by Matayo, Amy
He’s right, my parents have managed to get it closer than most. I sigh and look him in the eyes.
“Are you ready to give me away?”
“No, never. But I’d be happy to make Liam think I’m giving you to him.”
I laugh. “I suppose that’s close enough.” After all, it’s true what they say: A daughter’s a daughter all her life.
By the time we round the corner, I’m feeling emotional once again.
This lasts until I see Teddy standing by the fireplace, which is serving as the altar.
He glares at me, and I can’t help it.
Am I the only bride in history who’s busted out laughing before she’s even started down the aisle?
* * *
Liam
Dillon is my wife.
My wife.
I can’t get over the term. I’ve said it a hundred times inside my head in the ten minutes since the ceremony concluded. I now pronounce you man and wife, the best words ever spoken. I suppose I might rethink that the day someone says, congratulations, you’re a dad, but for now, these words are the best.
Dillon is my wife. My beautiful, gorgeous wife.
Teddy, however… Teddy looks ridiculous. And it’s all my wife’s doing, which is severely affecting my opinion of her fashion sense. They’re standing side by side in the middle of the staircase, taking an obligatory bride and maid-of-honor picture while I watch, thinking I have the weirdest best friend and equally weird wife on the planet.
“They make quite a pair, don’t they?” Jane says, coming up to stand beside me.
“Always have, and I’ve known it from day one. She’s his best friend and vice versa. In his career, I think real friends are hard to come by, so he’s stuck with what works. Pretty cool though, not all of us get so lucky in the friends and relatives department.”
“You did,” she says to me. “Dillon practically worships you. Everyone can see it.”
I wink at her. “The feeling is mutual. Though there are definitely limits as to what I would do for her. That…” I point to Teddy, “is one of them.”
Jane laughs as we study them.
Teddy is wearing a suit, so I’ll give Dillon points for not actually making him wear a dress.
But it’s red.
Bright red.
Valentine red.
And there’s some lacy thing happening around the collar that makes me think of Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice, which is one of Dillon’s favorite movies.
Also, he’s wearing a top hat. Pointy black shoes.
And carrying a cane.
He looks nothing like the famous country singer he’s supposed to be, more like Willy Wonka in his chocolate factory.
But he’s laughing and having fun with it. They both are. And each of us outside their little circle of two is watching from the sidelines. Dillon kisses him on the cheek. He picks her up and shoves a long-stemmed rose through her teeth. This goes on for a few minutes while we all watch, a few of us likely envious…and me inherently grateful to have married into this bizarre, chaotic family.
Finally, they finish taking pictures and wander up to our group. Dillon kisses me on the lips for the dozenth time today, happiness radiating across her features.
“You’re my husband,” she giggles.
“You’re my wife.” Neither of us can get enough of the words.
“And I’m your maid-of-honor who’s going to change his clothes now. Why on earth did you make me wear this?”
“Well one, because I liked the idea,” Dillon says like it’s explanation enough. “And two, because you promised me you would wear a red suit at my wedding one day.”
Teddy frowns. “When?”
“When we were ten and you told me Santa wasn’t real. When I cried, you said you would make it up to me and wear a red suit whenever I wanted you to.”
His jaw falls open. “And you remembered that?”
She gasps. “You didn’t?”
“Of course I remember, but I meant a Santa suit!”
“Well, I decided on a wedding suit. And today was the day for payback.”
Teddy raises his eyebrows and nudges me on the shoulder. “Good luck with this one. She doesn’t forget anything.”
Dillon nods proudly. “No, I don’t. Someday you’ll see Liam walking around in a coconut bra, just wait for it.”
I groan. “I said that under duress in the middle of a tropical storm.”
Teddy laughs. “That’ll teach you. Want to help me change clothes?” he says to Jane, making her blush furiously.
Thankfully Dillon’s father speaks over the commotion, taking the attention away from her.
“I’d like to propose a toast.” He raises his glass of champagne, and we all follow suit. The cake—what’s left of it—is sitting on the dining room table still waiting to be cut, the food is coming out of the oven and being transferred to waiting platters, but everyone stops to listen. “To the bride and groom. May you have a long and happy future together, may you love one another forever, and may we all find a reason to gather together again soon.”
“Hear hear,” random people say, and I take a drink.
When Dillon’s grandmother speaks up, I almost spit it out.
“We should plan a vacation together for the summer. Would anyone be free for that? Maybe we could go on another…”
The room stills. We’re all thinking the same thing.
Don’t say it.
Don’t say it.
“Cruise,” she finishes up, just like everyone knew she would.
No one says a word.
Dillon looks at me, and I look at her.
Chad looks at me, and I look at him.
Teddy looks at Riley and Jane and Dillon and Chad and back at me.
Heads are bobbing everywhere until all at once…the entire room shouts:
“No!”
And just like that…
Chaos reigns. Discussion over.
THE END
Please consider leaving a review of The Reunion on Amazon and Goodreads.
