Unexpected Bride

by Abigail Graham

I shake my head and slowly draw away from him, crawl over, and dress.

  Wait.

  My panties are missing!

  He shoves them in his pocket with the other pair, despite the bulge.

  "Give those back," I demand, lunging at him.

  He catches me and traps my arms against my sides.

  "Maybe I should try biting you," he says.

  I look at him.

  "I could see that."

  He blinks, shocked, and I grin and wriggle out of his grip.

  Crouching, I pause with him behind me and we creep out of the boat, standing upright only when we're a few slips or berths or whatever down the dock. I feel incredibly exposed with no underwear on, even in a demure skirt that reaches to my knees.

  I just know I smell like fucking. It's confirmed when Ryan grabs me and sniffs my hair, my neck.

  "Jesus, not when we're in public," I say, wriggling loose.

  We're getting closer to the hotel. He stops.

  "You go on ahead. If someone sees us, they'll say something to Karen."

  I stop, not even trying to hide the pain in my eyes.

  "You could come up to my room."

  "I could, but I'm not going to. Just go, Julia. Trust me on this, okay?"

  I swallow.

  I want to yell at him; fuck it, I want to scream at him, unload on him. He fucks my brains out until my mind is scrambled eggs, and then tells me to get lost? How dare he. How dare he!

  The pain in his eyes stops me.

  "We don't have to do this. Your family can fucking deal with it. What Elvis hath joined together, no man may put asunder."

  He blinks. "Really?"

  I sigh.

  "I'll see you in the morning," he promises. "You know, we're both leaving on Sunday."

  "Yeah," I say, "back to Seattle."

  "Hon, I'm rich. I can go wherever I want."

  My heart lifts explosively, so hard it almost knocks me off my feet. Is he...does he mean?

  "Be a good girl and we'll see what happens," he says, and for emphasis, he tugs my damned underwear halfway out of his pocket.

  Scowling, I turn away and storm off, but I'm grinning on the inside, my veins singing. I stop myself from spinning in place as I walk, like a freaking cartoon princess. I feel like I could fly.

  Except there's a cold pit of ice in my stomach, holding me down so I don't float off. A sense of impending doom.

  I don't know if it's real or if it's just Julia's usual conviction that she cannot be happy.

  It's a trudge back to my suite. I stumble inside, lock the door, and hesitate at the shower. I don't really want to wash him off of me. I stand there and savor it for a few moments more, watching my finger in the mirror as I trace it along my collarbone.

  Looking at the bridesmaid’s dress, I tremble as I'm hit by a sudden surge of panic.

  Yeah, I didn't leave any marks on him where anyone can see, but I have a goddamn hickey on my shoulder!

  "Shit shit shit," I mutter, trying to rub it out as I turn on the shower.

  How do you get rid of a hickey?

  I admit it. I've never had a problem with this before.

  I have no way to explain it. Unless I tell Karen I ran off to meet up with some kind of gigolo or something. Oh, sorry Karen, I have a hickey on your wedding day because I rode your brother's meat missile to pound town. That'll go over like a fart in church.

  The water turns me beet red from the heat, but as soon as I start drying off, the telling mark remains. This is like a crazy bodice ripper version of an Edgar Allan Poe novel. The Telltale Hickey.

  Sighing, I try to think of how I can cover it up. You just had to have us wear strapless dresses, didn't you, Karen?

  Damn it.

  How am I going to sleep tonight?

  After I throw on a ratty old t-shirt and shorts, I step out onto my balcony. This is one of the nicer rooms, and the balcony looks out over the ocean and a long stretch of beach, reaching off into the black-blue infinity of a tropical night. The warm breeze rushes over me as I lean on the concrete wall and sigh, eyes closed. A stiffer gust lifts my still-damp hair and I shake my head a little, pattering droplets on the glass door behind me.

  A smile twitches into my lips, and I let it out, a long, adoring sigh, like a schoolgirl with a crush. I guess that's exactly what I am. Ryan is still my Prince Charming, after all. I've been dreaming and fantasizing about him since I could fantasize about guys, if you get what I mean. When Julia and I were giggling girls, her mysterious older brother was a young man, lithe and fit.

