Never the Bride

  But hey, I let them ask a few questions too.

  The evening ends with Ed, who sells used cars and keeps using my name like we’re on the lot and I’m eying the sportier one I can’t afford, but he’s nice enough.

  I watch Bob and Heather walk out, hand in hand. I slip into the bathroom to finally get this lipstick off my mouth and take a breather. But really what I’m doing is lingering.

  As I leave the bathroom, the crowd has cleared out and Laurel is busy picking up her table and organizing the cards.

  “Hey.” She smiles. “How’d it go?”

  I hand her my card. She eyes it, then me. “Last time you only checked two.”

  I shrug. “I’m giving these men the benefit of all my doubts. And there are many. Doubts.” I bite my lip. “Look, Laurel, I know you’re not supposed to, but can you check now? Please? I’m just very optimistic tonight, you know? I have a feeling.”

  “Let’s see what we got.”

  She grabs the cards from my age group and flips through the men’s. Then she flips through them again.

  “What? Five?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Three?”

  “No. Not three. I’m afraid no one picked you.”

  “Oh.” I’m bleeding the color of my lipstick but I smile. “Oh, okay.” I start to walk away, then turn back. “Can you check Greg’s card again?”

  She flips through and shakes her head. “No, sorry, hon. He’s got five, but you’re not one of them.”

  Tears sting my eyes. I’m hoping it’s giving me the glassy look of aloofness. I bet not, though, judging by the way Laurel is tilting her head to the side. “If I didn’t know better,” she says with a sad smile, “I’d say it’s gonna take a miracle of God to help you, honey. I mean, you’re beautiful. And likable. I don’t get it.”

  “Yeah? Well, when has God ever shown up to help me?” I turn on my chunky heel, push the door open, and storm out. I’m stomping and I don’t care. I stomp harder.

  “Hello, there.”

  Gasping, I turn. A man is standing near the wall outside of the bar, leaning, his arms crossed. He’s staring, piercing me with—what is that, scrutiny? No, not scrutiny. Something else. I don’t know. I don’t care. I keep walking.

  “Jessie.”

  I whip around, my hands on my hips. “How did you—” I glance down. I’ve still got my nametag on. I rip it off and throw it to the ground. But because I’m very much against littering, I stoop and pick it back up. The man is still watching me. I take a deep breath. I mean, this guy is cute. Looks a little familiar. Was he just inside? I don’t know. But the air is out of my proverbial tire, as it goes, and I’m not feeling very chatty. Or charming. Or pretty.

  I offer a small smile, then turn and walk toward my dark street, daring somebody to mess with me.

  He takes the dare and scurries after me. “I want to talk to you.” I keep walking. Who is this guy? Someone who hangs outside the bar, waiting for the pour souls who don’t get picked? Championing for the strays? Good grief. “Trust me. Just for a minute.” I can still hear his footsteps behind me. I turn and march right up to his…his…handsome self.

  “Look,” I say, trying so darn hard to seem polite, “I’m not in a good place right now. The last thing I want to do is…” I might as well be frank. “Is trust one of you.”

  “One of me?”

  “Man. Males. Men.” I step away from him. He does not look like a serial killer. In fact, he looks completely harmless, and had he been at my table tonight, I probably would’ve found him quite adorable. But not now. Now he represents everything I despise. I don’t say another word. Instead, I pull out my jewel-studded Mace and wave it in the air. It’s the universal “you may be crazy but I’m crazier” sign.

  He doesn’t seem intimidated, even though I lurch forward a little. Instead, he simply stands there looking amused. Great. Glad I could entertain someone tonight. I walk backward a few steps and then turn down the street where I parked. I glance behind me, relieved he is not following.

  As I head home, I dial Blake. Predictably it goes to voice mail, because he actually has a life and probably has a Valentine’s date with Ms. Steele. “Blake, I hate you guy types. I never want to talk to you again! Just wanted to you to know.” I feel better already. “Hey, when you get home from whatever you’re doing, call me or hop online. By the way, I’m officially being stalked.”

