ONE DAY BEFORE
CASEY JANE
MY LIFE IS ABOUT to be altered in a huge way and I feel powerless to stop it. I love him, I do. I just don’t think I’m in love with him. I haven’t said those words out loud yet; I don’t know if I ever will. I don’t want to break his heart. Tomorrow is our wedding day. We’ve been planning our big day for nearly a year. The outdoor venue, the photographer, the caterers, the colors, the flowers, the seating chart…my head is spinning with all of the time and energy that’s been placed into this day. Funny, how it isn’t until now, that I’ve stopped to think about how I feel. Have I really been one of those girls who’s been wooed by a sparkly diamond ring? It was sure looking that way. What was wrong with me? Maybe it’s normal. Maybe I’m just having pre-wedding jitters. Yeah, that has to be it. Right?
Every bride finds herself questioning forever, right? I want to say it out loud. I want to tell someone what I’m feeling and thinking. But who? I can’t go to Jordan- my husband-to-be. I don’t want to freak him out. That would just be wrong. There’s no way in the world I’m going to have a heart to heart with his parents. And he’s an only-child, so sibling talks are out of the question. Of course his parents would tell me I’m worrying for nothing and take their sons side anyway. My own parents are a lost cause, too. My dad is a pediatrician who has made it very clear that work is his priority. My mom works in management for some big corporation and tries to model my dad by putting work first, like it’s some sort of merit badge. In her free time she paints. Beautiful paintings of landscapes. I know that is her real passion. She doesn’t want to put work first, but it’s the pattern she’s fallen into. Thinking about her, I realize how much influence the person you choose to spend the rest of your days with has over your one and only precious life. I gulp, thinking about Jordan again. Is this the life I want? Is it really? Will I be okay? That’s a silly question. I know I’ll be okay. Of course I’ll be okay. But as for the first question, is this the life I want, I don’t know the answer to that.
I don’t have a best friend. It’s not that I’m a loner. It’s just harder to find good friends when you’re out of school. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. We’ve decided to keep it simple with our wedding. We’re not having a Maid of Honor or a Best Man. My Maid of Honor would be my older sister, Trish, if we were having them. We’re not exactly great pals though. It’s not that we don’t get along. We’re just…different. Trish is twenty-nine. We’ve never been close. It’s not the age difference, I’m only five years younger. Trish is what I’ve come to call a free spirit. She does things her own way. She doesn’t follow the crowd, ever. If everyone is lined up for free pizza at Charlie’s, Trish will opt to go to the local pizza joint with no line and pay full price. She calls it shopping local. She’s the person you see on the road with a million bumper stickers on the back of her car. You know those cars, don’t pretend you don’t. Her bumper stickers support co-existence, peace, love not hate, animal rescue adoption and the like. Don’t get me wrong, Trish is a badass. To be honest, I wish I could be more like her. More free. She’s the creative one in our family, the independent one. She lives her life on her own terms. She works as a freelance photographer, for herself. And she’s making it, despite dad’s mutterings of how she’s throwing her life away and living with her head in the clouds. Now that I think about it, she’s what my mom would be if she’d ever grow a backbone. If my mom had married someone who supported who she actually is instead of what he wanted in a spouse, my mom would totally be Trish. Sadly, my mom missed that train a long time ago.
I needed to find Trish. I insisted on not having a bachelorette party. Jordan didn’t want a bachelor party either. He said “I just want to be married to you.” And my reply was a quiet smile without words. He leaned down to kiss me, not noticing my silence. Why couldn’t I say it back?
Jordan and I have agreed not to see each other until the wedding. The last time I saw him was this morning when I left his bed. He called me Mrs. Wiener and I closed my eyes, gave him a dutiful kiss on the lips, dressed and ran out the door as fast as I could. Jordan’s last name is really Wiener. I’m serious. And this, I omitted to consider during a year of wedding planning? What was wrong with me? Casey Wiener. Mrs. Wiener. The name was worse than his mom’s, and she’d opted to keep her maiden name. I like my current name much better. Casey Jane. Maybe I should keep my maiden name? We hadn’t talked about that. Would Jordan be okay with it? I didn’t want to be a Wiener. I’m a kindergarten teacher for goodness sakes! I can’t have five year-olds calling me Mrs. Wiener. Maybe if I was more like Trish I could be okay with it. Maybe if my car was covered in bumper stickers and I taught yoga I could be called that name. I am literally laughing out loud at myself now. Me, a yoga teacher? When I hear people say Namaste I want to puke. Those people are just trying to prove they are something they’re not. Peaceful. Zen-like. Happy. Oh, who am I kidding? It doesn’t matter what I do for a living or what my car looks like, I hate that name. And I’ve never felt Zen-like in my life. My life is about control and goals. Achievements. I am beginning to think it is more than the name that is getting under my skin. Trish would tell me the truth. We didn’t have to be super close friends to find honesty, we were sisters. She had no problem saying what she thought. That’s just another thing I both admired and hated about her. All of the panic (aka pre-wedding jitters?) had me appreciating my sister, for the first time in my life. What is happening? Am I slowly going insane?
