Authors: Mina Bennett
Her mouth fell open a little. "R...really?"
"Really," I said. "And it got me thinking, you know?"
Her eyes were like saucers. "Are you asking to court me?"
I blinked. "I...don't you think it's a little too early for that?"
"No!" she said, emphatically. "Absolutely not! It's never too early. It's much better to set up the parameters right away. That way, we don't let things run away with us while we're still pretending to be 'friends.' If you're interested in me that way, let's do it right."
"Oh - okay," I said. My mind was reeling. I'd really had no intention of going into this conversation with an eye to marriage; I didn't know what I had been expecting. Just, not this.
"Yes!" she squealed, grabbing my hands. "Oh, Jacob, yes! I already asked my father, he gives us his blessing."
"You asked your...
when
?"
"A few weeks ago," she said, breathlessly. "After we'd started talking and I thought,
hoped
, maybe this would be a possibility. And I was right! Oh, Jacob, I'm so happy."
And she was happy. Her eyes were shining, and she looked like she was on the verge of shouting our love from the rooftops. It was hard not to feel excited, too, even though I was terrified.
What had I gotten myself into? Was I ready for this? I was almost certain that I wasn't, but...
But she was so
happy
.
And I had to be happy too.
***
On the night of Mrs. Linden's fantastical spaghetti get-together, I had a toothache. Normally I would have begged off, but Lily wanted to go so badly. It would be our first "official appearance as a couple," in her words.
"You say that like we're royalty or something," I'd said, laughing a little.
"What do you mean?" she blinked, innocently.
Anyway, there we were - me sitting in front of a plate of spaghetti that it hurt too much to eat, and trying to ignore the ceaseless chatter around me. Mrs. Linden was holding court about some subject or other, very loudly, and I couldn't shut out the piercing sound of her voice even though I wasn't listening to the words. Lily was busy telling everyone about how I'd so "romantically" asked to court her, and recounting how "impressed" her father apparently was with me. I'd spoken to him briefly on the phone, and I couldn't recall anything particular in our conversation that would have impressed anyone.
Marissa was sitting over at the adults' table. Mark hadn't been able to make it, for some reason or another, so she just sat quietly, nodding every so often at Mrs. Linden's speech. Finally, as hostess, Mrs. Linden had to retire to the kitchen, and one of the other adult chaperones was able to speak. She started asking Marissa about her future plans to have children, which seemed to make Mari very self-conscious. She paused for a moment, her face turning red, before she started to answer.
"Oh, Mark's just, you know - he's so caught up in his work right now. And we might want to go on a mission soon, to India or Pakistan - so it makes more sense to..."
I forced myself to shut out the rest of the conversation. I couldn't hear it. Not right now.
By the end of the night, I was slumped on Mrs. Linden's sofa with an ice pack on my face, hating the world and everyone in it. Later, I would find out that I needed a root canal. But nothing, nothing at all, compared to the pain of thinking about Mark and Marissa having children.
I really,
really
had to stop being so melodramatic.
***
I remember Marissa's wedding like it was yesterday. There was a massive storm that week, knocking out the power in half the state. They had to change locations last-minute, and I recall sitting on the corner of my bed in the eerie, dusky darkness of the early evening with no artificial light and hoping, praying that it would be cancelled. As if a weather-related postponement would change anything.
This relationship has been called on account of rain.
But no, everyone congregated in a slightly-too-small banquet hall, laughing and chattering and talking about how glad they were to be in someplace with working electricity. And Marissa looked exactly how I'd imagined - cheeks pink, eyelashes fluttering with embarrassment at being the center of attention. I always thought that if she had her way, she would have preferred a quiet, private ceremony without all the pomp and circumstances. But that wasn't an option. Not with Mark. Not among these people.
I felt like someone had scooped out the contents of my chest, slowly, with a melon-baller.
The seating was first-come first-serve, so after I piled up my plate with food I wasn't going to eat, I slumped down next to Brandon and let out a long sigh.
