Never the Bride

  My hands squeeze my steering wheel as I watch him check his hair in the rearview mirror. A car lightly taps its horn behind me, but I can’t move. I just watch him.

  He lifts his sleeve, glances at his watch, hops out of his car—and for the first time notices me still there. The car behind me swerves around and goes on.

  “Thanks so much!” he calls. “I’m running late!” He jogs across the street.

  I let my foot off the brake, and my Beemer crawls forward like it’s suddenly aware it weighs a ton. I don’t know why but I can’t even get angry about it. It was a genuine misunderstanding, apparently. I think I’d rather that this guy flip me the bird, screech his tires, and beat me to it.

  My sister constantly reminds me that I’m a baffling embarrassment to our sex, as if one Jessie Stone could completely undo all of women’s lib by wishing for a little chivalry. Of course, I know it and so does everyone else—I want more than chivalry. According to Cosmo, I should be strong and independent; the man is sort of like an afterthought. I’m just not wired that way. I wish I were. Believe me, if I could be anywhere else than a speed-dating session on Valentine’s Day, I would be. But I’m no spring chicken, and all my life’s dreams are seeping down the drain of time. I honestly thought I’d marry at the age of twenty-three, so it’s been more than a decade of gulping down a lot of disappointment.

  The sun has set, the streetlights are starting to pop on, and I find myself on a side street that doesn’t even have a name or a working streetlight. The parking meters look ancient. It’s not quite an alley, but with all the shadows of the nearby buildings, it might as well be.

  Tears sting my eyes as I reach for my purse and my jewel-studded Mace can. Sniffling, I check my rearview mirror to see if anyone is around. Nobody. The street is completely empty, except for a cat next to a Dumpster, eying me like she might fight me for it.

  I swipe at the tears. “No, Jessie. Don’t.” I get out of the car, trembling. Not that I haven’t made long walks in the dark before. But with the ocean breeze and the sun down, it’s cold. And yeah, I’m scared-even though I know how to grab a pinkie and force a guy to the ground, thanks to two years of self-defense classes where I swore I’d meet someone but didn’t.

  Blowing away my discouragement, I lock my doors and walk swiftly toward the main street. Suddenly, the streetlight right above me flickers on. Light spills across the pavement as if the sky found its flashlight. I laugh. I can’t help it.

  I glance behind me one more time and see someone, far away, leaning against something, I can’t tell what. It’s a guy, but it doesn’t worry me. He’s too far away.

  I finally reach the main street and turn north. I check my watch right as I push open the door to Anita’s. Inside a small table sits off to the right. Laurel notices me and checks me off her list.

  “There you are.”

  “Sorry. Running a little late.”

  “No problem.” She hands me my name tag with my registration number under it. “You’re table ten.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Red.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The lips.”

  I cover my mouth like a cold sore has popped up. “My friend’s idea,” I mumble.

  “It’s a bold look.”

  I hurry to my spot, eying my competition. Two natural blondes. Four bottles. Two brunettes. A redhead. And a bald woman. I breathe in and settle into my chair, trying to look calm despite the fact that my lips feel like they’re sizzling. I really think I should just go ahead and blot, but it’s too late. The bell rings and the men, standing on the other side of the room, swarm toward the tables.

  I brush my hair back and sit tall, clasping my hands on top of the table, then decide to go under for a more casual look. I smile pleasantly Maybe eagerly. Like I said, I have a good feeling about tonight.

  I center myself, remembering Nicole’s advice—to focus on what they’re asking me. That’s a good plan. Sometimes these things can have a job-interview feel to them, though as I glance around, I do admire Laurel’s sense of ambiance. Candles. Cloth table covers. Roses here and there.

  I notice a man approach. He seems distracted by something a few tables away. He’s walking toward me but not really looking at me. I shift and widen my smile. He glances at me, notices the smile, I guess, and smiles back.

  “Hi.” He shakes my hand. “Bob.”

  “Jessie.”