I am spending the night at my parent’s house tonight. I’d been born and raised here in Oxboro, Ohio. I even went to college here. For some reason, I’d never thought about leaving, until now. Suddenly, I feel ready to explore the world. Seriously, what has gotten into me?
Jordan’s family has driven in from Flint, Michigan for the big event. Jordan went to Oxboro College, too. That’s how we met. That’s why we stayed here. He’s two years older than me and entered a job right after school. He’s been working I.T. for a big corporation named Buckley Industries for nearly three years now. He works in a cubicle and says he likes it. I think he likes the steadiness of it; the stable pay check every two weeks. We don’t talk about our jobs much with each other. Instead we spend our time together preparing meals in the kitchen, driving up to see his parents or extended family in Michigan or hanging out with mine. Jordan likes to control the money. He calls himself the C.F.O. (chief financial officer) of our relationship. I’ve never minded. We have a joint bank account and he pays the bills from that. We share an apartment in town together, although he still refers to it as his place, which makes me cringe each time. Technically, it was his apartment before I moved in. It still looks that way too. Jordan’s not big on change. Anyway, last year I held a few dollars back from each of my paychecks for a while and saved up enough money to buy front row tickets to the Tim McGraw concert. I was so excited I thought I was going to burst holding onto those tickets. I made sure he kept his calendar clear on the date of the concert. I wanted it to be a surprise. We’d never been much of a spontaneous couple and I thought it would be fun. Everything about it. But at that point I still had no idea what I’d really just purchased.
I WAS JUST TWENTY when we first met. Barely out of my teens. Jordan was a junior and I a sophomore at Oxboro College. It was a Sunday afternoon in March; one of those trick spring days when the sun was shining and it looked to be warm out, only it wasn’t. I bought a loaf of bread and headed to the duck pond on campus. It was only eleven in the morning, still early and quiet on a college campus. I sat cross-legged by the edge of the pond and tore small chunks of bread and threw them to the ducks. After a few minutes I was surrounded. At least twenty ducks treaded water in front of me, waiting for a snack, while a few dozen more waddled over from elsewhere and surrounded me on the grass. I had plenty of bread for everyone and to my amazement they each waited patiently for their turn. I’d started going to the duck pond when I was a freshman. Actually I’d started going when I was just a kid. My mom would bring me here sometimes to feed the ducks. But in my adult life, I came here alone once I started college. It wasn’t that I missed my childhood. I didn’t. I just liked the quietness. It was always loud and cramped in the dorms. Going to the duck pond gave me a breath of fresh air, no matter what was going on in my life. I wished I’d had five loaves of bread with me that day. I felt terrible when I ran out and the ducks stayed surrounding me on all sides, wishing for more. It had been a long winter and I knew they were hungry. I sat in the center of the ducks, lingering for a bit longer. It was Sunday, I was in college and I had nothing at all to do. Nowhere to be. Eventually the ducks began to part, realizing I had nothing more to feed them, waddling away to their respective corners of the park, I took that as my cue to leave. As I stood and turned to walk away, I wadded up the plastic bread bag and shoved it into my coat pocket. As I did this, I slipped and fell. Yes, I fell on duck feces. Crap. Murphy’s Law kicked into high gear when I looked up, lying face first on the hard ground, my shoe smeared with feces. I looked right into his eyes. Jordan was running on the sidewalk that sat just a few feet away from where I found myself splattered on the ground. He jumped off the sidewalk path and ran through the park while pressing his lips together. As he kneeled beside me, our eyes met. It was obvious he was trying not to laugh. I admit, I would have laughed, too. But I wasn’t laughing now. Instead I was literally covered in crap. He was polite. He reached his hand toward me, offering to help me stand up. I felt my face grow flush as I reached my hand up to meet his.