"Cheer up, emo kid," he said, timely as always. He was peeling back the top of his sandwich and staring at the contents with suspicion. "What are these green things, fish eggs?"
"Capers," I said. "Capers.
Fish
eggs - what's wrong with you?"
"I thought capers
were
fish eggs."
"They're plants. They're little...little flower buds. You can tell, if you smoosh them open."
Brandon looked at me. "That's even weirder," he said. "I'm not eating this. You want it?"
"I don't even want my own food." I was purposefully not allowing myself to look at the bride's table, but I couldn't stop hearing her voice.
"You're crazy," said Brandon, around a mouthful of prime rib. "At least dry those eyes for long enough to have some steak tips."
I picked up the caper-laden sandwich that he'd tossed onto my plate. "I know this might be hard for you to understand, since you've never had feelings for anything in your life, other than red meat - but I actually don't want to eat right now."
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mark and Marissa making their way around the tables, shaking hands and kissing babies. They'd be headed over here soon. I was absolutely sure of it.
"Hey, guys!" Mark's eyes were shining. He was basically brimming over with happiness. I wanted to vomit all over his shoes.
"Congrats, man." Brandon was getting to his feet for the obligatory handshake and half-hug, and I realized I should probably stand up too. I got to my feet, which felt impossibly heavy.
"Hey," said Marissa, quietly. I side-stepped Mark and reached out for her hand. Instead of shaking it, she just held it there for a moment, squeezing gently. "Thanks for coming."
"Of course," I said. "What else am I going to do?"
She smiled. "Read by candlelight?"
I hadn't expected to run out of things to say so quickly. I couldn't possibly tell her that she looked beautiful; that was a step too far, even if I didn't have feelings for her. But she did - not so much in that happy, incandescent way that brides are supposed to, but the same way she always did.
Then again, maybe that was just my imagination. Maybe she was completely overjoyed to be marrying Mark.
Maybe that was all she'd ever wanted.
But I knew, as surely as I knew anything, that wasn't the case. I knew I wasn't misreading her eyes. Not that it mattered now. She'd made her decision, for whatever reason. Because she felt it was the best thing to do, or because she craved her parents' approval, or simply because she felt she had to. Whatever her reason, she was gone. But she'd never been mine to lose.
I suddenly realized we'd both been standing here in silence for way too long. Mark cut in with a jaunty greeting, shaking my hand vigorously and asking me how my college applications were going. That was all anyone could talk about now. I was so sick of the conversation that I longed for a stimulating discussion about the weather.
"How about that storm, huh?" said Brandon. Bless him.
"Unbelievable!" said Mark. "All you can really do in those situations is close your eyes and pray, right?"
"Right," I said. I only he knew what I'd actually been praying for.
"Well, you guys have a lot more tables to visit," said Brandon. "We'll let you go."
They moved on to their next targets, and I felt briefly like I'd been through a war.
Brandon patted me on the back. "It gets better, buddy," he said.
I eyed him sidelong.
"I mean, I guess," he said. "Hell should I know?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marissa
I woke up to the sound of a truck backing up in the hotel parking lot.
When I couldn't ignore the incessant beeping anymore, I finally got up, shuffling to the bathroom as my feet sank into the plush carpet. Mark was still snoring, sprawled over his rightful two-thirds of the king sized bed.
I knew it was silly, but I couldn't help looking at my face in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth. Trying to see a difference. Would people be able to tell by looking at me? Did it matter? Whether they could or not, the whole town knew that as of this morning, I wasn't a virgin anymore.
I'd expected something - a dull ache, or a lingering sense of shame - something to remind me that last night had actually happened. But for all intents and purposes, I was the same Marissa Moore I'd been at this time yesterday.
Except I wasn't. On paper, at least, I was Marissa Allan, wife of a soon-to-be preacher, spending my one-night honeymoon in a hotel in the industrial district twenty miles from home.
