Bears of Burden: WYATT

by Candace Ayers

  He never did. Any notes that I gave him were met with cold silence, open mockery, and - in some cases - blatant disregard for my existence. At least once a week, he would text his friends or listen to music while I was trying to talk to him.

  The only reason that Jett came to see me was because he was as terrible at academia as he was amazing at football. I knew perfectly well that he was only there because his coach forced him to be. But I always hoped that he was getting something out of our time together. I wanted to make some small, lasting impact on what I believed was the kind of golden life I would never be able to achieve.

  Which means that, when he asked me to go on a date with him after one of our tutoring sessions, I was so stunned and so thrilled that, naturally, I agreed before the words were even completely out of his mouth. I thought, maybe, that he’d been secretly shy all along too. If a boy’s mean to you, it’s because he likes you, I remembered countless adults telling me as a child.

  I feel my jaw clench as I watch Jett eat in the diner, thinking about the night of our “date.” I had been so excited. I could still see myself, as if floating outside of my body, waiting in my awkward, baggy dress and the cardigan that my mother had told me was cute. My roommate, an equally shy wallflower, had done my makeup, and I was feeling exceptionally proud, standing on the sidewalk in front of my dorm. I - awkward, mousy Claire Donnelly - was about to go on a date with the most beloved man on campus. I was shivering with excitement.

  I saw Jett’s old, ragged Cadillac coming down the street just on time, and my heart skipped a beat. I took a deep breath and put on a winning smile.

  That’s when the first egg hit.

  It exploded against my shoulder, and I gasped from the impact. For a second, I didn’t know what had happened. Then, I saw two more cars following Jett’s, and I understood.

  Eggs came at me from all directions, cracking against every inch of my dress, a dress that I loved so much, the one I saved for special occasions only, shells sliding through my hair. Balloons joined the eggs, hard and full of paint. They stung when they popped against my skin, and at least a few were thrown so hard at my stomach they knocked the wind out of me. I stood, motionless and stunned, and heard wild laughter. “Looking good, Titless Wonder!” I heard Jett shout, and the laughter only increased.

  I stood and watched them drive away. The humiliation was so deep and sudden that I couldn’t even cry. Instead, I slowly turned around, looking up at my building. I saw several lights come on in previously darkened room, heads popping out of windows, and I could hear a chorus of poorly-stifled giggles from every corner of the street. After a minute, I slowly - painfully - uprooted my feet and walked, stiff-legged, back to my dorm room. My roommate was horrified and immediately offered to help, but there was nothing she could do. I walked straight into the bathroom and into the shower, and avoided looking into the mirror until every scrap of egg and paint was cleaned off my skin. Later, I found a piece of eggshell in my braces when I brushed my teeth.

  The rest of the year had been an awful continuation of that night. It became a legendary story around campus, and everywhere I went, I was followed by shouts of “Titless Wonder!” Pictures of me standing dumbfounded somehow made their way around campus. The lack of respect Jett had for me during our tutoring sessions turned into open contempt.

  In short, Jett Lang fucking ruined college for me.

  Here I sit, six years later, in a diner watching the jackass shovel food into the gaping hole that he’d used to scream mocking insults at me.

  “What’ll it be?” he asks thickly through a mouthful of beef.

  Stay with a guy who beats the hell out of me for the next year or so until I get enough money to leave or he murders me, or marry Jett Lang.

  “Well?” he prompts.

  “Give me a minute,” I say. “I’m still thinking about it.”

  Chapter 4 JETT

  I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved than I am when Claire agrees to marry me. I promise her she won’t regret it, which she snorts at- actually snorts, and call Larry before the check even arrives.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Larry breathes. I picture him gesturing a sign of a cross, “This woman is a saint. She’s an angel. Hell, I want to marry her now.”

  “Hey, marrying me is a pretty good bargain,” I argue.

  “Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

  “Fuck you.” I pause. “You still my agent?”