Other books by Amy Matayo:
The Last Shot
The Aftermath
The Waves
Lies We Tell Ourselves
Christmas at Gate 18
The Whys Have It
The Thirteenth Chance
The End of the World
A Painted Summer
In Tune With Love
Sway
Love Gone Wild
The Wedding Game
The Waves
by
Amy Matayo
(Book 1 in Love in Chaos)
Dillon
I’m drowning again. Not literally, of course. To be literally drowning, I would have to figuratively pull my face and my spoon out of this carton of Cherry Garcia and head for the bath, and I have no intention of doing that anytime soon. Maybe later. Maybe I’ll fill the tub to overflowing, hold myself under water, and slowly count to a thousand. That ought to do the trick.
Three boyfriends in six months. No serious boyfriend ever. Why do I keep winding up here? Is this the obvious route for a therapist who analyzes people for a living, but doesn’t like to let anyone get too close to her? This sort of self-analysis has become secondary to me. It might be nice to find an answer that doesn’t involve me eating my feelings.
A line of melted ice cream slides from my lip to my chin, so I stick my tongue out and swipe left to lick it off. The rest comes off with the heel of my hand. I don’t have a napkin, so I wipe the mess on my shirt and groan. Chocolate is so hard to remove from white cotton, but even the idea of a ruined top can’t motivate me to care. I’ll buy another shirt later when I have a reason to live.
I push off the sofa and shuffle toward the kitchen.
This carton of ice cream is empty. I flick the container onto the counter and open the freezer, knowing for a fact there’s an emergency stash tucked behind the bags of frozen blueberries and Eggo waffles. Out of sight, out of mind wa
s my thought process when I put it there. Today my thought process includes eating another carton and maybe another, then pulling Kirk’s heart out of his chest, dangling it from my fingers, and dropping it from a boat Titanic style. It might be fun to watch it sink to the bottom of the ocean while Celine Dion sings “My Heart Will Go On” in the background. Except Kirk’s heart won’t go on because he’ll be dead.
Just like Jack in the movie; no happy ending for either one of them.
I grab the emergency carton of Rocky Road, then shrug and shuffle back to the sofa, pulling off the lid and dropping it on the ground as I go. I have a fleeting thought about carpet stains but dismiss it because I don’t care. I glance at the lid one more time to make sure. It’s ice-cream-side down and undoubtedly leaving a permanent mark.
But no. I don’t care one bit.
My phone buzzes beside me, and I glance at it. I know better, but I’m weak and stupid and apparently there’s no immediate cure for either of those deficiencies.
It doesn’t mean anything, Dillon. How many times do I have to say that? Please call me so I can explain.
Sure, explain it.
By all means, explain what happened when I was sitting in my counseling appointment earlier this afternoon, listening to a bride-to-be recite her pre-honeymoon jitters. Will I be enough for him? Will he be happy with me for the rest of our lives? Will he get bored eventually and move on to someone else? Explain how, while I was thinking of super-reassuring responses to assuage her doubts, she drops a casual: Kirk thinks I’m ridiculous for worrying. And then all of a sudden I’m the one plagued with doubts.
My mind stumbled on the name Kirk, silly as it seemed. Lots of people are named Kirk. Even in tiny Franklin, Tennessee. That’s what I said to myself, my red stiletto swinging from my foot back and forth. At least they look nice against my spray-tanned legs, making me appear like the well-put-together professional I am. A master’s degree in psychology didn’t make me all kinds of crazy, no sir.
Until she said this: Mrs. Kirk Donahue. Can you even imagine?
Could I? Could I even imagine?
Even as she squealed and bounced in her seat a little, I just could not imagine.
But here’s a better question.
Can you imagine my shock at hearing his name? Or the way my head went light and spun until I, not the bride, suddenly felt faint with impending doomsday jitters? Or the way I politely excused myself from the session and threw up in the bathroom down the hall? Or the way my tears came hard and fast and were immediately followed by embarrassing wails of anguish? Or the way my co-workers knocked on the door out of concern because they could hear me? Apparently, the entire waiting room full of clients could hear me.
Explain that.
I jam my spoon inside the carton and drag out a mound of chocolate and marshmallows, then get a brain freeze in the seconds that follow. I rub my temple and glare at the room, particularly at the sofa I’m sitting on.
I was kissing Kirk Donahue just last night in this very spot, the sofa now littered with wadded tissues and dotted with chocolate ice cream from the spoon I dropped ten bites ago. How did I never see the signs?
She said in our very first session that she was marrying a veterinarian. She said he’d graduated from Texas Tech more than five years ago. She mentioned he had brown hair, and was a bit shorter than her, and had a crooked front tooth that hit her tongue just right when she kissed him.
She never mentioned his name. Not his first or his last. Thinking back, it’s so painfully obvious, I should probably lose my license. Counselors are supposed to be more perceptive than that.
I pick up my phone and type. Cheaters never prosper, Kirk. Go tell your lies to some other woman who believes them. Like your fiancé. For all I know, you have more than one.
It takes three seconds to get a response.
Don’t be that way, baby. I know we can work through this. I need you in my life.
I roll my eyes and delete his number from my phone.