I'd always just assumed that Mark would take me somewhere with beaches - somewhere you actually had to
fly
to - I'd never been on a plane in my life, but I was ready to give it a try. It was my fault for never asking, but I figured he was just keeping a secret. When the time finally drew near and I had to ask him how long I should pack for, he looked confused and said he couldn't get away from his classes. Not to mention his responsibilities at Eternal Grace. He made me feel a little stupid for assuming he'd go on a real honeymoon, frankly.
And so here we were, spending the weekend in a hotel that had a snack machine instead of room service. I made a face at myself in the mirror. Was I really being such a brat about this? Honeymoons were expensive, and it would make so much more sense to spend our wedding gift money on something practical, not a vacation.
There would be all kinds of trips once we were married - church plantings, missions, maybe even a pilgrimage...
Come to think of it, I really wasn't sure if Mark was a "vacation" kind of guy.
After getting dressed, I slipped the room key into my back pocket and headed downstairs for the breakfast buffet. The scrambled eggs looked rubbery and there was a line at the waffle iron, but I was able to snatch a cheese-filled pastry that wasn't too stale, and a cup of juice that
almost
tasted good. The TV in the corner was blaring some news show, which I tried to tune out at first, but halfway through my pastry I couldn't ignore it anymore.
"...he was a teacher, he was in a position of authority. There's absolutely no way you can justify when he did, Steve. I don't care if-"
"But listen, listen, she was sixteen years old when they met, and they didn't start their relationship until-"
"You actually believe that? Are you kidding me? Did you see the texts they were sending back and forth when she was still a minor?"
"Look, I'm not saying it's right, but what I am saying is..."
I stood abruptly, the loud scraping of my chair against the floor making several people look up. I hurried out of the dining room, my hair falling in front of my face as I ran to the elevator.
My skin felt hot and there was a prickling on the back of my neck. I hurried back to our door and fumbled with the keycard, feeling it slip between my sweating fingers and eventually tumble to the ground. By the time I got the door open and burst into the room, slamming it behind me, my breath was coming in short little gasps and I could feel the beginnings of tears stinging in my eyes.
Mark was still asleep.
I sat down at the little desk chair by the door and tried to take long, deep breaths. I couldn't explain why I felt this sudden rush of sickness and panic, but I just wanted it to be over.
I clutched the edge of the desk, staring at the dark wood, wishing I could somehow drown in it the depth of it. Slowly, gradually, the horrible feelings began to subside, leaving me sagging exhausted in the chair.
When Mark finally stirred and rolled over in bed, I still felt like I'd been run over by a truck.
"What on earth is wrong with you?" he demanded, sitting up.
I swallowed with an effort. "I'm not sure," I said, my voice wavering a little. "I'm not feeling well. Think I might be...coming down with something."
He made a little noise of either dismissal or disgust, I wasn't sure, before disappearing into the bathroom. I laid my head down on the desk and closed my eyes.
"Hey." His voice roused me from a half-sleeping stupor, and I felt his hands resting on my shoulders. "You feeling better now?"
I lifted my head and took a deep breath. "Yeah," I said. "Sure."
"Good." His tone was very soft and low, and his hands were still resting on my shoulders. "The last thing I want is a bride who's feeling under the weather." His thumbs dug into my back, and I realized suddenly how taut all my muscles were. I let out a pleased sigh as he worked on the knots.
"I think it's just been a lot to take in," I said. "Lots of adjustments."
"Sure," he said, his voice still a low rumble. "Good ones, I hope."
"Yeah," I said. I didn't dare say anything about how I wished I was in Hawaii, or some nonsense like that. He'd only get angry. The few times we'd talked about money, he always got defensive and even a little panicky, insisting he was a "good provider," which I didn't doubt. I never meant to criticize, I was just curious. I really had no idea what our life was going to be like, in that respect. My parents had never been in any serious financial trouble, as far as I knew, but I did remember lots of fights when I was younger that started with bills spread all over the kitchen table. I didn't want to end up like that. My mom had always told me that money was the number one reason that marriages didn't work out.