by Deena Bright
I could vomit in my mouth just spewing these lies at him. The man is foul, and my best friend is marrying him in less than 24 hours. Is it wrong to hope that a meteor kills us all tonight?
“Now you’re talking. You ready to show me what that mouth of yours can really do, Star-Queen?” he asks, trailing his fat, sloppy tongue down my neck.
“You bet your smoking hot prick I am,” I agree, dropping to my knees.
“Oh baby, you talk as dirty as you want to me… my dick is so hot,” he says, pulling on my hair with one hand and yanking his zipper down with the other.
“It’s going to get hotter too, so much fucking hotter,” I promise, before taking his tiny, shriveled dick into my hands.
“Oh yeah it is,” he groans, throwing his head back on the door of the car.
With his miniscule member in my mouth, I use one hand to hold him in place as I search through my bag for my lighter and water bottle. Just as he’s getting into my lackadaisical and ridiculous excuse for a blowjob, I take my lips from his dick, flick the lighter, and ignite his pubic hair in flames. Only letting them blaze for a mere two or three seconds, I douse them with the remaining gulps of my leftover bottled water.
“You fucking crazy ass whore! Are you fucking nuts? I swear to God slut, you will rue the day you ever fucked with me,” Marcus threatens, dancing around from foot to foot and yanking up his pants. “Just wait until your precious best friend finds out about this—just fucking wait.”
“Oh no, you listen to me you son-of-a-cunt,” I snarl, standing up. “If you ever even get a hint of a woody from someone other than my best friend, I will finish the job!” I scream, getting within spitting distance of his face. “Keep it in your pants from here on out or you’ll see how hot it really can get, mother fucker… and go ahead and tell Janelle… hopefully, she’ll leave your sorry ass at the fucking altar… to die alone.”
“You know what, you little slut-bag? You better get used to standing next to brides, because nobody’s ever going to make you one,” Marcus grits, turning to get into his car. “You’re going to be alone for the rest of your fucking life… weren’t even good enough for your damn daddy, were you Char? He left you, just like everyone walks out on you, you stupid whore!”
Marcus revs his engine and speeds out of the parking lot just as I throw my empty water bottle at the back of his car. How is my best friend marrying this asshole tomorrow? There has got to be a way to stop it—have her get a stay of execution, because that’s what this is—her deadly cruel and unusual punishment.
I unlock my car, but before getting in, I rest my head on the frame of the door and take three long and deep breaths. It’s not easy standing back and letting your best friend, the only person who’s ever had your back, make the biggest mistake of her life.
With my eyes closed and my head against the roof, I hear, “Someone’ll marry you.”
I bang my head on the frame a few times before turning around. “How much did you hear… or see?”
“Enough to know that you could give Drew Barrymore a run for her money, you little fire starter,” Jasper admits, shaking his head. “Ya know Charlene, most girls would’ve just told him to go fuck himself.”
“Yeah well, I’m not most girls,” I say, shaking my head, and getting into my car.
“We established that years ago, didn’t we?” Jasper agrees, leaning into my car.
“Jasper, I’ve told you a hundred times… I didn’t know he was your guys’ dad!”
“That’s what you say, but seriously, what 19-year-old girl hits on a middle-aged man in a bar?” Jasper asks me for the millionth time. It’s really the only conversation he and I ever have.
“During Dads’ Weekend? A lot actually. But I had no idea who he was—you know that. Your sister told him to meet us at the bar when he got down to Columbus. I was drunk. He was hot.”
“That’s enough! I don’t want to hear anymore,” Jasper says, cutting me off.
“There’s no more to hear. He turned me down and then Janelle came over, laughing her ass off and introduced us. Why am I still trying to live this down? It was years ago,” I groan, sighing heavily.
“I’m just screwing with you,” Jasper admits, grinning. Jasper Garrity has never—ever—joked around with me or talked to me longer than three minutes. “Truthfully, I think what you did just now was pretty badass. I just wish you would’ve let the mother fucker burn.”
“The dick… the dick… the dick is on fire…” I sing, pumping my fist.
