I didn’t know how to go back. Didn’t know how to break off this piece of my soul and give her back. Didn’t know how to sift through the lies and tell her the truth. Didn’t know how to be the man she deserved without losing sight of my goal.
I didn’t know how to hold on to that goal without letting it consume my future.
Chelsea’s wedding narrowed the list of single girls down to two: Megan Gallt and myself. Megan was more in love with Jesus than any man, and would probably be single at least another five years, the pool of men in Quincy too sinful for her tastes. Me … I hadn’t really thought about marriage, not with any of my exes. Not until Brett. But being at a wedding sort of forced your brain in that direction, shoved hopes and dreams down your throat until the moment when you confronted all of it and allowed what if.
What if we got married? We’d have to move to Fort Lauderdale. His job was there, and it was a much bigger job than mine. I didn’t mind moving. Had thought about it before I even met Brett, my restlessness in Quincy finding new ways to emerge: in my snap at a customer, my binge on Netflix series, my scan of big city job search engines late at night. I would happily move. Settle in South Florida, get a new job, find new friends, and we’d jet set back to Quincy a few weeks every year to see my friends and family. Maybe we could have an annual girls’ trip to Atlantis, could relive our bachelorette party weekend.
What if we had kids? Brett would make a great dad. And I’d always wanted a child; my maternal urges sated by the fact that I had become “Aunt Riley” to Tammy, Jena, and Mitzi’s kids. What would it be like to wake up to the sound of a child’s giggle and know we had created that? What was this love that “changed you” and how would it feel to love a baby that much?
What if we grew old together? What if this was it, he was my soulmate and this breathless, nervous excitement that I felt whenever he reached for me, smiled at me – what if it never faded and was there forever? What if our kids had kids, and we retired together and bought vacation homes and went on cruises and played shuffleboard? What if my hair turned white, and he still loved me, and we died like that old couple in Titanic, our hands clasped, us entering heaven within minutes of each other?
What ifs were dangerous. What ifs were terrifying. I watched Brett smile at my mother and stand, reaching for her hand, and she blushed, following him to the dance floor where he carefully spun her around.
What if he broke my heart?
“Want to grab a movie?” I gestured to the brick storefront of Rick’s Movie Rentals. “We could grill burgers and stay in tonight.”
“Sure.” Brett glanced out the window. “I didn’t think those existed anymore.”
I smiled, pulling into the gravel lot. “Watch what you say in public. We’re a no-Redbox town in support of Rick.”
“Really? That written down in the city code?”
I scowled at him. “Might as well be. Walmart stuck one out front—had to replace it three times due to vandalism. They finally gave up after the last one caught fire.”
“Did they catch who did it?”
I laughed. “No, and no one tried. That Redbox would have meant the death of one of our town’s oldest establishments. Plus,” I elbowed him, “if you give Rick the secret word, he’ll let you in the back where the dirty videos are.” I turned off the car, leaving the keys in the ignition, and opened the door.
“Sounds clandestine.”
“Oh, it is.” I leaned against the front door, the chime of bells causing the round man behind the counter to look up with a smile.
“Hey Riley. It’s been a while.”
“Hey Rick. This is Brett—he’s visiting from Lauderdale.”
“Oh, I’ve heard.” The man eased off the stool and stood, reaching a hand across the glass counter. “Nice to meet you. Take good care of our girl, you hear?”
“I’m trying.” Brett smiled.
“Got anything new, Rick?” I called, dipping down the aisle.
“New ones are on the end caps.”
We finally—taking our time, nothing left of the town to see—decided on Die Hard, grabbing some candy and microwave popcorn packets off Rick’s shelf. Brett paid and we returned to the car, cracking open a box of chocolate peanuts for the ride home. I had just pulled out when Brett chuckled from the passenger seat, turning the DVD case over in his hand.
“What?”
“I was just thinking about our first dinner in Aruba. When you asked me to name a movie with singing in it.” He held up the case. “Doesn’t Bruce Willis sing in this? Some Christmas song while he’s running around?”
I tilted my head, thinking. “I think you’re right. Another shining example of your poor answering ability.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think Jerry Maguire endeared you a little to me. Cracked my tough guy exterior.”
“Tough guy exterior?” I laughed. “Please.”
It was odd, being in my normal environment with him beside me. The two of us—out of luxury, no palm trees or ocean waves in the background. My air conditioner blew hot, our burgers got slightly burnt, and the DVD skipped every time things got interesting, but the night was a success.
