The Two-Night One-Night Wedding

by Ryan Ringbloom

  “Snapped? Really? We just went from Little House to Snapped?” He shakes his head and laughs, retrieving the ring carefully and unharmed from his pocket. “You are such an extremist. Sometimes I wonder why you went into PR when theatrics are so clearly in your blood.”

  “Yes, but just as I love your nerdtastic charm, you love my dramatic neurosis.” I take the ring from him and slip it back into place, taking a second to admire the brilliant sapphires for the billionth time.

  “Meh.” Matthew waves his hand in a so-so motion before breaking into a wide grin.

  I punch him playfully in the arm. “Well, I got news for you, pal. If you don’t love dramatic neurosis, than you are marrying the wrong girl.”

  “Oh, did you say dramatic neurosis?” He smacks his forehead. “I thought you said automatic halitosis. My bad.” His arms stretch back around my waist and he pulls me in close. I giggle, thankful for the minty fresh breath I have from a recent Altoid. “’Cause baby, I love your dramatic neurosis.” His whiskers tickle my neck as he goes in for a quick nip. My skin responds, puckering up into tiny goose bumps. I tug on his thick hair and urge his lips up to meet mine.

  “I am in the front room. I am walking toward the hallway. I am getting closer. I am almost to the hallway.” Kent’s loud voice earns a groan from us both as we separate. Patrick has obviously shared the embarrassing situation that took place. Not shocking. They share everything on the prairie. “I am turning the corner.”

  “It’s fine, Kent,” Matthew yells. “You don’t have to keep warning us.”

  “Hey, Matty. Oh, uh, hey, Holl.” Kent greets me looking down at the floor. I want to die, but I check my pulse and my heart still beats in a normal rhythm.

  “I am in the front room.” Patrick projects his deep voice into my apartment. I put my fingers back up to my wrist; okay, round two, this might actually kill me. “I am walking toward the hall.”

  “Just get in here, you ass!” Matthew shouts.

  “Hey.” Patrick appears. His large frame is slumped over and he too stares down at the floor. “Sorry about before. I didn’t see anything. I just saw… nothing, and I remembered that I needed to call Ash about something and I took off, that was all.”

  Somehow my heart continues to beat through the spreading mortification that feels as if it’s smothering me from the inside out. I hitch a thumb toward my room and walk backwards. “I’m gonna go. I still need to pack up a few things in my room. Matthew, can you finish up the towels? I’ll just be in here packing and, um, packing.” I make it to my room, and without waiting for him to reply, slip inside and shut the door.

  Relieved to be out of sight and away from the Daniels men, I reach for my cell sitting on my dresser, the perfect distraction while I take a minute to collect myself. Hopefully once we get settled in, we won’t have to spend so much time with his family.

  Three missed texts are displayed on the screen, and one of those is from my mom. Strange. She is never one to text, or even call for that matter. Does she need to cancel next week? Is it wrong that I hope so? No wait, she can’t cancel on me. We’re supposed to go dress shopping while I’m down there, and we need to discuss my budget issues. I type in my code and open the message.

  Mom: I have bad news. It’s Michael.

  “THANK YOU BOTH very much.” I fold in the top of the box and reach for a second one to finish packing up the towels. I’m unsure why she has so many towels for just one person. We could probably just donate these and be fine with the ones I have. Although, I think she mentioned something about colors. Do towel colors matter?

  “Dude, I was downstairs. You saw me. You knew we were here. Why the hell would you start something like that?”

  “I tried telling her. I couldn’t get the words out. She just took over; it went fast.” I scratch the back of my neck, frustrated with myself. I have a functioning brain that never seems to work at full capacity when it comes to sex and Holly.

  “You two need to pace yourselves. Show some self-control,” Patrick quips, followed by a slew of unintelligible words muttered under his breath.