  I cry as I drive. I don’t heave-cry where it’s best to pull over, but tears are trickling down my face. I regret asking Laurel to sneak a peak. I would’ve rather just found out by e-mail like everyone else. Now I see why that rule is in place. And this is what happens when I break the rules. Other people break rules and live to brag about it. I break rules and live to be humiliated. I park on the curb outside the condo and dry my tears. The drive was good. It let me get some things out. I step out of the car to breathe in the coolness of the night. It feels safe out here. I suck in more air and try to remember there is a good reason that I am alive.

  Then I spot him. I can’t believe what I am seeing, and it nearly backs me into my car. My stalker is sitting on the small wall of the porch at the top of the stairs of my condo. Something deflates inside me. I have no energy for stalker or Prince Charming. Perhaps it’s the irony that I can’t get a date but strange men are following me home. Normally I would cower back into my car, but I decide not to. I decide, truly against my better judgment, to take this freak on.

  He stands as I approach the steps of my condo. “Do you really believe I’ve never done anything to help you, Jessie?”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  He continues speaking in a pleasant voice that doesn’t fit my stereotype of freaky stalkers. “You can’t accuse me of something like that and expect me to not show up and defend myself. Come on.”

  I stare straight into his eyes. “I’m not a big fan of men I don’t know following me home. Would you get out of my way?”

  To my surprise, he actually does. Then he takes a gallant bow and gestures toward the door. “As you wish.” Terrific. Chivalry from a stalker. See? This is how my life goes.

  I hold out my key, eying him. One startling move and I’m going to scream bloody murder. “How did you know where I live?”

  “I’ve always known where you live. In San Diego, it was Carter Street until you were eight. Moved here when your dad was transferred. You inherited this place on behalf of yourself and your little sister.”

  My hand plunges into my purse and emerges with the cell phone. “Okay, freak. Time for the police.” I accidentally dial 411 and have to start over, but he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere fast, which is part of the problem. “What? Did you look me up on the Internet? That’s really original.”

  With my other hand, I finally jiggle the lock enough and the door opens. I step inside, the phone still to my ear, and lock the screen door.

  Stalker Dude sits back down on the wall. “They’ll send Officer Garrety” he says. “He’s got a great sense of humor. I love that about him.”

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “There is a stalker outside my door.”

  “A stalker, ma’am?”

  “Yes. He followed me home from a bar. I mean, yes, okay, it was a bar. I wasn’t there drinking or picking up men, though. Okay, I was picking up men—trying to—but it wasn’t…um, well, it was speed dating.”

  “Speed dating?”

  “Eight minutes, bell dings, change tables. That whole scene. Anyway, he’s followed me home.”

  “Is this a guy you met there?”

  “No. He was outside, like he was waiting for me.”

  “Sounds like a successful night.”

  “No, no. No. I left him at the bar. And now he’s at my house. He, like, followed me home or something. And he knows where I lived when I was eight. Can you please just send someone?”

  “Are you safe right now?”

  “Yes. I’m in my house, watching him. He??
?s not going anywhere, even when I threatened to call the cops.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Just stay put. I’ll get someone over there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It won’t be long. Garrety is just around the corner,” Stalker says.

  “What are you, psychic?”

  “Omniscient, actually.”

  Just then I see the patrol car. The lights aren’t even on until he pulls to the curb, and then they flash. Two heavyset men emerge, lumbering toward my condo. The stalker, to my surprise, has somehow moved down the steps and is sitting on the hood of my car. When did that happen? During a blink? I open the screen door and step outside as the two officers pass right by him.

  “Ma’am? I’m Officer Garrety. This is Officer Lakeland. How can we assist you?”

  I point to my car. “He followed me home from speed dating. Please don’t judge me. It’s humiliating enough. But now he won’t leave.”

  “Ma’am, who won’t leave?” Officer Garrety asks.

  I point again. “Him! And he should not be sitting on the hood of my car. He’ll scratch the paint.”