  I remember leaning on a windowsill the way I lean on this balcony retaining wall now, tingling all over as I watched him in the back yard of their expansive house back in Buck's County. He'd strip to the waist and split logs with an axe. Not that he needed to—the help would do that, and his father had an excessive, powerful log splitting machine that ran on gas.

  Ryan was always just...physical. He played football but never took on the bulk, and baseball in the spring, and ran track. It didn't seem humanly possible for him to do it all, until you saw him chopping wood, his back, somehow broad and lithe at the same time, flexing as his powerful arms swung into each blow.

  Whack, a crack, and the oddly tinny sound of split wood falling off the block into the pile, over and over it. I watched him doing that so long it burned itself into my memory and I sometimes awake with a pleasant, warm feeling and that sound off in the distance, then have to spend a little time in bed with my hand before I get up to face the world.

  He was always kind to me, too. Distant, but kind. Karen was my playmate—or rather, I was hers—but there was always a pecking order there, unspoken. When we were younger, we played dolls when she wanted to, and stopped when she wanted to. When we got older, she tested out all her makeup on me first. I only looked like a circus clown the first few times.

  Ryan walked in on us while we were doing that, one time. I was, I think, fifteen, and he would have just turned seventeen or so. He stopped and stared at me, and I felt like I was going to melt through the floor. Just stared at me open-mouthed like he didn't recognize me, then apologized and scuttled off. Karen was furious and never let me wear any of her cosmetics again.

  To this day, after we've been living together since we were in college, she still won't lend me a stick of deodorant if I need it. I let it go a long, long time ago, but it suddenly rankles, as if something is trying to assemble itself in my head but it doesn't want to go together. I shrug.

  Oh, Ryan.

  I feel like a princess in a cartoon movie. Like any second, pastel birds and squirrels are going to appear and break out into a musical number extolling Ryan's prowess in the sack. I could burst out singing, myself. Being apart from him is agony.

  Yeah, I'm in love. The stupid thought makes me grin. Damn it, what room is he in? I want to crawl in bed with him right now. Just be stupid and smell his armpits and have sex and wrestle.

  Why shouldn't I?

  Because it's Karen's day tomorrow and she's still my friend. My best friend.

  I mean, she paid my tuition out of her allowance. That's a big deal.

  Shuffling back inside, I plop in a chair. Karen is still out with her family. I begged off earlier, saying I felt queasy from the flight and I needed a nap, and she reluctantly let me go. That's the only thing I feel guilty about, a little flash of cold like stepping into a shower just before the water turns hot.

  I'm here on her dad's dime, so I grab the menu and place a huge room service order. I won't eat half of it, but what the hell. Crab Rangoon, jalapeno poppers, buffalo chicken spring rolls (whatever that is), mozzarella sticks, and crab dip. Yeah, I know. I like crab.

  I just hope I don't cut a Todd-level fart while I'm standing next to the altar tomorrow.

  Oh my God, the wedding. The reception. What if I catch the bouquet? I expect Karen to toss it at me.

  Damn, but the room service here is punctual. I barely make it through one re-run of Storage Wars before my food
arrives, along with a bottle of rosé. I don't even know if you're supposed to drink rosé with any of this, but who cares?

  They roll it all on a cart, silver trays and all, and one of those standing ice buckets for the wine.

  "You guys don't have ice cream, do you?"

  "We do," the waiter says. "We have a selection of fine gelatos, as well as pints from all your favorite creameries."

  I lick my lips.

  No, Julia. You need to fit into your dress in the morning.

  "Maybe another time," I say.

  After he's gone (I wrote a tip onto the bill for Karen's dad to pay) I kick my feet up, line up my plates on the couch, and pig out while people argue over the contents of a welded shut safe from a burning hot Arizona mini storage locker.

  Turns out it has a ball of twine, a couple of melted and now worthless Star Wars action figures, a hardened bottle of Elmer's glue, and an old Cheeze Whiz jar full of paper clips.

  I should call or text Ryan and tell him to get up here with me. I want more than just sex out of him. I could put my head on his lap right now. Share food with him. Snuggle and cuddle and all that.