  I raise my brows. Pat’s not usually one for passive comments. Kent catches the tension surrounding the remark, too, but he seems to have some type of understanding of it. After Pat turns around, Kent lets out a soft chuckle behind his back. Not surprising that they have some secret knowledge between them. As the youngest in the family, I’m often left out of all the “grown-up” situations. I think sometimes… most of the time, my brothers still see me as a kid and not a twenty-six-year-old man with a promising medical career and a fiancée. I do my best to shrug it off, loading up a second box of towels and an unusual number of matching washcloths. Patrick takes the two packed boxes and storms off without a word.

  “What’s up with him? Is he upset that he saw my fiancée’s breasts? Because I’m the one who should be upset by that, not him.” I motion for Kent to follow me into the living room where Holly’s bookcase, loaded mostly with bric-a-brac and very few books, is the next thing needing packing.

  “Nah, he’s not upset about that. I think he’s just in a mood because….” Kent waves me off. “It’s nothing.”

  “What? You can tell me. I’m not a little kid anymore.” There’s a big difference between my and my brother’s ages, but now that we’re all adults that has to have lessened the age gap between us in some way.

  “Yes, you’re a mature man having sex in hallways,” Kent taunts like a prick. “You’ve matured immensely.”

  “Fuck off, Kent.” I take down a sand-filled hourglass and look around for something to wrap it in so it won’t break. I see nothing. Why does she even have this? What is she counting down in hour increments that a trinket like this is necessary? It certainly isn’t reading. I reach up and blow dust off a book titled Unlikely Venture. Shit. We could’ve used the towels as packing material. I should’ve thought of that before packing them all up and sending them down.

  “Relax, Matty. Patrick is just going through a dry spell. That’s all.” Kent relents and actually lets me into their private little world.

  “Really? You mean him and Ashley? They aren’t….”

  “Let’s just say…” Kent pauses to choose his words wisely. “Holly’s boobs are the only ones he’s seen in a long time. A very long time.”

  This can’t be true. Ashley and Patrick are the perfect couple. High school sweethearts. Best friends. Soul mates and all that shit. “They have six kids.”

  “Yes, and I believe the last time they had sex was when Ella was conceived.”

  “Ella is four.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you telling me that Patrick and Ashley haven’t had sex in over four years?”

  “Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a little.” He checks behind us to make sure Patrick isn’t around. “It started getting bad around the time Ashley started writing that children’s book.”

  “Princess Rainbow Kitten and the Magical Cloud Teapot.”

  “That’s the one.”

  We both laugh. It never went anywhere, but Ashley obsessively talks about it as if it were published by one of the big five and had won a Pulitzer.

  “That was over a year ago.”

  “I know, but that’s what happens when you’re married for a while. Things change, priorities switch. Kids, life, and princess cats get in the way.”

  “Wait, are you saying, you and Robin?” Is he trying to tell me that this is what I have to look forward to? “Are you guys still doing it?”

  “Oh. Me? Us? Hell, yeah. All the time.” Kent’s voice is high. Loud. He takes a rubber band off his wrist and throws his long hair up into a man bun. “Like rabbits, we do it all the time. Always ready to go.”

  “Always ready to go where?” Patrick reenters the room. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “For a beer.” Kent’s quick to come up with a lie to cover, while I freeze. “We were just talking about how after we’re done moving Holly’s stuff, we should all go fo
r a cold beer.”

  “Sounds good. I could use a night out.” Patrick stretches his neck to the side. “Ash mentioned something about a new book idea, and I think it’s best if I’m not around for that. I usually seem to get in the way when her creative juices start flowing.” He glances at Kent in a knowing way, not knowing that I’m now in on the secret as well. A wave of jealousy grips me at the relationship the two of them have. The one I’m usually left out of. They are Mary and Laura. And I’m just little speech-impaired Carrie Ingalls, who stays home with Ma all day missing out on all the schoolhouse fun. Fuck. I know way too much about that damn show.

  But hopefully now that I’ve adjusted to the long hours at the hospital and I’m in a great place with my relationship, I’ll be able to spend some more time with them.

  I think I’d like that. More time with my family.

