“Dude,” he laughs, “you’re my best friend. You wanted to get married by
thirty, and that one’s past, so let’s just do it, okay? And can you answer me soon? My knee is fucking killing me here.” The crowd is getting larger and everyone seems to have an opinion of sorts: Marry him. Ask him where the ring is. I’ll marry you. He’s hot, if she doesn’t marry him, I will. The comments seem endless, though not a one is against the idea.
“Yeah, okay,” I say wi
th a roll of my eyes, “But you do realize that after the wedding we’d be married, right?” The crowd laughs in unison and it’s Brad’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Annulment, pretty girl,” he is winning me over with his logic. And the being on bended knee thing. In my
drunken fog, this looks like a viable option.
“People get them all the time. So, come on. Will you marry me, pretty girl?” I shift my weight from foot to foot and back again, making him stew. There is something about
Brad that always makes me lose my sense of reason. One time he even talked me into an impromptu trip to the tattoo shop. I chickened out and got a very small flower on my hip bone instead of the beautiful, but large, hibiscus flowers I had wanted to begin with. He didn’t let me live that one down for weeks.
I find my resolve slipping away at
rapid speeds. This
is
Las Vegas. I mean, it’s sort of the thing to do here, right? And I’ll be single again before my vacation is even over, so, why not? Not that being single is so appealing or anything. And a teeny, tiny part of me may think he looks sort of, kind of cute down there, like that.
“Yeah,” I shake my head, “but if we’re going to do this we better get going. My birthday’s almost over.”
Brad hops to his feet, grinning, and gives me a fist bump. Our onlookers begin to disperse. I wonder if this is, perhaps, the strangest display they’ve ever seen from a newly engaged couple.
We hail a cab and
Brad tells them what we’re looking for. The driver knows exactly what we need to do and he drives us to the nearest ATM, where Brad gets out enough cash for the marriage license; then the cabbie takes us to the courthouse. We get out and Brad pays the guy an advance on his tip to stay put.
It’s a Monday night, so the c
ourthouse is practically empty. Once we start filling out paperwork and handing over the cash, the reality of what I’m doing sinks in; but Brad keeps making jokes about being married and having a story to tell his buddies at the station. He’s really excited about this. Brad is all about having stories to tell his buddies back at the station. I try to convince myself that I’m going through with this in an effort to make my best childhood friend happy. It’s a pitiful attempt. Deep down I know I’m not trying to make him happy. I’m trying to make myself happy, if even for one night.
Back in the cab,
Brad ruffles my hair and shakes me into giggles. He’s so carefree and silly. I can’t help but join in the spirit. I had a few stray day dreams as a teenager of what it would be like to be with Brad, and I may have scribbled Mrs. Bradley Patrick and Mrs. Colleen Patrick in a notebook a time or two—or a hundred.
Little does
Brad know that by doing this, I’m accomplishing two of my goals without any of the hassle of a real wedding or actual marriage. I resolve to find my old diary in my parents’ attic and jot this down. I’m totally going to make the sixteen-year-old girl inside jealous. Speaking of jealousy, I’ll have to make sure Lisa Wilks hears about this. That woman has hated me since we were in Kindergarten and Brad wouldn’t let her kiss him no matter how many times she tried. He always let me kiss him though.
The cabbie makes a few calls from his cell phone and finds us a chapel that can work us in so that we’ll be married before midnight. This guy is good and we decide that he’s getting a hefty tip. Excitedly, we call and text our friends where to meet us. The moment I say “chapel”, I hear Darla yelling at James. I can’t make out all of what she’s saying, but I get the distinct impression that she thinks we’re crazy—or drunk. She may think we’re too drunk to make such a choice. We could be.
The next half an hour is a blur. We rush thro
ugh the explanations everyone is demanding and we try to laugh off their concerns. James is the most relaxed. He hugs us both and says “it’s about damn time.”
Darla
is not pleased with his carefree attitude and she’s playing with her phone. Her inattention to us is worrying me. I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing over there; but being the bride is an exhausting process, even in a spur-of-the-moment Vegas ceremony. The Bridal Assistant talks me into the elbow-length white gloves and the veil. Brad opts for a blue-silver suit jacket. We laugh about our attire and joke that we’re business on the top with our wedding gear, and party on the bottom with our jeans.
I pick out a cheap
gold wedding band for Brad. It costs me a total of six dollars. Brad produces a Ring Pop for me and jokes that my ring will last longer than our marriage.