  Oh. Shit. I don't know his phone number.

  Maybe it's the absurdity or maybe it's the bottle of wine, but I start laughing. I don't know my husband's phone number. I could just sneak up to his room...

  No, I promised to behave. He better keep up his end. Or he's never getting at my end, if you know what I mean. I mean sex.

  Okay, enough wine. Time for bed.

  After I push the cart into the hallway, I roll into bed, set an alarm, and curl up in a ball. Exhausted from the exertion and stuffed full of deep fried goodness, I pass out in a few minutes and the next thing I know, it's six thirty in the morning and my alarm dies. Karen calls me and the BLARM BLARM BLARM of the clock switches over to "Poker Face" by Lady Gaga. She made me pick that for her specific ringtone for some reason.

  "You up?" she says.

  "Yeah," I say.

  "Good. I'm on my way over to your room."

  "Huh? Why?"

  "Help you with your makeup."

  I blink a few times. A hot threat of tears wells up behind my eyes, and I smile in spite of myself.

  "Yeah," I say, "Okay."

  While I'm waiting for her, I put on the slip I'm going to wear under my bridesmaid dress and look at myself in the mirror. Karen knocks on my door a few minutes later and slips inside.

  "Aren't you supposed to be getting ready?"

  "The other bridesmaids can deal with that. I wanted some alone time with you before I do this. Sit at the vanity, would you?"

  She brought a bag with her and sets it on the vanity in front of me. She brought more than just makeup and starts brushing out my hair. It's oddly soothing, another thing we used to do for each other but haven't bothered with since we were teenagers back at her house.

  "You have the most lovely black hair," she says. "I hope you don't burn to a crisp. You're so pale."

  "Yes, Mom," I say.

  She laughs softly. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Karen combs out and brushes and styles my hair, brushing it smooth with product before she twists it neatly into a perfect French braid. Then she opens her cosmetics kit and starts on my face, lightly brushing on foundation.

  "Your skin is so clear," she says, "you barely need anything."

  I smile, a little tickled by her praise.

  In a few deft minutes, she transforms me from my plain self to...someone I barely recognize. I have to blink back tears so I don't ruin it.

  "Come on, I have to get ready."

  She zips my bridesmaid's dress up my back and I take one last twirl in front of the mirror. I've never looked like this in my whole life.

  "Is your hand still bugging you?" she says.

  I have a bandage over the ring. I haven't even tried taking it off again.

  "No one will notice," I say, slipping on the glove that matches my dress.

  “What about your shoulder there?”

  The hickey has faded to an indistinct red mark.

  “Here, I’ve got that.”

  She dabs foundation and concealer on it.

  "Let's go," she says, cheerily.

  Back in her room, all the hens have gathered, cousins of hers ranging from fourteen to thirty, younger and older, and some friends of the family. It reminds me of school, when I read about how a whole swarm of people would follow Louis XIV around all day taking care of all his needs and dressing him.

  When she slips into her gown, she looks incredible, like a fairytale princess. She even has a tiara to hold her veil in place.

  "How do I look?" she asks me.

  "Phenomenal. You ready?"

  "Scout ahead," she says, "make sure Bruce doesn't see me."

  I snort, and she laughs softly, the joke unspoken for the sake of the younger girls.

  I lead the way into and out of the elevator and along the path across the resort to the open air chapel. We get lots of honks and salutes from other guests, everyone happy to see a wedding. It's contagious and I smile despite my nervousness.

  It's my turn now. I go ahead and check to see if everyone is in place. Bruce and his guys are already at the altar. Ryan is seated in the front row on Karen's side. He turns at the commotion and when he spots me, his jaw drops. The look on his face, somewhere between awe and reverence, is burned into my memory like a brand. I look him briefly in the eye before I turn around and head back to give the go ahead.

  The ceremony starts, a breeze blowing in from the ocean. The pageantry makes me tear up and by the time Karen is at the altar with Bruce, I'm glad I'm wearing waterproof mascara. It's all I can do not to sniffle into my gloves.

  It's over surprisingly fast. Bruce slips the ring on Karen's finger and boom, they exchange I Do's and they're married. The next part is what makes me nervous. The reception.

