor, Tess in my lap, our usual configuration in situations like this. But here’s the thing: this situation, it’s beyond any that we’ve ever encountered. The running commentary in my head is a bit helter-skelter with this unexpected surprise. I know what I want to do. I’m not an over-thinker. I certainly can’t ask. So I act.
For her, for me, and more than anything, for us.
I stand, holding her in my arms, grab her Janis Joplin trunk, then white knight myself by kidnapping her. Technically it’s a bridenap, and even more technically, I’m not taking her against her will…although I do have a motive. I’m saving her. Because it’s the right thing to do when you catch your best friend’s fiancé with his cock buried in someone’s ass minutes before he’s about to marry your friend. Did I mention what a wanker he is?
Tess says nothing the entire way to the airport, save the muffled cries. In fact, not one word has left her mouth since Rox showed us the photo. She’s nestled in my lap as I drive with one hand around her, one on the wheel. I sing to her the entire ride, because for the life of me I can’t come up with any words that feel appropriate.
Truth be told, I’m over-fucking-joyed and it would be cruel for me to gloat even though my heart is flying faster than a sonic boom on acid. I have no idea what’s going through her little—more than likely messed-up—head right now, but I can of course imagine it’s a landslide of emotions.
Just as we’d gotten in my truck, I’d texted my pilot to wrangle the crew for a last-minute trip to Mexico and had my PA book us a penthouse suite at the Four Seasons in Punta Mita. By the time we arrive, my jet’s on the tarmac, ready to roll.
Tess’s hands are covering her face as I lift her out of my truck and carry her up into the jet. We settle in on a bank of seats near the back. One of my flight staff covers Tess with a blanket and shortly after brings back the bar ca
rt, nestling it right to my side for easy access. I pour out six shots of tequila, knowing this flight is going to need more than our typical lube job. I sink two shots back, loving the burn as they hit my throat, then settle with a warm sting into my empty belly. I kiss Tess’s hands that are still on her face in a gripping shield, then I kiss the top of her head as I slide the big gaudy engagement ring that he’d given her off her finger. I know Tess may want to use it for trapshooting sometime soon. I shove it into my pocket for safekeeping.
She still hasn’t looked at me or uttered one word. I go into Red Cross mode and take her pinky finger, then start the silly rhyme I’ve done dozens of times before when she needs a distraction after a nuclear bomb disaster like this one.
“This little piggy loves you,” I say wiggling her pinky, then wrapping mine around hers. Then I grab her ring finger. Yeah…that empty one. “This little piggy is a wanker that fucked some slut’s ass and lost the best woman in the world.” Then the middle finger. “This little piggy is flipping the cuntlick off.” Then her pointer finger. “This little piggy wants to pick your nose to see if he can force a smile,” and yes, because I’m her best friend I put it up her nose, which does encourage a tiny smile at the corners of her mouth. Then onto her thumb, which I dip into tequila. “And this little piggy wants to get drunk on tequila all the way to Mexicoooooo.” I hand her a shot, which she throws back like a thirsty drunk.
“Hi,” I say as I grab the second shot and take it to her lips. It’s down the hatch in seconds.
“Hi,” she returns. It’s the first word she’s spoken since we saw the photo on Roxanne’s iPhone.
“Another,” she says in a black whisper, lips quivering, eyes drowning.
“Anything for you, my girl,” I say as I hand her a third, which goes down as quickly as the other two.
“Hungry?” I ask as I smooth down her hair and kiss her tear-stained cheeks.
“Yeah, I’d like his fly-sized nuts, charred over a grill and served with a very sharp knife, please.” Another barely-there smile forms on her lips. This time I see her teeth as she comes alive with sarcastic edges forming a plateau for her to stand on. I’m sure she’s going to go through the stages of grief. I’ll be here for all of them. Shock, denial, anger…then onto hope and recovery—I fucking pray.
“I’ll text my bounty hunter. But his nuts are so small, it’s going be like Horton Hears a Who to find them.” She’s nodding through rivers of tears that flow down her face, chasing mascara tracks.
“I wanted to have babies…went off the pill four days ago…have an appointment coming up next week so I can see if I can have my left nipple reconstructed so I can breastfeed my non-existent babies…. And my dad…oh nooo…”
She goes from nothing to everything as she talks a mile a minute, then breaks out into a broken sob that makes my knees buckle. The acid in my stomach upon hearing her cries could dissolve razor blades. I want to tuck her in my heart, tell her it’s a safe house, tell her she’ll never get hurt there, but I’m clear—there’s no airtight solution to get her through her pain.
“My—my dad…. He’s still sitting there, waiting for me to walk down the aisle. I might have just broken my daddy’s heart. Is anyone…you know, the cane and all…he’ll need help. He can hardly walk. Who will tell him what happened? He’ll die if he really finds out. Is he going to see his own grandchildren before he dies?” The pained expression on her face as she chokes on her words catches me off guard as I camouflage the angst I feel for her.
“Baby. Rox has him covered. I know you’re hurting, sweetheart. I know you’re sad.”
Then she goes into babble overload.
“My ovaries are aging…they might not even talk to me again after this. They might boycott me altogether. I’ve been making them promises for months. This is what I get for safe? A side of ass-fucking? Now I have no one… Did you see her Empire-State-huge tits in his hands while he was pounding her? Well, I sure as hell did. I guess all his talk about not being a tit man was bullshit. Not that mine would inspire any man to greatness.”