  Bob. Last year I moved into this new age bracket. It’s thirty-four to forty-two. It was a little hard to get used to. I went from Skylers and Danes to Bobs and Larrys. Immediately I note Bob dyes his grayish brown hair, and that’s okay. I have no problem with men dyeing their hair. Bob’s has a Just-for-Men feel to it, but it’s nothing I can’t live with. He’s about six feet tall, nice cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and balding. I actually like the bald look, especially when they keep the rest of their hair short, which he does.

  He glances down the row of tables again. I clear my throat. “Have I seat,” I offer, since he’s the last one standing.

  He slides in and shakes his head. “I am so sorry. I’m being completely rude.”

  Self-awareness. I’m liking him already.

  “It’s just that four tables down…that’s my ex-girlfriend.”

  “Oh.”

  “Heather.”

  “The blonde?”

  “Yes.”

  We both look. She tosses her head backward and roars with laughter, deep from the throat. Across from her, the man’s eyes light up as he watches. Bob’s dim.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. It’s obvious he still has feelings for her.

  He shrugs and sips his drink. “But I’m here with you. Jessie.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, Jessie, what do you like to do for fun?”

  Fun. Okay, first thing on this guy’s mind. Not sure he’s a catch, but we’ll work with it.

  “I like to read.”

  “Books?”

  “Anything. Newspapers. Magazines.”

  “That’s fun?”

  “I love amusement parks.” Love is over the top, but I had to go somewhere. I was losing this guy with books.

  “Yeah? Me too! I once took a chick on this ride, and she threw up all over me. Oh man, you should’ve seen the look on her face!” He laughs hysterically and then glances over at Heather again. “It’s just that it’s going to be awkward, you know? I mean, she’s very self-absorbed and probably thinks I’m here because I heard she was coming. I broke up with her, so it’s probably going to be more awkward for her, and that’s better. But the truth is that I’m kind of regretting it now and I’m wondering if maybe I should give it a second try.”

  Heather doesn’t look like she needs anybody to give her a second try. She’s radiant and, by the goofy look on the other guy’s face, apparently witty. This is a downer. Bob doesn’t see me even as a rebound type.

  But I save face and lean across the table. “Why not? Maybe this was meant to be. You and her here on the same night. Coincidence?” I say this because I’ve been looking for my meant-to-be moment for years. I’ve personally witnessed several other people’s, including now possibly one for Bald Bob.

  His eyes absorb my comment. “You think so?”

  “She’s very nice looking.”

  “I know. She really is. And funny.” He suddenly snatches my hand off the table. In the next second he drops it with a thud. “Sorry. I thought she looked over here.”

  “She was just scratching her ear.”

  “She does that when she’s nervous.”

  “Ah.”

  Ding.

  And that, possibly, was the longest eight minutes of my life. The guy now sliding in across from me is short, skinny, and bearing humongous white teeth. They’re so big that you could make a case against whitener for this guy. A Caesar cut makes his ears look small, but a cute button nose and nice hazel eyes round him out well.

  “Hey!” He slaps his hands together. “Roger!”

  ?
??Jessie.”

  “Jessie! Wow! You are beautiful! That hair! Look at that hair!” It feels like this guy has his Caps Lock on.

  My fingers comb through the ends as I smile. But the smile drops when he reaches across the table to actually touch it. I’m about to suggest he stay on his side of the table when he produces a pop-up flower that he claims was growing out of my ear. He hands it to me and takes a little bow.

  “Thank you,” I say, twirling the plastic between my fingers. “You’re a magician?”

  “Baby, I can make magic happen anywhere, anytime. And I don’t even need a dime.” It comes rolling out of his sleeve and onto the table, shining in the candlelight. He picks it up and hands it to me as if it were a diamond.

  I try to smile. “I bet you do this for all the girls.”

  His grin fades. I don’t think he gets my joke, that I’m fully aware that’s his plan. He’s about to reach into his breast pocket. Fearing a string of rainbow handkerchiefs I say, “So, Roger, what are you looking for in a woman?”