  I GRASP MATTHEW’S hand tighter as we stand on the front porch of my parents’ colonial. The sound of heavy footsteps approaches the old wooden door. It’s a chilly spring day in Jersey, but moisture forms at my hairline. “My parents are crazy,” I squeeze out just before the door swings open and Peggy stands before us in all her matching sweat pant glory with plastic tulips swinging from her ears.

  “Did you hit traffic or just get a late start?” She looks down at her watch. We were due at eleven, and it’s 11:12. “We had snacks set out, but when I realized you were gonna be late, I told your father he could start eating them.”

  That’s our greeting.

  “It’s fine, Mom. We’re not hungry.”

  “What? You’re not hungry?” my mother screeches. “We have plans to go to the Olive Garden at twelve thirty.”

  “What’s the matter?” My father comes down the hall. No hello. Just, “Did something happen?”

  “They’re not hungry.” My mother tosses up a hand in annoyance.

  “What’s the matter, you don’t want to go to the Olive Garden? I thought you love the breadsticks there? They’re unlimited. You can have as many as you want. You can fill up on bread and salad and take the meal home.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t…,” I mutter under my breath. I can’t do this. Give me strength.

  “I’m starving,” Matthew says, jumping in to most likely try and put an end to the madness he’s already witnessing. Poor guy. He doesn’t know yet that there is no way to end the madness.

  “You’re starving?” my mother asks, almost as if this news makes her more upset. Her mouth stretches down into a look of horror. “Well, we’re not going to the Olive Garden for another hour. Jack, did you save any snacks? Holly’s boyfriend is starving.”

  “Fiancé,” I correct her, not that it matters.

  “He’s starving?” My father looks guilty, obviously having already done a number on the snacks. “Uh—I think there’s still some pepperoni in the fridge. I can go slice some up.”

  “No, no, that’s not necessary. I’m fine. I can wait an hour,” Matthew insists, but I know damn well that my father is not going to listen to him and will be force-feeding my fiancé large, unevenly cut chunks of pepperoni in no time. “Really, don’t. I’m fine. You don’t have to do that,” Matthew calls apologetically after my father, who has already taken off in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Jack, don’t use the pepperoni in the cold cut drawer, that’s for when the Terzers come over next week. There’s a baggie with some leftover pepperoni next to the milk, use that.” My mother chases after my father. “You know what, let me get it. You’ll use the wrong one.” My father has never done one right thing in his life without the assistance of my mother. How he survived before her is one of life’s big mysteries.

  I face Matthew. “Well, you’ve met my parents. Can we go now?”

  “Did I meet them?” Matthew’s face is puzzled. “What just happened?”

  What just happened was Peggy and Jack.

  “Just remember that you love me, and please promise that you still will once this visit is over. Okay?” I take a step forward and stop. “Oh, and that the Olive Garden has wine, but you’re the one driving home.” To deal with this day, I’m gonna need wine. I’ll stop at three. Buzzed enough to get me through the visit, but not to the point where I’m too drunk to try on wedding gowns.

  “Holly, Matthew, come on, chow time.” My dad returns to the hallway holding a paper plate with the pepperoni.

  “I’m not gonna lie, Holl, I’m a little scared right now,” Matthew whispers, following me down the hallway to the living room.

  “I’m not gonna lie, Matthew, you should be. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.” I should probably offer to drive home, let him be the one to have a few drinks today. “If you want, I’ll—”

  “Holly, you haven’t even said hello to Michael yet.” My mother’s bellow interrupts.

  “I’ll be the driver next time.” I finish my sentence in a different direction than intended. But as I reabsorb my childhood home, I know that today I am gonna need to be a little selfish. I’ll make it up to him later. Actually, after today I’ll probably be making it up to him all month.

  The small back living room is still decorated for Easter, even though it was two weeks ago. Most likely the decorations were left up so that my father can give Matthew a “tour” of his springtime village. Matthew is gonna love that. I roll my eyes. He thinks I have too much bric-a-brac; well, he’s about to meet the king of bric-a-brac.