“Are you okay?” He tried to suppress a smile again.
I nodded, forcing my eyes to the ground, away from his. I brushed my shoe up against the hard ground, trying to wipe away the debris that caused me to slip. After several attempts, I realized it was stuck. It wasn’t coming off of my shoes until I got home and threw them in the trash. “You can laugh now.” I muttered, raising my eyes to meet his. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. His cheeks were red from running.
“Ah, it happens to the best of us.” He chuckled, patting my back as we walked away from the pond and toward the safety of the solid, clean sidewalk.
“Crap?” This time I laughed as I stuck my foot in the air and pointed to my ruined shoe.
He nodded. “Yeah. Crap happens.” As we reached the sidewalk, he turn to face me and we stopped walking. “Do you go to Oxboro?”
I nodded. “You?”
He nodded back. “Do you have any plans tonight?” He looked away shyly.
I started to shake my head, but then thought better of it. “Not feeding the ducks.” I joked. “I don’t even know your name?”
“Jordan.” That grin again.
“I’m Casey.” I shrugged. Had I really just met a guy by falling in crap?
We stood in awkward silence for a moment. I fiddled with the plastic bread bag in my coat pocket and he pretended to tie his running shoe. I watched him, he was really just retying a perfectly tied shoe.
“So…” He drew out the ooo. “Tonight?”
“I’m free.” Yes. I’d just met a guy after falling in crap. Romantic. But actually, it kind of was.
Jordan stood from retying his shoes; I continued moving my right hand around the plastic bread bag in my pocket. “Cool. Let’s meet up at Pete’s, say eight o’clock?”
“Pete’s it is.” Pete’s was a pizza and beer place on campus. If you hadn’t been to Pete’s, you couldn’t call yourself an Oxboro College student. It was one of those unspoken rules.
We smiled at each other like fools. I’d forgotten everything else at that moment. He was cute and he wanted to go out with me. He’d already seen me in a vulnerable moment- when I’d fallen. At least I wouldn’t have crap on my shoes when we met later that night. We stared at each other for a few moments longer. We were the only humans in the vicinity. I could hear the ducks squawking in the background, searching for leftover crumbs from the bread I’d fed them. Jordan reached out to touch my arm before he turned away, heading back to his run.
“See you tonight, Casey.” He turned to run, allowing us each to return to our separate inner worlds, only this time we were changed. It’s funny how a single moment can change your life, I think. I walked in the same direction that he ran. As I allowed my head to pull me into a cloud of bliss, the makings of a crush, I saw it all happen. Jordan tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and fell to the unforgiving cement. He stood up quickly, surely knowing I was watching from behind. I saw his running pants. They had a hole in the left knee that hadn’t been there before. I saw tracings of blood in the same area. I jogged forward to meet up with him. My hands reached my cheeks, my mouth sported a perfect O. “Are…are you okay?” I asked, winded from the short sprint.
Jordan stood with a sheepish smile plastered on his face. “Crap happens.” He spat and I couldn’t help but laugh.
I nodded. “It sure does.” We stared at each other in an awkward silence for a few moments longer. Neither of us knew what to say next. “At least yours wasn’t literal.” I said, for no other reason than to fill the silence.
When we met up at Pete’s later that night we found ourselves playing a surface version of twenty-questions. Do you have any siblings?
Me: “Yes, an older sister.”
Him: “No. Only child.”
What are you studying?
Me: “Education. I plan on being a teacher, although I’m not sure that’s what I want to do forever.”
Him: “Computer Science.”
Where is your hometown?
Me: “Here. Good old Oxboro.”
Him: “Up north. Flint, Michican.”
Who’s your favorite musician?
Me: “Anything that’s not country.”
Him: “Hands down, Tim McGraw. Best. Singer. Of. All. Time.” He smiles sheepishly.
Okay. Awkward. I hurry to correct myself as I feel my nose crinkle. “Well…uh, some country is okay.” I stumble on my words. It’s obviously a lie.
He pretends to believe me.
We both realize the last question was too deep for a first date. He poses the next question, something easy.
Favorite color?
Me: “Yellow. It’s bright, cheerful and hopeful- all at the same time.”
Him: “Blue”. He moves his eyes to my shirt. It’s blue. He’s clever.