Here we go… We’re churning through the stages at a Nascar pace. At this rate, we may reach acceptance and hope by the time we get to Mexico. Not that I’ll take advantage of the jilted bride…unless she reverts to stage six, reconstruction and working through. I got game for that stage.
“Tessie girl…first of all, you’ve got me. Second, your ovaries are fine, for Christ’s sake, woman. And for the record, I’ve had your delicious tits in my mouth, and the Empire State has nothing on you, baby. You are more beautiful than any manmade architecture on the earth, okay?”
“Fine…ha! Lest you forget, my own mother died of breast cancer at forty-five. I’m sort of playing Russian roulette, you know.” She’s sinking quickly into stage four: depression, reluctance, loneliness. Is this where I call in a lifeline?
“Knock it the fuck off.” I grab her cheeks in my hands and stab a solid eye-fuck into her. Sorry, not fair…but this is a warlike situation that calls for pulling out all the stops, and I’ll come clean here—sandbaggin’ is not out of my realm.
She gasps as her bottom lip shoots out in a pout. Her eyes dart away from mine as though I’ve scolded her. She knows I don’t bite. I know she’s in survival mode; I know how she’s built. A little ass-kickin’ helps with my girl.
“Now listen. I will never forget the day your mother died. I was in the very room where she took her last breath, and your hand was in my own. I know your heart is broken right now, and fuck, Tess, if I could swallow all of your pain, I would in one swift shot, like a fiery dagger. I would do anything for you. I want to tell you it was adorable how blind you were, but it wasn’t. And, I’ll be honest: I’m not sorry about this. I’m not sorry that the fuckwad you were about to give it all away to has finally flashed his pea-fucking-cock colors…and it took you out at the knees. As for your ovaries, they have plenty of time to drop eggs that will get hammered on sperm. You weren’t in love with him, let’s face it. You wanted his semen and the idea of a picture-perfect life that was safe with lots of little roped-off boundaries. It was a Twinkie move if ever.”
“I happen to like Twinkies, and for the record, your inappropriateness knows no boundaries.”
Full pout mode comes at me like a freight train, tears and all. Really, I couldn’t give a shit—a little tough love might help her through the stages.
“You know what I think?” I ask her as I deliberately pull her closer, splitting her legs over mine in a straddle, one knee resting next to each of my thighs, with all the flounce of her wedding dress skirt sitting around her like a pile of goose down.
“No, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.” Her hands are on my shoulders, and the intimate feel of her touching me while sitting on my lap makes my hunger for her stir in a primal way.
“Of course I will. I think you’re a sparkling little hypocrite hiding in a dustbowl of glitter.”
“Pfff! Fuck you!” she says with a snort. Her eyes get big and bright as they light up with amusement-laced anger.
“Maybe?” I shoot her a little burning-hot warning look. Hell yeah…why not, right? Maybe she’ll have an a-ha moment. Or maybe I’ll have to fuck that a-ha right into her soon. Very soon, now that her dance card is officially open. Can you say training camp? (My inner quarterback is shining, right?)
“Oh, so now all my lady parts get a free pass to have an orgy with all of your man parts?” She has genuine surprise on her face, but her little smirk is telling. It’s rich, let me tell you…rich.
“Pity sex, sympathy slam’ charity bang, mercy fuck: call it what you will. I’ll help you get your love on…take your mind off matters.” My booming laugh and cruel narratives have her smacking me in the chest multiple times. I see it all as progress, of course. Thankfully she’s laughing pretty hard, too. Maybe we really can kick sand over her wedding debacle.
“Such a fucker.” She says it with a shit-eating grin that has me convinced her foot is on the acceler
ator of let go or get dragged. I can almost feel the pieces of tragedy falling off of her.
“We both know who the fucker is. We all want to see what we want to see. You needed to know what I had already seen in him. I’m not sorry that I’m gloating like I just friggin’ won the lottery. But Tess, sweetheart…you gotta know, you are the only lottery I have been playing my whole life. I may not have won yet, but I feel certain that I may have some of the numbers on the card. And yes, I want to take my quarter and scratch off that label, hiding the mystery of us, but I won’t yet… because I’m here for you as your best friend. I love you to pieces, and while I’m sorry for the way you feel hurt, I’m not sorry it happened.”
“Scratch them off.” It’s quiet the ways she says it, but my God, it’s steady and sure as ever. Her eyes meet mine, full of concern, pain, and all kinds of angst that I don’t even understand, but they are also filled with a look of want and wonder. A look that says Here we are…another crossroad. Take my hand…please, take it. Let’s go together.
“Yeah? It’s not too raw and fresh for that? You know all I want for you at the end of the day is to know you’re smiling like you’ve got a mouthful of Chiclets, and that your eyes are sparkling like jewels in a crown. You want me to take your hand…you want this story to continue on?”
“Maybe I just… I guess, well, I want a do-over.”
What the…? A do-over? Okay, then, I guess my translating skill set sucks. All I can think is that we’re back to stage one. Shock and denial. So much for progress.
“It’s impressive how your head fits up into your ass so well. You’re kidding, right? Did that photo give you a concussion? Where the fuck is your off button, girl? Because I’m calling the FBI as soon as we land to file a missing persons report. Thank God only one of us has insanity in surplus. Sweetheart, you need stop—it’s getting slasher-film ugly listening to you. I’ve kidnapped you and you want a do-over with that lunatic? You want me to turn the jet around? Again, here we are… Damn, baby, it’s your choice! Make the call.”
A Mess of Reason Page 16