  “As long as this girl doesn’t come to her senses before she’s wearing your ring,” Larry says. “I’m getting you both a flight to Vegas now. You can use the manager’s private jet. Get your ass to his place in thirty minutes. And Jett… Don’t screw this up.”

  “How can I screw it up?”

  “By being you.” I hear the dial tone in my ear and hang up, rolling my eyes. The guy is being a real ass, but at least he’s an ass who will keep me as his client. That’s probably more than I have a right to expect. I know I’ve put him through some shit.

  I turn to Claire and smile. “Alright, let’s get going!”

  “What?” she frowns. “You mean - now?”

  “You know what they say. There’s no time like the present.” I throw a hundred down on the table. “Come on. My agent says we’ve got half an hour to get to the plane, and he gets annoyed if I’m too late.”

  Claire gapes at me. “But… now?”

  “What?” I ask. “Were you hoping to swing by your abusive boyfriend’s place and ask him if it’s cool if you run off to Vegas and marry me, maybe pack a bag while you’re there?”

  Claire sighs and rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue, just picks up her purse, throws it over her shoulder, and follows me to the door.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” she mutters.

  “We’re going to Vegas, Claire. We’ll buy you new clothes. Maybe you can get some of those burlesque outfits.”

  Claire just sneers at me and pushes past. She climbs into the passenger seat of my Lexus and folds her arms in front of her.

  Although I’d been joking about the burlesque outfits, the mental picture sticks with me. I have a hard time keeping my eyes on the road as I drive. In spite of the bruises starting to bloom on her arms and her cheek, she is a beautiful woman. There had always been something slightly adorable about her in college, her bird-bone structure just as fragile as her ego. Her vulnerability, though, had annoyed me at the time. We met right after…. well, my mom had just passed and I was going through some shit. Angry at the world, and angry at women in general. She seemed to worship the ground I walked on. Her slavish devotion bothered me. In her big brown eyes, I saw the kind of admiration that my mother always seemed to have for my father, and a part of me was disgusted. No amount of lukewarm adorability could save her after that.

  I’ve always been ashamed of the way I treated her back then, though. I’m not a guy who harbors many regrets, but, well, how I behaved to Claire, that’s maybe my biggest one. She didn’t deserve it.

  She keeps her face turned away from me, staring out the window. She’s grown into quite a woman I observe admiringly– strong, independent, not to mention a woman willing to do something completely crazy to better her life and her situation rather than fawning over some drunken asshole who beats the fuck out of her the way my mother did. Her choice is not to die at the hands of some dirtbag monster who claims to love her, but whose love comes with bruises and broken bones, and she isn’t going to leave children behind to mourn her and deal with the aftermath of her senseless death.

  I look over at her again and she pretends not to notice. Her awkward cuteness has turned into elegant beauty. She’s filled out a bit, and it looks good. She’s got a full round ass and sloping hips. Her tits are still small, but they’d always looked good on her; they suit her. Now that her braces are gone, her teeth are perfectly straight and white, occasionally peeking out from behind her plump lips.

  I vaguely wonder if there’s any chance that a phony marriage
to Claire Donnelly might become something a little more.

  *

  When we get to the Vegas strip, Claire stands and stares with her jaw hanging open, looking around at the bright lights and gaudy buildings like she’s never seen anything like it. She probably hasn’t, I realize, and I remember what that felt like. For a second, I’m lost in her wonderment.

  Then I remember that we have a wedding to get to.

  “Hey, you can stare at the pretty lights later,” I say, taking her hand. “We still need to get you a dress.”

  “A dress? Can’t I just get married like this?” she, gestures to her dirty clothes. There are small tears in them, dirt stains on the back, and even a few spots of blood.

  “No, yeah, sure,” I say sarcastically. “That’ll look beautiful in pictures. Someday when we’re showing our wedding pictures to our kids, we can explain that mommy got the shit beat out of her like two hours before our wedding. It will be very romantic.”