Darla
finally lightens up. She’s all smiles and taking a few sneak shots with her cell phone camera. I’m just drunk enough to not think anything of this. It seems harmless enough. Darla Frasier: 1; Colleen Frasier-soon-to-be-Patrick: 0.
She’s playing on Facebook, but I figure I can convince her to remove it all later. It’s late here and even later back home. Nobody is going to s
ee it anyway, I reason, except maybe for Lisa Wilks. Yes, yes, Lisa Wilks needs to see this.
The minister directs us to our places.
James walks me down the aisle, and half way through, he breaks out into the funky chicken, but stops quickly when his back starts to ache. For a fake wedding, James is really just too excited. Yeah, he’s drunk, but still. Nobody can keep a straight face. The corners of Brad’s eyes crinkle up in the corners and he can’t keep his eyes off of me. This is how I’ve always wished he’d look at me. It’s one of the best moments of my life.
Brad
and I choose to make up our own vows. We agree that it would be wrong, a slap in the face of the sanctity of marriage, to recite the traditional vows. Darla points out that getting married for fun is also a slap in the face of the sanctity of marriage. It’s a slippery slope. I remind myself to go to confession sometime this year. I’m informed that I’m up first. I’m not quite sure what to say, so I go with utterly ridiculous. That seems to be the theme of this entire wedding.
“I,
Colleen Frasier, sort of, kind of, take you, Bradley Patrick as my hubby. You’re like, my best friend, and my partner in crime. I promise to like, bring you beer and keep Tums and Beano on hand, and I promise to always be your best friend.” My eyes shift around nervously. I just rambled, perhaps, the absolute worst wedding vow in the history of marriage. Brad laughs and our audience is collectively dismayed that that was the best I could do, even for a fake bride. A way with words, I have not—and this is why I’m not a trial attorney.
“I,
Bradley Patrick, sort of, kind of, take you, Colleen Frasier to have and to grope from this day forward until whenever you break my hand. I promise to make you laugh and to shower at least weekly; and above all, I promise to always be your best friend.” The minister asks for objections and James scoffs, muttering something about regretting not having dragged us to Vegas sooner.
“I now pronounce you, by the power invested in me by the state of Nevada,
husband and wife,” the minister says. He looks like Elvis in a certain light, but not enough to be an impersonator, I don’t think. I reach out to hug Brad as a ‘thank you’. He leans in and grabs me by the waist with his left arm, pulling me full against his muscled frame. With his right hand, he holds my face and kisses me. His lips are rough and dry against mine—so very unlike the lips on the last man I kissed. Dale’s lips were soft as silk—feminine even—and they did nothing for me. But Brad’s lips are all male and strong as they move against my own. A small fire erupts in the pit of my belly and I open my mouth to him. We haven’t kissed like this since high school—before Heather, before Harvard, before I moved across the river into a fancy condo that overlooks Southie and everything I left behind.
(
Colleen)
He played his part perfectly, the devoted husband.
WE LEAVE THE
chapel, laughing and causing a ruckus all the way. This feels right and I couldn’t be happier in this moment. We make the short trek to the strip and bask in the glowing lights of the rotating signs from the casinos and strip clubs that abound in this town. Brad is screaming that he just got married. He throws an arm in the air for emphasis, all the while the other is around my waist, never letting me go.
For a guy who
acts like this was a favor to me, he sure seems awfully delighted to be a married man. I sincerely hope he doesn’t expect us to consummate the marriage. That would just be weird. After the first—and last—time we tried having sex, I really can’t see revisiting that kind of relationship. All I remember from that event—where we had tried to lose our virginity together on the night of our senior prom—was the pain and the God-awful noises he kept making.
James
pulls me aside and we lag behind the others. Brad shoots James a look of annoyance. Darla doesn’t even look back. I think she set James up to this. “You’re a married woman now, little sister,” James beams and wraps his enormous arm over my shoulder. “It’s about time—you and Brad.”
I laugh loudly, making my ears ring. The sound catches me off guard and I stumble slightly. I ha
te these shoes. I need a drink.
“I’m going to have to get used to calling you
Colleen Patrick,” James laughs, practically putting me in a headlock in the process.
“Well, you won’t
have time to get used to it James, we’re getting this thing annulled tomorrow.” James stops dead in his tracks before I even finish my sentence. He is not pleased. It just now occurs to me that it’s possible not everyone realizes that this was just for fun.
We’re staring at each other. No words need to be e
xchanged. I’ve disappointed him; that is plain to see. “I’m sorry, James,” I look up at him, feeling like the worst sister on the planet. “I thought you knew.”