The questions went on like this throughout the night as we stuffed ourselves with greasy slices of pizza and bottles of beer. Neither of us dared to ask the real questions. Do you want a relationship with me? Does this – whatever’s happening between us right now- actually have a shot at working out? No one asks that on a first date even though it’s what both people really want to know. It would make whoever was doing the asking look insane. Instead we stared into each other’s eyes, filled our stomachs, exchanged nonsense information and refused to think about what might happen next. We both pretended a relationship was the furthest thing from our minds. Have you ever watched two cats at play? One will swat the other. The other responds with a playful smack back. Their tails twitch. They both want to play; but inevitably, they both pretend to be disinterested, looking in opposite directions, pretending to focus on other things. But all the while, their tails keep twitching, their ears are back. They play without playing for a while before one gets brave enough to actually make a move and pounce on the other. Then it’s all out physical play. It might sound weird, but that’s what this moment felt like for me, with Jordan. Cat’s play. We were pretending we both didn’t want more. Playing it cool. But I knew he wanted more, I could feel it. As for me, it felt good to be somebody’s something for once. I wanted to keep that feeling for as long as I could.
LAST YEAR, THREE YEARS after we met, I held a few dollars from each of my paychecks for a while and saved up enough money to buy front row tickets to the Tim McGraw concert. Front row! I’d never been front row at any concert. I was so excited to see Jordan’s expression when I told him. I thought I was going to burst. Holding onto those tickets, for me, was like holding onto a ball of fire. I could barely take it. I made sure Jordan kept his calendar clear on the date of the concert. I wanted it to be a surprise. We’d never been much of a spontaneous couple and I thought it would be fun. Different. I’d purchased concert tickets. But I had no idea what I’d really purchased.
It should have been a huge sign. Like a big fat flag waving in front of my face. END IT NOW! But for some reason, I wasn’t listening. For some reason I overlooked instances like this one because, the truth is I don’t know. Well, maybe I do. Maybe I overlooked the growing number of incidents like this one because it was comfortably uncomfortable. It was familiar. It was my normal. There. I said it. I admitted it.
Great timing Casey. The day before your wedding and you admit to yourself that you’re okay with comfortably uncomfortable. You’re okay with settling. Great. Now smile pretty and have a beautiful wedding!
It was a Saturday morning. We were able to sleep in. A day off work. Unlike my work obsessed parents, I loved days off. Realizing this now, and thinking about Trish’s life, I almost laughed out loud. We were nothing like our parents. They must hate that. I loved sleeping in. I loved the quiet. I spent my weekdays surrounded by noisy five year-olds. Silence was my best friend. Sometimes I wondered how I would balance the two when it came time to have kids of my own; work and family. A classroom full of kids Monday through Friday and my own kids twenty-four seven, every day of the year. Could I handle it? I always pushed the thought away as quickly as it came. Maybe I wouldn’t be teaching by the time I had kids of my own. Maybe I’d move on to something I felt more passionate about by that time. I hoped. Teaching was fine. I didn’t hate it. But it wasn’t my passion. I didn’t know what was, but I hoped one day I would stumble upon it. For now, I was grateful for the steady paycheck and for weekends and vacation days. I especially loved summers.
Jordan, on the other hand, has always been an early riser. On the weekends I’d find myself waking up to half of an empty bed with the familiar scent of Cool Water for Men hanging on the sheets, the cologne I loved so much. The weekend sleeping-in versus early riser debate started out as playful banter. But it grew as the years marched on. It grew to full out arguments. Jordan didn’t understand why I would want to waste the day sleeping in. I didn’t understand why he insisted on getting up so early if we had the day off from our jobs. Nothing ever changed. No one ever won. It was just a reoccurring argument we had, most weekends.
But I digress. I’d heard Jordan crawl out of bed at the obnoxious hour of five-thirty in the morning. I turned over, hugging my pillow, allowing myself to fall back asleep. When I woke around ten-ish, I skipped the whole why do you have to get up so early banter and bounced out to the living room, a smile plastered across my face. I held the concert tickets behind my back and bounced from one leg to the other. Jordan was sitting on the couch tinkering with two different computers. Computer parts were scattered across the couch on either side of him, and spilled onto the living room floor. The television set as playing in the background, although it was clear he wasn’t watching. It was on to keep him company, because I’d been sleeping. He’d told me that more than once. He’d said if I insisted on sleeping in, he would become a television junkie because he needed someone to spend time with him. I always laughed when he said that, but the truth was it felt like a knife cutting at my insides each time. Was it really so bad to sleep in on the weekends? Was it enough to ruin a relationship? Sometimes it felt like it.