  “Magic!”

  “What kind of magic? The kind that doesn’t come with a top hat and a bunny rabbit?”

  Oddly, Roger looks defeated again. “Actually, I was hoping to find a woman who would like to be my beautiful assistant.”

  I crack up. Roger is not joking, though. “Really.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were—well, never mind.”

  He points at me, shaking his finger. “You, actually, would be perfect. You’re tall, beautiful, and obviously not afraid of wearing stage makeup.”

  I press my lips together. “I do like magic. I saw David Copperfield once.”

  “That guy’s an amateur.”

  Sure. Everyone can make the Statue of Liberty disappear.

  “What about Criss Angel?” I ask.

  “Very theatrical and dark. That’s so overdone. Why not go happy and bright?”

  “Why not?”

  And for the next three minutes he explains if we ever got married, I still wouldn’t be privy to how he does all of his tricks.

  The eight minutes are over, and my neck is hurting. I’m off to a rough start. Number three slides in. He’s dressed in a suit and tie. He smiles politely, genuinely.

  “Pat.”

  “Jessie.”

  “I like that name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay, so I have a question for you. If you could do one thing in life right now, what would it be?”

  I lean back, sort of blown away by the depth of the question after having a flower pulled out of my ear. I study Pat’s eyes. It seems like he’s getting me, getting that I’m really above all this. He seems to be too. Two lost souls, only eight minutes to find each other.

  “Find my true love.” His eyes tell me he can handle this statement.

  He doesn’t even blink. “Do you think he’s here? Tonight?”

  This guy is intense. I sort of like it. He’s making me nervous but in a good way. One hundred percent of his attention is focused on me. I pause, taking him in. Dark brown hair, wavy and sticking out a little behind the ears. I think his eyes are green, but it’s hard to tell because they are reflecting a lot of light, especially considering the dim room. I am remembering Nicole’s advice again—and liking this better. The guy’s asking me questions. This is a guy who knows what he wants.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears, fully aware of the silence. But I like silence sometimes. And I like that he doesn’t feel as if he needs to fill it in.

  “Eight minutes,” I carefully answer, “is enough time to make me think I could be on the right track.”

  He likes my answer. I can tell. He’s grinning and there are dimples! Real dimples! On both cheeks! And then…then…he leans forward. I studied this in a body-language book. This, ladies and gentlemen, means he’s interested!

  “I love brown hair,” he says. “My mom had brown hair. A lot like yours. You plan on keeping it that way?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of another color.”

  “You have beautiful lips.”

  “Oh…wow…thank you.” With all these compliments the lips might burst into flames.

  “I’m sorry. Am I being too forward?”

  “Eight minutes sort of requires it, doesn’t it?”

  “Well said. So,” he said, balling up his hand and perching his chin there, “what do you do for a living?”

  “Worry that I’m not living enough of life.”

  “I like you, Jessie. I can tell you’re very smart. And funny. And deep.”

  One, he remembered my name without looking at my nametag. Two, he’s totally getting me. Three, dimples. Four, he’s leaning forward.

  And now, even more. “You’re really beautiful. I sense it comes from the inside. I feel like you know what you want. In fact, I feel like I already know you…like we’ve known each other for years. You’ve got a special quality about you that—”

  Ding.

  I grin but not fast enough. Pat is out of his chair. Midsentence. And gone to the next table. I blink rapidly. What just happened? I’m so special he can’t finish his sentence?

  I try to recover because I was drawn in. Pat had a way with words. Rolling up next is Newton. I’m about to introduce myself, but I don’t get a chance.

  “Okay, first things first. Do you like chicken?”

  I pause. Is there going to be a punch line? Doesn’t look like it. “Yes.”

  It’s like a little red check mark has gone off in his head. “Great. What about allergies? To cats?”

  “No. Just chocolate.”

  “Awesome. Willing to go organic?”

  “Sure.”