  After Bruce and Karen walk down the aisle and shake hands with all the guests, everyone proceeds across the beach to a huge rented pavilion filled with hotel staff.

  I admit it, I'm dreading this part a little.

  We're eating first, so no bouquet throwing yet. I feel like a princess, and Karen the queen, as we sit down at a long table on a dais above the rest of the guests. Once everyone has filled in and found their places, Karen's father taps his glass and rises for the toast.

  My eyes glaze over. He spends five minutes talking about Karen and yet somehow every little anecdote veers back to talking about Ryan, and I can feel her bristle, glaring down the table at her brother, who sits next to his mom, the two of them sharing the same look of placid, resilient frustration that highlights how alike they look. Karen takes after her dad, but they both have the mom's dark hair and pale complexion.

  Finally, he raises the glass.

  "To Karen and Bruce."

  Everyone raises theirs in agreement. I tap my champagne flute against Karen's and drink, briefly wondering if I'm overdoing it on the booze. At least the crab Rangoon is sitting well. That could be...problematic.

  Karen's father wanted this to be a royal affair, and so there's a dozen courses, basically a tasting menu. I don't know what half of it is, except that some are small bits of traditional Hawaiian dishes and some are French or something. Half of it is good and half of it, I politely demure from eating a bite.

  Now comes the hard part. Time for the first dance and all that. The bouquet.

  Everyone moves from the tables to the open dance floor, gathering around Karen and Bruce. Ryan stands off to one side, cutting an imposing figure in his tux. James Bond on his day off. He scratches his chin and studies me, his eyes roaming the curve of my back and butt. I feel exposed in the strapless dress, the air suddenly too cold.

  As Karen hefts her bouquet, I try to push into the middle of the crowd of girls and women, a gaggle ranging in age from ten to forty. My height makes me an easy target.

  Karen throws, it sails, and despite my mere token effort to put my hands up, the flowers arc
down straight into my face as if I were a floral magnet. I end up sputtering and grabbing at it in surprise, much to the amusement of the other guests. The attention crushes in on me from all sides, and I shiver with it.

  Ryan gives me a look, as if to say, you're okay.

  Now the other part.

  Carrying the flowers, I lead the group to the side of the dance floor. Karen steps out into the center and Bruce follows, bringing a chair. With a look of bemused annoyance on her face, Karen throws up her skirts and puts one foot on the chair. Bruce kneels, reaches up, and removes the garter from her stockinged leg. Karen withdraws and he stands up, toying with the elastic loop.

  He spins it on his finger and flings it. Half the guys go for it.

  Ryan steps out with lupine grace and his arm moves so fast it blurs. He doesn't catch the garter so much as rip it out of the air, holding his fist high so everyone can see.

  Every unmarried woman in the room lights up, staring at him with hungry eyes. My heart freezes for a brief moment as he looks around as if actually considering them. Twin dreads swirl in my stomach that he'll pick someone else for appearance's sake, or that he'll pick me.

  He points right at me, and I stand there blinking before one of Karen's cousins gives me a firm but polite shove towards him. I stumble over to him and try not to think about the others all looking at me.

  It's just my leg. They've seen my leg. I was wearing short shorts yesterday.

  Ryan kneels in front of me. I can feel Karen glowering, but her look is fixed on him, not me. Anxiously, I draw my skirt up, gathering the fabric in my fists, and raise my leg, offering him my foot.

  He could just put the damned thing on, but he slowly slides it up my calf, his fingers gliding over the silk of my stocking. I start to tremble and fight the urge to bite my lip. I mean, he's supposed to put it on my thigh but there's not much thigh left.

  Finally, he stands up, eyes fixed on mine the entire time. The hooting and hollering behind me drowns him out as he leans forward and whispers so only I can hear.

  "Why aren't you wearing underwear?"

  "You keep stealing them," I whisper back.

  He grins and takes my hand, leading me to the side of the dance floor. It's time to cut the cake and have the first dance and all that. Karen has too much fun mashing a slice of chocolate cake into her new husband's face, but he only gingerly returns the favor, smearing a bit of icing on her upper lip.