It smelled like bacon. That’s another thing he did when I slept in. He microwaved bacon. He knew I hated the smell. But if I ever brought it up, he’d tell me he was hungry and didn’t know how to make any other breakfast foods.
I ignored the mess of computer parts. I ignored the television set that played too loud, in his words, to keep him company while I lazily slept-in on my day off. I ignored the stench of microwaved bacon, although it made me feel like I was going to hurl. I flipped the switch on the wall to set the ceiling fan in motion. I needed a little help in pushing aside the smell of dead meat.
I cleared my throat, trying to rise above all of the distractions, trying to earn his attention. It didn’t work. He stayed focused on his computer parts. Sometimes they seemed to be more exciting to him than I was now. “Morning!” I made my voice sound cheerful and airy. I positioned myself in front of him, careful not to trip on any of his scattered computer parts.
“Don’t step there!” He wailed, refusing to look up from his work.
“S---Sorry.” I was always quick to apologize.
I moved my bare feet to a different area, one that provided a larger clearing, but set me further away from where Jordan sat consumed by something other than me on the couch.
“Finally decided to wake up?” He muttered, still focused on his parts.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Let’s not do this.” I whispered.
I’m greeted with silence.
“What? Do What?” His tempter went from zero to one-hundred just like that. It always did.
I debated on my reply, knowing how sensitive he is. “Fight. Let’s not fight or argue or be mean to each other.” I paused, trying to hold back tears. He hates it when I cry. I don’t know when the anger started. It must have been the same time I started crying. I can’t place my finger on exactly when that was. It was reality now. It hadn’t always been that way. He wasn’t angry during our first year together. The next year we started playfully bantering back and forth, but nothing like this. Now his – our – apartment walls were filled with nothing but negative energy.
Jordan threw a keyboard to the ground and I watched as the A and the P keys popped off and hid themselves amongst the mess on the floor. “We’re not fighting Casey.”
His eyes finally rose to meet mine. His dark eyes were still. At one time I’d seen a light in those same eyes. I wondered where it had gone. How could it just disappear? Was it possible to get it back? With me? It was possible my own eyes looked back at him with the same blank look. Dull. Bored. I didn’t know. I couldn’t see my eyes when they looked at his. But if his eyes were a reflection of mine, what were we doing?
“Okay.” I threw it out there. A single word to break the silence between our tired eyes. I wasn’t sarcastic. But I wasn’t peppy either. How could I be? I stood for a few minutes longer, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, hoping he would say something. Anything. Preferably nice.
Nothing.
“Guess what-?” I forced a smile and squeezed the two tickets in my hands behind my back.
“I’m going to-“ We spoke our words at the same time. Why does that always happen in awkward silences? Both people sit there, waiting for something, anything and then suddenly they both spat words at the same time. Only with us, there was no polite follow up with the “you go”, “no, you go”.
We both went silent, again.
The ceiling fan only seemed to be waving the smell of microwaved bacon in my face instead of pushing it out of the room. “Sorry, babe. I just wanted to tell you, we have plans tonight!”
I don’t know why I expected him to transform into the Jordan that I met three years earlier. I nearly laughed out loud as I realized I was hoping we would be the couple we were during that first year, the year of lust and bliss and lots of touching. Why would I think two front row concert tickets would change that? I am a fool. A total fool.
He stared at me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t stand. He didn’t seem intrigued. Instead, he seemed annoyed. He raised his dark eyebrows, wanting me to go on, without having to ask me with his words.
I continue as prompted, still keeping a smile on my face. I can feel the tears welling behind my eyes. My eyes must be growing blood shot from trying to hold back the flood. But I keep going. He’ll be excited. He’ll smile. He’ll be happy. We’ll be happy. We’ll be okay. We’re always okay. We’ve been together three years, it will be okay. “Okay,” I say a single word to adjust myself, for what I don’t know. The possibility of happiness? “I scored us – you and me- front row tickets to the Tim McGraw concert tonight!” I show all of my perfectly straight white teeth and remind myself that I still need to brush them. My eyebrows rise, hoping that his will too. Hoping that tickets will repair us.
“Perfect.” He spat without an ounce of enthusiasm.