  “Matthew, why don’t you come with me. I’ll give you a tour of my village, and we can let the women talk.” My father extends the invitation before we’ve even had a chance to sit. Matthew graciously accepts, choking down a thick piece of salty meat, and feigns enthusiasm at the ceramic display my father is ushering him toward. As they head off to the other side of the room, I hear my father inform him that he livened the display up this year with some moss he got from A.C. Moore. Matthew looks back, and I blow a kiss for luck in his direction before following my mother over to the sofa.

  “Michael, say hi to your sister,” my mother instructs my little brother, who is sprawled out on the love seat. The asshole completely ignores me. My mother said he was sick when we spoke. He looks fine to me.

  “Hello, Michael,” I say, because I know if I don’t, I’ll be labeled the rude one.

  Michael gives me a bored look and lifts his leg to take big long laps at his private area. This pampered little shit has been around forever. Are cat years like dog years? ’Cause if so, he has to be like a hundred by now.

  “Michael Martin! Don’t you do that!” My mother opens up a bag of treats and starts flinging them at the black cat to try and deter him from going to town on his butthole. My mother loves everything about cats except fur, shedding, meowing, claws, purring, rubbing up against you, going to the vet, the litterbox, and the fact that they clean themselves. So basically, she hates cats, she just doesn’t know it. Me, however, I know I hate them.

  “He looks like he’s doing well.” On the phone my mother informed me that Michael had undergone surgery and been put on a slew of meds for a heart condition. I’d expected to him to look half-dead when I saw him, but he looks… normal.

  “It’s been a rough road, but knock on wood, he’s doing much better now.” She reaches over and raps her knuckles on the oak coffee table. Her voice even cracks with a tinge of sadness for the little fur ball and I feel a bit guilty. I’m being too harsh. Deep down my mother is a good person, and her concern for Michael actually reminds me how I manage to get past all of her craziness. I think I’m just super on edge today because Matthew’s here.

  “Well, I’m glad he’s doing good.” Michael licks his paw, then uses it to scrub his scrunched up face. It’s almost cute. I guess he’s not all that bad. Maybe I don’t actually hate cats.

  My mother stretches out her fingers and studies the backs of her hands. “Holly, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Sure, what’s up?” I sink back on the couch and cross my legs.

  “The vet is very expensive. M
edical bills aren’t covered like human ones are.” She zeroes in on one finger and starts picking at the nail. “We weren’t planning on you getting engaged so soon. You kind of just sprang it on us.” A very bad feeling creeps in. Where is this leading? “With Michael being so sick, we had to dip into our savings. The account we had put aside for your wedding.”

  “You did?” I gulp. Michael stands up on the couch and stretches.

  “And Michael still needs follow-ups, and his medicine is very expensive.”

  “So?” I make it a question.

  “I’m sorry.” My mother shakes her head.

  I was wrong. I do hate cats. I fucking hate them. Michael, you stupid fucking piece of shit. I hate you. If looks could kill there would be fur and guts all over the room.

  “We didn’t think you’d be getting engaged anytime soon,” my mother says defensively.

  “I told you how serious we were.”

  “Yes, but you also said the same thing about Tyler, and well….”

  Gah. Sucker punch from Mom.

  “My ex? That was a completely different situation. Matthew is nothing like Tyler.” Annoyance overtakes me that my mother would even compare the two. Tyler was an asshole. She knows that.

  “You’re all the way out in Pennsylvania. We hardly see you anymore. How would we know how serious things are?”

  “Because.” I stop and take a deep breath, searching for an excuse. Fuuuuuuck. There is none. I hate to admit it, but she’s right. This is my fault. I made a million excuses as to why we could never come visit. I should’ve made more of an effort. They’re my family, and Lord knows we see enough of Matthew’s family on a regular basis. I’m sure the news of our engagement did come as a surprise. But they drained my wedding fund? For the cat?

  Now what? Fucking Michael, that stupid fat bastard.

  Deep breath, Holly. Calm down. You’ll figure something out.