  “How much ya been on the juice tonight?”

  “Huh? None. Why?”

  The chubbier of the two officers, Lakeland, pitches his thumb over his right shoulder. “There’s no one sitting on that car of yours.”

  “What are you talking about?” I gesture toward the stalker, who hops off my hood. “He’s right there!” He is now sauntering, literally sauntering toward me. “There! Look! He’s coming…up…the…” Steps. Slowly. One step at a time. Then he hops up and sits on the small wall again, swinging his legs like he’s nine. “See?” I point to him. The officers don’t even look.

  Garrety says, “I didn’t know women your age still had imaginary friends.”

  “I haven’t had one of those since I was six.”

  “Try nine,” Stalker whispers. How does he know that?

  Lakeland laughs. “Look, lady, whatever it is you’re drinking tonight, you might want to try something a little less strong next time, okay?”

  “I’m not drinking! What is this, some sort of horrible joke?”

  Officer Garrety stops chuckling. “Okay look, miss, normally for false alarms we can bring you in. But I have a sense of humor, and I’m willing to bet you’re not having a good Valentine’s Day, now are ya?”

  I grind my teeth. “Oh no. It’s terrific. It’s getting better by the second.”

  Stalker steps right next to Lakeland and leans in toward me. “They can’t see me. Only you can. Bet you wish I’d told you that earlier, huh?”

  It’s an odd thought, I know, but I seriously wonder if I’m being Punk’d, and am about to mention it to the officers/actors when Stalker turns and walks through my screen door. And by through, I mean like Casper. I feel lightheaded. I actually think my eyes roll back in my head. I’m not sure, but everything seems fuzzy.

  “It’s vodka,” Lakeland whispers to Garrety. “Women don’t do vodka well.”

  “Well,” Garrety says in a loud voice, as if I’ve suddenly turned deaf, “we’ll just call this a dry run and forget it ever happened.”

  “Think she’s going to be okay?” I hear Lakeland ask as they walk down my steps.

  “Look, she probably just got her heart broken or something, you know?”

  I turn and stare through my screen door. There he is, sitting on my couch like it’s his own home. I watch the officers get in their car and drive off.

  Again, against my better judgment, I walk in. I am normally panic prone. Spiders. Mice. Snakes. Strangely, though, ghosts don’t seem to trigger anything. I don’t want to touch him, for fear that my arm will go straight through his, so I give a few exaggerated gestures. “Come on. Come now. Let’s go. There’s no need to make a scene. Let’s go.”

  He settles back in the couch.

  I feel remarkably calm, if not the slightest bit delusional. “Okay this isn’t happening. You are not happening. My parents sent me to a psycho head…head…shrinker when I was nine to get rid of someone like you. You aren’t coming back!”

  He grins. “I said no one else can see me. I didn’t say I was imaginary.”

  I back away, clutching my stomach and feeling my forehead for a fever. I turn away from him, breathing hard and feeling like I probably should’ve had a drink. “Okay. Okay. I’m losing it. Okay. Officially losing it. Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Okay.”

  “You know,” he says.

  I cringe. I was hoping he might have disappeared.

  “Dr. Montrose wasn’t totally psycho. He just didn’t get you.”

  Whether he’s real or not, this guy’s right. Montrose wasn’t psycho. I was. Am. In the middle of being. I turn, jamming my finger into the air. “No. No. No. You don’t get to just spout things, about me that I already know to…to trick me. I know these things, and therefore I could be making all this up. Yes, me. Making it up in my head. Maybe Montrose was right…”

  I hadn’t thought about that quack doctor in years. I hated that man. He was very tall and thin, with darker skin, thinning hair, and a tiny mustache that twitched like mouse whiskers. He wore perfectly round glasses that always made him look surprised and therefore made me feel like I was in some odd way always surprising.

  I remember in one session, he said I should try bossing my imaginary friend around. My mother always told me not to be bossy so this was very confusing to me, but I realize this might come in handy right now. So I look him in the eye, point my finger to his face and say—nothing, because he interrupts me.