Perfect, he’s happy? Or perfect, he’s pissed?
“Casey, next time you want to buy something, ask me. Especially something big. I handle the money. Not you.” His words are charged by anger. I watch as he scratches behind his ear.
Before he can continue I cut him off. I know he hates when I do that, but I hate the smell of bacon that only seems to be growing stronger in his – our – apartment living room. So we’re even, right? “I know. I just wanted to surprise you. I wanted to do something fun, together. Be a couple.” My words are merely a whisper as they exit my mouth. I’m trying my best to hold back tears, tears that are pushing hard against the thick flood wall I’ve built.
“How did you know if we had enough money in the account? Why didn’t you ask?” He demanded.
I blinked. “I- I saved it over time. I didn’t take it from the bank account Jordan.”
That seems to settle him a bit. It’s still far from the reaction I’d hoped for.
“I guess we should use them then.” He moves his eyes back to his computer parts, scanning the ground as if to count and see if they’re all still there. Does he really think I would steal one of his precious computer parts?
I turn to walk back toward the bedroom, to get dressed and brush my teeth. To escape the stench of microwaved bacon. I am careful not to trip on any of the computer parts that litter the floor. I still half expect Jordan to say thank you as I’m walking away. He doesn’t and so I mutter “You’re welcome. Happy Anniversary honey.” My voice is so soft I’m not sure he hears me.
I OPEN THE FRONT door to leave in search of my big sister. Luckily I don’t have to go far. She is standing on the opposite side of the door and greets me, her wide smile illuminated beneath the glow of the porch light. It’s August and the mosquitos are relentless. I swat one away from the top of my arm and Trish follows me back inside. It’s nearly ten in the evening. Thirteen hours away from the time I’ll walk down the aisle and say I do to Jordan Wiener. I try to force the thought from my head. I want to squash it like an annoying gnat. But I don’t know how. It’s real. It’s happening. Our wedding is in the morning.
My day spent separate from Jordan has been filled with fret, worry and a sophisticated lunch with my parents where they said things like, “We’re so proud of you” and I wondered, for what? For finding someone to marry me? Is that really something to be proud of? During lunch, my dad reminded me multiple times, that he had taken today and tomorrow off from work, hinting that I should be extra appreciative of his presence. He never took time off; no sick days, no vacation days. To him, work was all he needed for happiness. I knew that loud and clear, but he was sure to remind me anyway. My parents later met up with Barb and Jim – Jordan’s parents – for dinner. I had been grateful to be left on my own. But that’s when my mind exploded with worry; in the stillness. I’d never been so happy to see Trish.
We didn’t bother to hug when she walked in. We weren’t that kind of family and the two of us had never been very close. I didn’t even ask her why she was coming to mom and dad’s so late at night. I didn’t care. I just wanted my big sister. I needed to talk.
Trish plopped down on the chocolate leather couch and I followed suit, leaving one blank cushion between us. She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out a can of beer, opening it with a pop of satisfaction. “So, my little sis is tying the knot!” She leaned her head back, filling her mouth with beer before allowing her face to reappear as she set the can down on the coffee table.
I nodded and gulped at the same time, my eyes still on hers. I wanted her to see my pain. I wanted her to tell me that it was normal to feel this way the night before your wedding. Not that she’d know. But I wanted to hear it from her anyway.
“Looks like we’ll have something in common ‘lil sis.” Trish pretended to pick at her nails as she winked at me.
“What’s that?”
“This whole marriage thing.”
I sat up straighter, and crossed my legs in front of me. Was Trish married? My eyes darted to her left hand and I spotted a simple silver ring hugging her finger. “Trish Jane is a married woman? I never thought I’d see the day!” It felt nice to not think about my own debacle for a moment.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. But Eddie and I have been together for ten years, we figured it was time. I can’t picture myself wanting to ever be with anyone else. Eddie’s the one!” She took another sip of beer.
“Do mom and dad know?”
She shook her head. “This is your big day. I’ll tell them later. No rush here. We eloped, didn’t want a fuss. We couldn’t care less about having a wedding or a party or anything. We just did it for us. No need for a production.” Trish cleared her throat and averted her eyes from mine. “I didn’t mean…” She bit the side of her lip, stopping herself from going any further. “Sorry.” She muttered through clenched teeth.
I shrugged. “Well, congratulations Trish Hampson”. I meant it, I knew she was genuinely happy.