Kirk’s life—if not his cold dead heart—will have to go on without me.
Ben and Jerry are the only men I’m interested in now.
* * *
I’m also interested in the doorbell. Specifically, I’m interested in bashing it with a hammer until it breaks into a thousand silent pieces. It’s been ringing nonstop for a solid two minutes, along with my phone. My mother wouldn’t know subtlety if she ran into it on the street and it asked her out for drinks.
I drag a fistful of blonde curls off my face and roll toward the sound.
“Go away!” I shout this from the same trusty spot on the sofa where I’ve remained all evening. It’s dark outside. The tissue pile has doubled, and I’ve added a frozen pizza box and crust remains to the growing pile of junk food around me. Melted ice cream seeps from a nearly-empty cardboard carton, leaving a ring on my coffee table that I don’t have the energy to clean. Heartbreak, coupled with the two carpet stains and random sofa splatters, comes with an expensive price tag.
“Open the door right now, young lady. I’m not leaving until you do.”
I’m twenty-eight. Not all that young and definitely not very ladylike at the moment unless all ladies walk around in men’s boxers, mismatched socks, and oversized t-shirts worn backwards with a tag sticking out under their chins. The thing has been scratching at me all afternoon. I’d look for scissors to cut it off, but I’m afraid I might accidently-on-purpose slit my own throat just to end this miserable day.
When did I become such an internally violent person?
I suppose I could turn my shirt around.
“I don’t want company,” I call. To this, my phone rings again. With a growl, I stand up and head for the door. I’m the walking wounded, the discarded and downtrodden, and this is the way I’ll be for the rest of my life. Pathetic. Wallowing in sameness. I am woman, let me sleep. End of story. That’s that.
I’m greeted with my mother’s disapproving stare. The woman could make wax melt with that look. She gives me a slow perusal up and down, just like she gave me every morning in high school during my blue eyeshadow and pink-streaked hair phase. She still has the ability to make me squirm. Do all mothers have this superpower, or just mine?
“What have you done to yourself? You look terrible.”
Probably just mine. She reaches out a hand and pulls something from my hair, yanking out an actual twelve-inch strand in the process.
“Ow! I found out my boyfriend’s a cheater, that’s what. And thanks for the compliment.” I rub the sore spot on my head and walk back into the living room. Falling on the sofa has become an art form today. If it became an Olympic sport, gold medallions would totally be swinging from my neck. Like a noose. Again with the violence.
“A cheater? You really know how to pick men, Dillon.”
Like I said, no subtlety.
“What’s that’s supposed to mean? I don’t intentionally go for losers, Mother.”
I throw an arm over my eyes and look up at her through a crack at my elbow. She stands over me and observes me in the way mothers do. Counting my flaws and working out ways to fix them. Hovering. Coming up with advice to magically cure my singleness. That’s what she’s doing. Hovering and internally criticizing me. She’s probably even got a problem with the way I’m breathing. I can see it in her judgmental gaze.
I don’t intentionally go for losers. It’s just that none of them will ever be as perfect as—
“Well maybe not intentionally. But there was Dan last month, and then David last Christmas. And what was the one guy’s name…Judah? The one with the big mole right beside his eye? I could never figure out how he had any peripheral vision with that thing sitting there. Someone needs to tell him to have that checked so he doesn’t—”
“Mother, I don’t talk to Judah anymore. He can check his own mole. And if you’re trying to make me feel better, it isn’t working.”
“I’m just saying that cancer is a serious issue. I wonder if he’s seen a doct
or…”
My mother, the perpetual worrier about things that are none of her business. Like my ex-boyfriends. The state of my hygiene. Next up, she’ll be asking about my plans to have kids.
“I’m never going to have any grandchildren at this rate.”
And…there it is. I flip onto my stomach and growl into the sofa cushion. What would life be like if I wasn’t continually reminded of my growing list of failures? If it didn’t come from my mother, it would be from my grandmother. Or my uncle Bob. Or my other grandparents on my father’s side. Or one of my eight thousand cousins, because both my parents have what feels like a hundred siblings a piece—the main reason I’m an only child. All my aunts and uncles contributed to population growth with at least four kids apiece. I’m certain I belong to the largest family in history aside from that one family in Arkansas with the twenty kids. They used to have a television show before scandal ripped it apart. I wish scandal would descend on me right now—something embarrassing that would result in my mother’s quick exit.
The most scandalous thing I’ve done all year is drink two Starbucks Frappuccinos on the same unseasonably warm Monday afternoon last March. Coincidently, it was the same day Judah broke up with me via text. While we dated, my mother never stopped worrying about his mole. My father, by comparison, never stopped insisting he was the cowardly type from the moment they first shook hands. The cowardly break-up only confirmed it. I should have listened to my dad.
Of all the people in my outrageously large family, he’s the one that is firmly on my side without fail.
“Where’s dad?”
My mother pushes my leg mostly out of the way and sits next to me. There’s a chair by the fireplace but no, my lap it is. “He’s with the plumber at our house. The bathtub isn’t draining right so he wanted to have it checked. That’s the reason I came over here.”