“We don’t need no water,” Jasper joins in, and we finish “Let the mother fucker burn,” together. We end in an uncomfortable laughter—the kind of laughter that is only brought on when doom is apparent.
“Wow Mr. Garrity! Since when do you have such a potty mouth, sir?”
“When in Rome,” he jests, smirking at me.
“Hey! I’m not that bad!” I whine, punching his arm playfully. “Do you feel like we’re getting ready for a funeral tomorrow, and not a wedding?” I ask, leaning my head back on my headrest and closing my eyes.
“Yep, so does Jocelyn. She wishes her matron-of-honor dress was black with a black veil,” Jasper replies. “But what can we do? Janelle’s in love with him—or thinks she’s in love with him.”
“We could tie her up and kidnap her, so she stands him up,” I offer, knowing damn well that Janelle does what she wants—when she wants. She always acts like she’s getting everyone’s approval and opinion on things, but it’s all an act. She makes her own decisions.
“All we can do is be there for her when this all comes crumbling back down on her,” Jaspers states.
“And it’s going to—you know that, right?” I clarify.
“I know it as certain as I know you’re into old men with gray hair,” Jasper jokes, turning back toward his car.
“I was drunk!” I yell back.
“Big shock there!”
“HI EVERYONE, FOR those of you who don’t know me, I’m Charlene Palmer, Nelle’s best friend and maid-of-honor… and for those of you who don’t know me, my number is: 330-52… I’m kidding, just kidding… unless you really want it,” I laugh, loving the limelight. Give me a microphone and a roomful of 200 eager listeners, and I’m in my glory.
“I figured after Jocelyn’s sob-fest toast that I’d lighten the mood, so we actually want to drink and celebrate the night and not slit our wrists in weepy woe… Oh Joz, I’m sorry. Did you not know that you’re a buzzkill?”
Everyone laughs. Jocelyn waves me off and rolls her eyes at me. Actually, Jocelyn’s toast was incredible—a tough act to follow. I wanted to go first, thinking the funny toast should go before the heartfelt toast. She pulled the “age before beauty” card, and I caved at her flattery. I was surprised that she was able to pull any positives about Marcus out of her ass, but she did so with eloquence and class—the epitome of who she is.
“Anyway, I met Janelle through my sorority. I never had any brothers or sisters growing up, but when I met Nelle, I knew exactly what it meant to have a sister. She took the sisterhood of the sorority seriously, and I couldn’t have asked for a better sister or friend,” I admit, reaching for her hand, giving it a tight squeeze.
“Janelle has a bleeding heart that all people should have. She would do anything for anyone. She’s more selfless and loving than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m lucky to have her in my life. Marcus is one lucky man.”
Fucking Marcus, now I have to talk about that prick and pretend that I can actually stomach him in front of an audience, while they all sit there and judge my words and actions. I’ve never been good at faking it—so typically I don’t.
“I also met Marcus at my sorority. Marcus made a name for himself on sorority row—I’m not going to embarrass him by repeating that name—don’t worry, your nickname is safe with me, Mar-fucked-us,” I whisper loudly into the microphone.
“Ooopps, cat’s out of the bag,” I giggle, smirking snidely at him behind the microphone as the room erupts in
laughter and guffaws. Jocelyn laughs behind her fist, as Jasper turns his face, biting down on his lip. I love them. I love all of them. The Garrities are my family—the only people I’ve ever really called “family.”
“It’s no secret, Marcus loves women—lots of women,” I continue. “But one thing to know about Marcus Flowers is that he is a smart—very smart man. He knew that after he sifted through hundreds, probably thousands of skanky… trampy… wome… ummm…” I joke, grinning coyly, pretending to be confused.
“After looking through heaps of shallow, dumb rocks, and shiny, broken pieces of glass, he finally found the one true gem, the perfect, beautiful, flawless stone,” I say, pausing when I hear all the “awwws” and “that’s so sweets.”