“No!”
James shouts. “You mean to tell me that you two idiots thought getting married would be
fun
!” Brad hangs back, just slightly behind Adam. He has no interest in James’s rage. Frankly, neither do I. My husband is a damn chicken. I knew this already, so I shrug it off.
“Marriage is
not
fun!” James says. His eyes are beginning to cross. Darla folds her arms over her chest in annoyance.
“Well,
it was Brad’s idea!” I shout and scurry back towards Darla. She won’t kill me, I don’t think. I mean, she needs all the babysitters she can get. James doesn’t move. He just stands there with blood shot eyes and this vein that’s throbbing on his forehead. He continues to rant and rave. He is livid and I can’t really blame him. If Lindsay and Adam were to get married spur of the moment and then tell me after it’s over that they were just playing around, I would be a little sad. But this is James—Brad’s partner on the force. This is my brother. How could he have thought this was real? I mean, it’s me and Brad for crying out loud. Even if our kiss back at the chapel got a little steamy, that doesn’t mean anything—we’ve been drinking.
“Come on, bro,”
Brad says, walking toward James with his arms open wide. He gets within reach of James and he trips. He’s falling down drunk. The realization hits. Brad is falling down drunk, not James. I married Brad and he’s not even sober enough to walk upright. I swear he didn’t seem this drunk in the chapel.
Oh, hell.
James backs away from Brad, still quite angry.
“
Brad, don’t tell me that you plan on… plan on…” James’s face is turning bright red. Wow, he’s really mad.
“Consummating the marriage? Bumping the ol’ uglies?”
Brad asks. I think he wants a black eye. It’ll just be another story to tell his buddies at the station meanwhile James is shaking mad.
“How else do you think I’m going to get your sister
to pop out a baseball team for me, playing cards?” Brad continues to goad James, and we all just stand there completely shell shocked. We have nothing to say. There is nothing we can do.
The four of us watch as
James lunges at Brad who expertly dodges him. They are a formidable pair. They know one another’s moves as they’ve spent hundreds of hours sparring in the station’s gym. Before that it was in my parents’ living room. These two have been sparring since they could hold their heads up. This strange dance continues on for longer that I’m entertained by it. Eventually, Brad wears James down, and just like that, the hatch is buried. I try not to let it get to me—the fact that Brad doesn’t hold grudges with anyone else but me—but it still unsettles me.
The night wears on and we gamble and drink.
Brad tells everyone he sees that we just got married. The more we drink, the more I find myself falling for all of his stories. He tells the cocktail waitress that he knew he’d marry me someday the moment I developed boobs back in seventh grade. He tells the dealer that he’s looking forward to getting me back to the hotel. My skin heats at the thought; it’s an unfamiliar feeling. If Brad’s goal for the night was to convince me that he finds me appealing, he’s succeeded; but I can’t tell him that.
FINALLY, A LITTLE
after three, we make it back to our suite. James and Darla made it back about an hour ago. Adam and Lindsay disappear into their bedroom while Brad and I stumble, as quietly as possible, through the living room. Delusions and words of kindness aside, I decide that it would be improper for my new husband to sleep on the couch. I have no ulterior motives, I just want to cuddle.
Honest.
“Mr. Patrick,” I whisper-shout. Brad’s lips turn up into a goofy grin.
“Mrs.
Patrick,” he murmurs, pulling me close and nuzzling my neck. I’m caught off guard and I gently press myself against him. He feels heavy, and strong, and so, so good. He sighs in appreciation.
“Stay with me tonight,” I whisper.
Brad kisses my neck chastely. My response and inner musings are anything but chaste. For the first time since high school, I want to bed Brad Patrick. Regardless of how horrific our attempt at losing our virginity together was, I want to try again. We were kids—inexperienced kids—back then. Surely we could get it right this time.
“You’re drunk,” he whispers, tickling my neck.
“You’re drunker,” I state, firmly.
“Am not,” ever the mature one, he
argues.
“You were stumbling outside of the chapel,” I think I’m making my argument. “That was hours ago, and you’ve drank a lot since.”
“That’s what you do to me, pretty girl,” he breathes, hot and heavy, into my skin. “I fall all over myself when I’m around you.” My breath catches in my throat. He grip tightens around me in a possessive manner.
“Hey,” he coos, “it worked. Your brother thought I was so wasted, he went easy on me.”
“I thought that was real,” I mutter, feeling slightly better about his state of consciousness.