  She glares. “Okay, one,” she holds up her index finger, “none of this is romantic. You’re literally paying me to marry you to get me away from my shitbag boyfriend. And two, what kids are you referring to? Because you can’t mean kids that you put in my body. Our genes will stay plenty far away from each other.”

  “You say that now, but just wait,” I smirk. “I’m irresistable. One of these nights, you’ll be laying in a cold bed, thinking about how lonely you are, and you’ll come down the hall and slip into my king-size bed -”

  “Yeah… NO.” She sticks her chin out.

  I pout. “You’re no fun.”

  “No, I’m not. I figured you’d have remembered that.” She looks down at her clothes. “Let’s just go get a fucking dress and get this over with.”

  “Some makeup wouldn’t hurt either.”

  “Fuck you.” Claire says. She looks hurt and I wish I would have phrased that better.

  “I mean…” I explain, “You have a big-ass bruise on your cheek, Claire. We should probably cover that up, this is about my public image after all. I wouldn’t want anyone suspecting that I gave it to you.”

  “Oh.” The sweetest pink tinge creeps up her cheeks. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

  “Thank you. Can we stop arguing and get some clothes and make it look like we, well, planned this?” I tentatively hold out my hand for her to grasp, wondering if she’ll leave me hanging.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mutters and steps towards me taking my hand and entwining our fingers. “Might as well start pretending now. Lead the way.”

  Finding a dress shop is pretty easy, and it’s equally as easy to find rings, a tux, and a minister. In spite of Claire’s protests, we buy her dress rather than renting it.

  “It’s your wedding dress,” I say. “You might want it someday.” I’m not even sure why it matters to me, or what logic I’m employing. I guess I figure that with all she’s been through tonight, she deserves to have something nice.

  “I need you to stop acting like we’re going to stay married,” she says.

  “Well, I think it’s weird that you don’t want to buy it, but you also won’t let me see you in it until you walk down the aisle because it’s ‘bad luck.’”

  “I have enough man problems in my life,” she says tersely, “No need to go and create another.”

  The ceremony preparation is quick. The minister has clearly already had a few too many cocktails, and he rushes us along obviously wanting this to be short and sweet. The organ starts to blast out the wedding march.

  I watch the archway for Claire to emerge, ready to get this over with myself. When I see her, my heart skips a beat. She’s wearing a pale dusty rose colored dress of smooth satin that highlights her pale skin and reddish-brown hair. Her dress drapes over her body, clinging to her hips in a way that makes the fabric flow like water over her legs. Her bruised cheek and jaw is covered with makeup, and her long hair is pulled up, with small lace veil tucked in. She is absolutely breathtaking. The way she moves, it looks like she’s gliding towards me, a vision of beauty. At this moment I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman.

  “What?” she murmurs as she reaches the altar, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. A blush creeps up her cheeks and she fusses with her top, which hangs low, revealing the little cleavage she has. “Do I look that bad?”

  “No,” I swallow and try to resume breathing. “You look -”

  The minister cuts me off. “You two getting married?”

  “Yeah,” I respond.

  “Great.” He flips through his notes. “Marriage is great, it’s a beautiful blessing, yadda yadda yadda… here we go. Jeff -”

  “My name is Jett.”

  “Jett, do you agree to be nice to her and pick up your shit when she asks you to and not sleep with other girls and just generally be a cool guy?”

  “Um.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Cool. Claire, do you agree to not get too down on him for the shit he’s not doing and appreciate what he is doing instead, not to spend all his money, and try to put up with his bullshit with being a total bitch about it?”

  “Sure. I mean, I do.”

  “Awesome.” He tosses his notes onto the altar. “Then, by the power vested in me by the internet, I now pronounce you man and wife. Congratulations. You can pick up your license on the way out.”

  “That’s it?” Claire asks.

  “It’s been a rough day,” the minister looks at us through hangdog, bloodshot eyes. “Just go to the hotel and fuck already. If you need a divorce, I can give you my brother’s card.”