Continuing after it’s silent again, “Once he found that perfect stone, he held on and knew that he’d found a true treasure. And since that day, Marcus has given my best friend, safety, security, hope for the future, and has made her think she’s starring in her own fairy tale. For that, Marcus Flowers, I thank you. Janelle deserves that fairy tale, because I love her more than anyone in the whole world,” I say, as Janelle stands to hug me, wiping her eyes. She’s so blinded by him that she probably doesn’t even realize that I just dogged her husband in front of everyone. It’s hard having a clueless-as-Hell best friend.
With my arms wrapped around her and the microphone still in my hand, I bring it back to my mouth and say, “And Marcus, make sure this fairy tale ends happily ever after, because this wicked witch of the wedding will make sure the evil villain dies a very fiery, fiery death if my princess is ever unhappy.”
Again laughter fills the room as Janelle giggles and hugs me harder. Marcus’ eyes widen as he scans the room for anyone who might know what I’m talking about. I see Jasper choke on his drink and shake his head, staring at me in disbelief.
After the toast, I cannot down my champagne fast enough to get to the bar. I need a refill STAT. “What the fuck do you mean the bar’s closed during dinner?” I ask, angrily and shocked.
“Sorry Ma’am, the bride and groom requested that the bar remained closed during the dinner hour.”
“First of all, don’t you ever fucking call me ‘Ma’am’ again. Do I look like a ‘Ma’am’ to you?” I grit through my teeth. “Secondly, fill a shot glass with JD, slide it across this bar… now… before I strangle you with that hideous Wal-Mart tie right here in front of everyone.”
“It’s okay, I got this,” Rick, Jocelyn’s husband, says, handing me a flask. Turning around, I’m surrounded by my “family.” Jasper, Rick, Jocelyn, and Mr. and Mrs. Garrity are all behind me, staring sternly at me.
Eyeing them, I slump my shoulders and drop my head, “I know… I’m sorry. I may have gone a little too far. I just can’t… I can’t stand him.”
Nobody moves. Their faces are stoic and serious. Finally, Ray, Janelle’s dad, speaks, “Char, we’d like to see you in the back room.”
“Oh come on,” I groan, remembering the “intervention” they had for me a few years ago when they thought I was partying too much. “I said I was sorry. Plus, dinner is about to be served.”
“Char, we need to speak to you privately… and this is not the setting to do it. It’ll take a few minutes anyway to get all the guests through the buffet line,” Sue, Janelle’s mom, clarifies.
After everyone files in, Jasper closes the door to the small conference room on the other side of the reception hall. The silence is overwhelmingly deafening.
“That was freaking epic,” Rick screams. “You are one badass bitch.”
“Wow Char, I knew you had it in you, but I had no idea you could do that with such grace. That was incredible,” Jocelyn squeals, hugging me.
“Wait! What? You guys aren’t mad at me?” I ask, looking around the room at the smiling, laughing faces.
“Mad? That was the best toast I’ve ever heard,” Rick compliments, taking the flask from me and downing a huge gulp.
“Alright buddy, hand it over,” Jocelyn scolds. Rick hands her the flask as she scowls at him. Surprising us all, she finishes the whiskey in three giant gulps. The whole room stares at her in utter amazement. “What? You didn’t think I could watch my baby sister marry a jackass and be sober all at the same time, did you?”
Ray Garrity takes a champagne bottle from his jacket and pops the cork. “I heard that ‘no open-bar during dinner rule’ and bought this a few days ago. I was not about to spend one minute of this day without fueling up. I don’t have any glasses, but we’re all family here.”
Handing the bottle to me, I smile and take a huge gulp, warming at the words “we’re all family here.”
Marcus was right yesterday. My father didn’t want me. Palmer Legend has it that my daddy took one look at the purple, bloody, wailing newborn and walked out of the hospital and skipped town, never coming back to see that life-ruining child again. The story I still tell is that he hit the bricks when he found out my mom was pregnant. It took years of lying on a therapist’s couch to be able to accept it and actually say those words without snarling venom at someone. Yes, I laid down on the couch, crossed my arms over my chest, and expressed every last feeling or thought I’d ever had. Hell, if I was going to actually get my ass up to go, then I was going to do it right and get some fricking results.