“Are you trying to take advantage of me, Mrs.
Patrick? Is that why you married me?” He’s grinning and chuckling against me. I slap his chest and pull him into my bedroom. I giggle when he agrees to spend the night with me. As attractive as he is in this moment, and as much as my hormones are going wild, I know that tempting him into making love to me would only lead to disaster. I decide to settle for falling asleep, curled into his heavy frame.
Br
ad kisses my ear and pulls away enough to meet my eyes. When I look into his eyes I’m caught off guard by what I see. I see the five-year-old boy who used to bring me mud pies as a present. I see the fifteen-year-old boy who let me cry on his shoulder when the boy I liked publicly humiliated me; and of course the same fifteen-year-old Brad who beat that stupid boy for making me cry. I see the man in his dress blues for the first time the day he graduated from the academy. I see Brad in every moment I’ve ever been proud of him—and there are many. I see more than the brash cop from the neighborhood, I see my best friend who I had forgotten I have.
I love him—in a way. I love Brad in nearly the same way I love James, only not quite.
Only, I had forgotten how much I love him somewhere along the way. I can feel the smile on my face and the excitement in my bones. We’ve always had this thing, Brad and I. We push and pull and we fight like crazy. But then we’re closer, stronger—at least for a little while. Then it’s back to our respective lives on opposite sides of town. At least, that’s how it’s been the last few years.
Brad pulls away and kisses my forehead. “
I’ll change in the living room. I wouldn’t want to compromise what little integrity you have left, Mrs. Patrick.” I scoff and swing at his arm as he leaves the room. My eyes linger on the closed door for longer than necessary and a goofy smile takes over my face.
Twenty four hours ago I was working on trial prep and worried that I wouldn’t finish in tim
e to leave for this trip. I didn’t even want to be here and I wasn’t very happy with the fact that Brad was going to be in attendance. We haven’t gotten along this well since before my graduation from law school. Normally, we would have been fighting about my job by now. But now, I can’t even imagine enjoying my birthday without him here.
I walk into the en
-suite bathroom and change into my sweatpants and an old police academy t-shirt that I stole from my dad years ago. When I return to the bedroom, I see Brad standing on the opposite side of the bed. He’s wearing sweatpants and his own old police academy t-shirt. We point at our matching shirts and laugh. In his right hand is my veil.
“Will you wear this, Mrs.
Patrick?” I laugh at his request, but acquiesce. He tosses me the veil. I do my best to secure it to my head, and crawl into bed. “Beautiful,” he says. I curl into Brad’s side and fall into a blissful sleep.
THE NEXT DAY
we wake up tangled around one another. My veil is long-since gone and my hair is a knotted disaster. I am wrapped securely in his arms, my back to his chest. I can tell he’s awake by the way he’s breathing. When he’s sleeping, he snores loudly. He’s not snoring now. I remain very still, pretending that I’m still asleep. He moves slightly against me and groans, muttering to himself. And that’s when I feel it—he’s stiffened behind me—all of him, I mean.
“Seriously, dude?” he says quietly, disbelief in his voice. I’m not really sure who or what he’s talking to. I don’t think
I want to know. I want to laugh at the situation, but I’d rather he get up and take care of his not-so-little issue while he thinks I’m asleep. This whole morning after marrying your best childhood friend thing is sort of awkward enough as it is.
“
Stop it. She’s Colleen. She’s off limits,” he groans, sounding annoyed. I remain still, keep my breathing even, and shove aside my feelings of inadequacy. I am an idiot. We were drunk, he was being sweet. “The Yankees, The Chief naked, James’s ass…” he speaks slow and steady and in a moment I feel him deflate. I decide that it’s safe for him to know that I’m awake now. I stir in the bed, trying to make it believable. I just want to sprint from the bed and wash away this marriage and Brad’s expertly crafted lies. I am such a fool.
“Good morning, Mrs.
Patrick,” Brad says, a smile in his voice. My back is to him, so thankfully, he can’t see me wince. I don’t have deep-seeded feelings for Brad. It’s just that, I’m alone. So very alone, and Brad was saying such kind, gentle things to me. He played his part perfectly, the devoted husband. He was very believable. I’m the one who messed up here. I went beyond playing my part and having fun. I fell into my role and for even the slightest sliver of time, I allowed myself to enjoy the fantasy. The fantasy that someone loved me, even if it was Brad; even if we were drunk; even if it made no sense; and even if it was only for one night.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap and push away from him. This is how it always is with us. One step forward and two steps back.