“No. Still Trish Jane. He took my last name. Trish and Eddie Jane.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d never heard of a guy taking the girls last name. Leave it to Trish to defy traditional rules. “I love it!” Trish was exactly who she wanted to be and until now, I’d never outwardly admired her for that. I’d always chalked her up to being weird, different, artsy. I was suddenly seeing her in an entirely different light. A light I wanted to stand in myself. But she’d taken such a different path than me. She was the free spirit, follow your heart, be kind to all living things girl. I was the planner, the goal setter, the mosquito killer.
Here I was, worried about my parents expectations, Jordan’s expectations, his parents, our wedding guests- and Trish had not only kept her last name and shared it with Eddie, she’s eloped and been married without a long stressful year of planning, without the drama, without wondering if she was making the biggest mistake of her life. She married without telling a soul, because she knew in her heart it’s exactly what she wanted. That’s what I wanted. To know it’s exactly what I want. But I don’t know that. Not right now. Right now I feel like I am going to puke. I want to spend more time talking about Trish’s marriage, but she has nothing more to say on the topic. I guess happy people don’t have a need for gossip. They aren’t trying to find a way to make themselves feel better. They’re just being content, happy. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. It’s not that her life had been any easier. In fact, my guess is that the path she’d carved for herself has been a lot harder. But the reward was so much greater. The reward was true love. The reward was happiness. You just had to be bold to get there. Trish was.
After a few moments of silence, Trish pulls another can of beer from her bag and slides it down the marble coffee table. I stretch out my hand to catch it. “Thanks.” I sigh. “So, what advice can you give me on marriage? Has anything changed for you? Is your relationship better because of it?” I already knew the answers. Nothing changes. It is what it is. Listen to your gut, Casey. But I was dying for reprieve. I wanted Trish to tell me I didn’t have to marry Jordan. I wanted her to swoop in and save me. Call the wedding off for me. Tell me I deserve better. Anything to stop the train wreck from happening.
She blinked. “For us, it hasn’t changed anything. We’re still Eddie and Trish. I wouldn’t want it any other way.” Leaning back into the soft leather of the couch, she finished off her beer. “My advice, if I were you, I’d be sure to keep my last name like I did. Jordan’s last name is-.”
“Wiener. I know.” I spoke before she could finish.
The house smelled like apple cinnamon potpourri. Mom kept that stuff in little glass dishes in every room throughout the house.
“Honestly though, it doesn’t matter what your last name is. Just make sure you’re happy. You love him, right?” She leaned forward, waiting for my answer. She was, of course, anticipating a quick yes.
I sat wide-eyed, silently wondering if I should give her the answer she expected or the answer I felt. Instead of speaking, I shrug. I feel the tears building up behind my eyes, begging to come out and fall to my cheeks, to make a display of themselves. “Trish…” I can’t do it. If I say it out loud it will be real. Then what?
Her mouth forms a perfect O. She already knows my answer. She knows it isn’t yes even though I haven’t said anything out loud yet. So I just say it.
“IthinkI’mmakingabigmistake.” I blurted it out so quickly that my words jumbled together as one. My stomach clenches. The tears spill from my eyes. I said it. It’s out there. It’s real. Now what?
Trish stands and takes a step toward me, leaning down to hug me. We don’t say anything else. We just hug, like the sisters we’ve never been until now. She doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay, because that’s not up to her. Instead she holds me as I sob. A while later, she is still holding me and I am still trembling from saying my words out loud. “Yesa…” she whispers. Yesa is what she called me when we were kids. It’s my name spelled backwards, dropping the c. She hasn’t called me that since I was eight. It’s as comforting as the hug. That one made up word covers me like a warm blanket. “You have a decision to make.” She finishes her murmur. And at those words, I feel my body tense again.
A moment later the front door opens into the living room where we are hugging and I am crying. It is our parents. Mom is dangling the car keys from one hand and holding onto a foil swan of leftovers in the other. Dad stands behind her with an ever present stern look on his face as he closes the door. Both parents turn to squint in our direction, as if they can’t make sense of their two daughters hugging. “How sweet!” Mom breaks in. “Let me grab the camera. This will make a great photo for the wedding album.” She hurries off to find the camera.
Dad looks at us and shakes his head. “Trish, maybe you’ll follow in your sister’s footsteps one day. Make something of yourself.” He nods and walks away as if he’s given a helpful piece of advice.