Thirteen years later, almost to the exact date of my dad leaving, I walked in the bathroom to get ready for school, only to find my mom, sprawled out on the floor, eyes wide open, syringe in one hand and a fork in the other. I sat down with her and cried until no more tears would come. Finally, I walked to the apartment next door to use Mrs. Carrelli’s phone—ours had been shut off months before. Bitch told me to go away. I had to beg and explain what happened. Rolling her eyes and mumbling something along the lines of “it was only a matter of time,” the cunt finally let me in to call my grandmother—as my mother lie dead on the floor 20 feet away. My grandmother hugged me and sobbed as the paramedics wheeled her only daughter away. All that I could think about since I’d drained all my tears was “What the fuck was the fork for?”
I never cried again—even six years later when my grandma died of Emphysema. I wasn’t kidding when I said I drained my tears. My mom and dad came from a long-line of partiers, who found kids to be a burden and nuisance. My grandmother reluctantly stepped in and got me to 18, just barely. She resented raising me, especially since she hadn’t done that stellar of a job the first time around raising a teenager. So, I guess you could say that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. The Palmers are not a class-act. We aren’t something to write home about. I decided that it was up to me to try and at least bring the Palmer-name up a notch or two on the old social status hierarchy.
I finished high school, which was a feat in itself. With the help of my high school English teacher and guidance counselor, I got into Ohio State. I think I was their “token charitable” acceptance that year. I started college, joined a sorority, began extensive “free” counseling through the university, and never looked back at the train wreck that was once my life.
I knew I’d graduated from therapy when I spent the last four sessions screwing Dr. Bennett. What? We’d gotten close. He was hot. And let’s be honest here, I felt better those last four sessions than I’d felt in a long, long time. That man knew how to dip into a woman’s soul… and into her hole. I say we’d gotten pretty damn close. Well, correction: he’d gotten close to me. I had no idea he was married to the PTA president and had three beautiful daughters. That’s when I knew for sure that I’d been right all along. Men were good for two things: mind-numbing orgasms and fat wallets. All men are the same. They’re cheating, slimy, fuck ‘em and forget ‘em bastards.
Marcus said that nobody would ever marry me. Bullshit! I get proposals all the damn time, which is when I know it’s time to cut ties and move the Hell on. Marcus has it all wrong. I’m the one who’s not about to make some adulterous asshole my groom. They can beg all they want, but his chick won’t ever be
someone’s bride or fiancé.
In the private conference room, the Garrities and I all bask in the hilarity of my speech, ignoring the horror of the truths behind it. Sharing the champagne and discussing the wedding, it feels like I’m truly a part of something—something real and tangible.
“Ready to go back? Jasper asks, taking the champagne bottle from me.
“Coming guys?” Joz asks from the door as everyone else leaves the room.
Sighing, I nod, feeling like I’m walking the finals steps to a gladiator battle, and my best friend is the one fighting. “So wait, did you guys ever talk to Janelle and tell her that she was making a giant mistake?”
“About 50 times,” Jasper answers.
“Every day since he proposed,” Jocelyn admits.
“But are you sure that you really told her that you were not on board with this decision… like she for sure knew that you both didn’t want this to go down?” I question again.
“Charlene, I offered her 20 grand to call the whole thing off. She thought I was kidding, but when I showed her the cash, she knew I was serious,” Jasper explains.
“Last night after the rehearsal when she was driving to the Ritz, she called me on my cell. I told her that there was still time to back out. I even said the words ‘and nobody would blame you,’ but she still said that he was the man of her dreams,” Jocelyn says, rolling her eyes and fake-gagging.
“Don’t you think that this is going to somehow be our fault when it comes shattering down around her?” I groan.
“We all know Janelle, she’ going to find a way to blame us for her own blind faith in him,” Jocelyn explains.
“More like her blind stupidity. I give it three years… max,” Jasper announces.
“We should totally make bets on how long it takes for her to realize that she married the world’s biggest ass,” Jocelyn says. “That would be wrong though, wouldn’t it?”
“It wouldn’t be that wrong,” I say. “But I think Jasper’s wrong. They’ll make it to at least their five-year anniversary. All couples can do five years. That’s the easy stuff.”