  “Your brother is a divorce lawyer?” I say incredulously.

  “Yup.” The minister starts gathering his things. “I set them up, he knocks them down.”

  “How lovely,” Claire says dryly.

  “It’s Vegas, kids.” Picking up his backpack of supplies, he pats me on the shoulder. “But don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be different for you two.”

  Claire and I walk outside, waiting until the witness and the minister leave. I tuck our marriage license in my pocket and we stand silently for a moment beneath the just brightening sky.

  In the weak, watery light of dawn, I gaze at my new wife. She’s taken off her veil and is standing serenely looking at the strip and the pedestrians hobbling down the street in various stages of drunkenness. I see the corners of her lips turn up slightly, then a small smile starts to form. It splits into a grin, and eventually, she throws her head back and laughs, her dewy skin catching the light as she lets out high-pitched, ringing laughter. Damn, it’s good to see her laugh.

  “What a fucking lunatic!” she finally squeals. “What kind of vows were those?”

  “Claire,” I deadpan, holding her by the shoulders, “I promise to try to be a ‘cool guy’ to you for the rest of my days.”

  Claire giggles wildly. “And I promise not to be a ‘total bitch’ about all of your bullshit.”

  We both laugh. Watching her stand here in front of me, giggling and snorting when she laughs too hard, and wearing that gorgeous wedding gown, I let myself forget for a moment that this wedding isn’t real and means nothing. In that moment of joy, I forget our circumstances and pull her to my chest wrapping my arms around her.

  When she flinches, I remember.

  “Um.” I pull back, watching the stunned look on her face fade into uncomfortable worry. “Maybe we should head to the hotel.”

  “Yeah,” she confirms. “Yeah, we should definitely do that.”

  I watch her walk to the car, my heart sinking. If there had been a chance between Claire and myself, I think I just blew it.

  The honeymoon suite is fully stocked with a very nice mini bar, and before I even put my bags down, Claire is already taking full advantage of the selection.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watch her guzzle bottle after bottle of mini airplane booze down her throat, like she’s Alice trying to find a way to make herself small enoug
h to disappear in Wonderland. I ignore her, giving her space; besides, she seems like she needs the booze more than I do.

  I dig through my bag, and head into the bathroom to take a long shower. I’ll never admit it to anybody, but Claire's prick of a boyfriend actually got in a couple really good shots. I’m more than capable of taking a punch, but there is a spot near the bottom of my ribs that still throbs.

  When I walk back out, I’m surprised to see Claire draped over the bed, her messy hair cascading around her shoulders. “Hello, Mr. Lang,” she slurs, grinning. On the nightstand is a vast assortment of empty bottles.

  “Mrs. Lang,” I reply. I can’t help but smile. Even drunk, she is adorable.

  “You know.” She rolls over, looking at me upside down. She kicks one leg in the air, and her dress turns into a puddle at her hips. “It's our wedding night.”

  “It is,” I agree cautiously. Shit. This might not be headed in a good direction.

  “You're my husband,” she continues, “and I'm your wife.”

  “Getting married will have that effect, yes.”

  She flips clumsily to her knees. “Most people consummate their marriage on the wedding night.” She seems to think she’s speaking in a sexy purr, but her words are horribly loud, mangled and slurred.

  “Most couples, yeah, but Claire…”

  She isn't listening. She shuffles off the bed and starts humming a tune that reminds me of old burlesque shows, with loud trumpets and piano that she tries - and fails - to imitate. She kicks off one shoe, staggers, catches herself, and kicks off the other. She starts swinging her hips back and forth aggressively, pulling at one of her dress straps. “Are you enjoying the show, Mr. Lang?” she giggles.

  “I…” My mouth is dry. The truth is, I am enjoying the show. I am enjoying the absolutely shit out of it. Claire Donnelly is a sexpot. Who knew? But she is as drunk as she is sexy.