  “Opposed to midwives?”

  “Um…”

  “If you get pregnant.”

  “I like the idea of a doctor around.”

  “Oh.” Seems to throw him. I wait. “All right. Okay. Um, what about sushi?”

  “Love it.”

  Wrong answer.

  “But can live without it,” I add.

  “You’re flexible?”

  “Sure. I like a variety of foods.”

  “No, I mean, are you flexible physically? As in yoga.”

  Oh boy. Nicole was right. The questions can shed a lot of light. I’m bored already. Four minutes to go. I decide to have some fun.

  “I can’t even touch my toes.”

  Newton looks horrified, like I’d mentioned toe fungus or something. I keep a serious look on my face.

  “Okay…um, would you be opposed to painting an entire room pink?”

  “I’m color blind.”

  “Wow. Sorry to hear that. I’m really into the study of color and mood.”

  “Maybe that’s why I have a mood disorder.” I can hardly say this without laughing. Newton’s face twitches as he tries to hold his expression.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, almost convincingly.

  “Are you pitying me?”

  Now his eyes are wide, like he’s afraid he might’ve just crossed a mood-disorder line. I’m having way too much fun here.

  “No…no, not at all. I think it’s, um, courageous that you can even mention it—talk about it, I mean, to a total stranger.”

  “Total stranger? You mean you don’t remember me?”

  Newton is saved by the bell. He practically dives out of his chair. I am cracking myself up. That is, until I see the next guy. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

  Mr. Miata.

  “Hi. Greg.” He holds out his hand and smiles. It’s obvious he doesn’t recognize me from the parking incident.

  “Jessie.” Firm handshake. Nice ears. I’m trying to find something that will keep me from—“I’m the one you stole the parking space from.” Too late. Must be the lipstick.

  He carefully takes his seat. “Sorry? What?”

  “This evening. I was going to take that spot you whipped into.”

  He frowns. “You waved me in.”

  “Actually you pointed to the spot, and I thought you we
re being a gentleman and offering it to me. I was waving to say thank you.”

  Now, this can go either way. He can get defensive and make an excuse, or—

  “I’m sorry.” He smiles gently. “I really am. Why wouldn’t I let a woman have that spot, right?”

  I let a little of the tension go. “It’s all right. I’m not really that mad. I mean, I was peeved at the time, but it’s really just because I hate walking long distances by myself.”

  He truly looks mortified. “I wasn’t thinking. I just knew I was running late, and I thought I’d had a stroke of good luck.” He pauses. “And here I am with you…another stroke of good luck.”

  I giggle all breathy-like. I’m shameless as I decide his ears aren’t his only good quality.

  “So, I suppose you’re looking for the kind of man that would think to give a woman the parking spot.”

  I nod a little. “I guess I am.”

  “What about a guy that usually thinks that way but had a weak moment?”

  I smile. “I’m a big believer in forgiveness.”

  “Maybe it’s the car,” he says. “I just got that little Miata, and to tell you the truth, I feel a little silly in it.”

  I’m starting to think that this guy can steal my parking space anytime.

  “It was one of those moments, you know, when you do something foolish because you think life is passing you by and you just want something great to happen. So you think a car is going to solve your problems. Do you know what I mean?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “So besides a parking space, what are you looking for in a guy, Jessie?”

  It is striking me completely ironic that the guy that made me cry on a dark street seems to be connecting with my soul. I choose my words carefully.

  “I’m looking for the kind of guy that can apologize for taking a parking space.”

  He leans back into his chair, not like he’s leaning away from the conversation, but like he’s getting comfortable.

  Like he wants to stay awhile. A long while.

  four

  After Greg’s eight minutes are up, I slip into some bad habits with the other fellows. I ask a few questions about their feelings on psychological compatibility testing and ask two men—and only two—to rate on a scale from one to twelve their fear of commitment. And yes, I’m perfectly aware I’m two shades of pink away from being Newton when I ask these guys how they might propose.