  “Your phone is about to ring. It’s Blake. Your blonde-obsessed friend, as you so affectionately coin him. Don’t answer it.”

  It rings. I look at the caller ID: BLAKE LIGHTNER. For a second, I almost snatch up the phone and scream for help, but I have no idea how I’m going to explain this, and Blake’s probably calling about some fabulous date he had. So I withdraw my hand.

  “Okay that I wouldn’t have known.” So my theory that I’m going insane is unwinding. I look at him. “Who are you?”

  “The one you accused of never doing anything to help you. Some people call me God. Occasionally in vain.”

  It’s very odd, because I’m literally about to take God’s name in vain. I’m not usually the cussing type. It’s just that certain situations—this would be a good example—cause questionable language to invade my vocabulary.

  “God. Right. God has shown up in my living room. That’s funny.” I let out a halfhearted laugh, because secretly I feel like I’m going to burst into tears. Of course, laughing makes me look just as hormonal and insane, and I fear that I may land in a psych hospital either way.

  “Is that so hard to believe?” he asks.

  I study his quizzical expression, beautiful eyes, square chin, and sculptured cheekbones. This is a guy that I’d notice, you know? If he’d been at speed dating, I’d have marked him down. So my insides wiggle at the weirdness of it all. Not that I ever imagined God coming down to meet me, but if he did, I’d, well, I just think he’d lean more toward the Morgan Freeman look with a voice like James Earl Jones, or he’d have long wavy hair like Colin Farrell tried. I don’t know. This guy, he just doesn’t fit the mold.

  I cross my arms. “God has never been in the business of coming to my rescue. Or doing anything for me, for that matter.”

  “You gotta lay off those inflammatory generalizations.”

  I hold up a finger to retort, but my lips and finger freeze as I watch him hop off the arm of the couch and head out of the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  He doesn’t answer as he goes upstairs.

  I follow the stalker, a.k.a. God, taking two stairs at a time because he’s vanished like he might’ve just floated all the way to the top. I’m out of breath as I fly into my bedroom. I stand in the doorway, my fists planted on my hips, breathing hard and trying to rationalize why I would follow a stranger into my own bedroom. This is how people turn up on 48 Hours.

&
nbsp; I decide I will stop referring to him as Stalker because that just makes me look like an idiot. Referring to him as God makes me look crazy, but I’ll take crazy over idiot.

  He is sitting on the left side of my bed, Indian style. I’m about to protest, because I never, ever, ever sit on my bed with my shoes on. It completely grosses me out when I see someone else do it to my bed or anyone else’s. I start to demand he take off his shoes when I notice his boots on the floor. He’s actually in his socks.

  And surrounded by my journals. My journals! I gasp, because I notice he is also holding my feathered purple pen. Nobody holds my feathered purple pen! It’s my own personal holy grail. My heart is pounding even as I stare at it.

  I hold up my hands. “Back away from the pen. Please. Just put the pen down.”

  He does. Into the pocket on his shirt. And picks up one of my journals.

  “Hey! Ever heard of the word private?”

  “I already know your thoughts.”

  “That’s right. You’re psychic.”

  “Omniscient.”

  “And can I just add intrusive? I mean that in the nicest way.”

  He waves the journal in his hand. “Did you know that out of your one hundred nine journals, you have penned twelve hundred fifty-six ways a man could propose to you?”

  Yes, I’m huffy, but I don’t care. I mean, the gall of this guy. I would say he just pulled that proposal number out of the air, except I have a bad habit of counting things. Numbers like me and I like numbers. He is correct.

  “Well,” I say, gesturing toward the journals, “we see the way my pen translates into real life.”

  “Jessie, if you could ask me for one gift, what would it be?”

  “If you are God, which I am not saying I believe you are, don’t you already know?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you tell me.”

  He plucks the purple pen out of his pocket, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands up. Normally this would cause me to instinctively reach for my Mace—or possibly toss my hair. Instead, I stand there, a little rigid, as he comes right up to me.