That night, his body curled around mine, Miller’s body warm on my feet, I fought off sleep. I just wasn’t ready for the day to end and him to fly away in the morning. I had been so nervous about the weekend, the wedding, and all for nothing. Brett had been perfect, complimenting the girls, dancing most of the night on the floor, jumping on stage with the band at one moment and showcasing an impressive ability to—of all things—play the guitar. I’d fallen deeper in love with him at every turn, with every introduction, with each wink he gave me and kiss he stole. It was as if his profession of love had opened a floodgate in my heart, and my body was finally allowing a hundred powerful emotions to pour forth and link my soul to his. I had pulled aside my father early, his gruff exterior becoming even more rigid when I ordered him off of Brett.
I didn’t know how to hold on to that goal without letting it consume my future.
Chelsea’s wedding narrowed the list of single girls down to two: Megan Gallt and myself. Megan was more in love with Jesus than any man, and would probably be single at least another five years, the pool of men in Quincy too sinful for her tastes. Me … I hadn’t really thought about marriage, not with any of my exes. Not until Brett. But being at a wedding sort of forced your brain in that direction, shoved hopes and dreams down your throat until the moment when you confronted all of it and allowed what if.
What if we got married? We’d have to move to Fort Lauderdale. His job was there, and it was a much bigger job than mine. I didn’t mind moving. Had thought about it before I even met Brett, my restlessness in Quincy finding new ways to emerge: in my snap at a customer, my binge on Netflix series, my scan of big city job search engines late at night. I would happily move. Settle in South Florida, get a new job, find new friends, and we’d jet set back to Quincy a few weeks every year to see my friends and family. Maybe we could have an annual girls’ trip to Atlantis, could relive our bachelorette party weekend.
What if we had kids? Brett would make a great dad. And I’d always wanted a child; my maternal urges sated by the fact that I had become “Aunt Riley” to Tammy, Jena, and Mitzi’s kids. What would it be like to wake up to the sound of a child’s giggle and know we had created that? What was this love that “changed you” and how would it feel to love a baby that much?
What if we grew old together? What if this was it, he was my soulmate and this breathless, nervous excitement that I felt whenever he reached for me, smiled at me – what if it never faded and was there forever? What if our kids had kids, and we retired together and bought vacation homes and went on cruises and played shuffleboard? What if my hair turned white, and he still loved me, and we died like that old couple in Titanic, our hands clasped, us entering heaven within minutes of each other?
What ifs were dangerous. What ifs were terrifying. I watched Brett smile at my mother and stand, reaching for her hand, and she blushed, following him to the dance floor where he carefully spun her around.
What if he broke my heart?
“Want to grab a movie?” I gestured to the brick storefront of Rick’s Movie Rentals. “We could grill burgers and stay in tonight.”
“Sure.” Brett glanced out the window. “I didn’t think those existed anymore.”
I smiled, pulling into the gravel lot. “Watch what you say in public. We’re a no-Redbox town in support of Rick.”
“Really? That written down in the city code?”
I scowled at him. “Might as well be. Walmart stuck one out front—had to replace it three times due to vandalism. They finally gave up after the last one caught fire.”
“Did they catch who did it?”
I laughed. “No, and no one tried. That Redbox would have meant the death of one of our town’s oldest establishments. Plus,” I elbowed him, “if you give Rick the secret word, he’ll let you in the back where the dirty videos are.” I turned off the car, leaving the keys in the ignition, and opened the door.
“Sounds clandestine.”
“Oh, it is.” I leaned against the front door, the chime of bells causing the round man behind the counter to look up with a smile.
“Hey Riley. It’s been a while.”
“Hey Rick. This is Brett—he’s visiting from Lauderdale.”
“Oh, I’ve heard.” The man eased off the stool and stood, reaching a hand across the glass counter. “Nice to meet you. Take good care of our girl, you hear?”
“I’m trying.” Brett smiled.
“Got anything new, Rick?” I called, dipping down the aisle.
“New ones are on the end caps.”
We finally—taking our time, nothing left of the town to see—decided on Die Hard, grabbing some candy and microwave popcorn packets off Rick’s shelf. Brett paid and we returned to the car, cracking open a box of chocolate peanuts for the ride home. I had just pulled out when Brett chuckled from the passenger seat, turning the DVD case over in his hand.
“What?”
“I was just thinking about our first dinner in Aruba. When you asked me to name a movie with singing in it.” He held up the case. “Doesn’t Bruce Willis sing in this? Some Christmas song while he’s running around?”
I tilted my head, thinking. “I think you’re right. Another shining example of your poor answering ability.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think Jerry Maguire endeared you a little to me. Cracked my tough guy exterior.”
“Tough guy exterior?” I laughed. “Please.”
It was odd, being in my normal environment with him beside me. The two of us—out of luxury, no palm trees or ocean waves in the background. My air conditioner blew hot, our burgers got slightly burnt, and the DVD skipped every time things got interesting, but the night was a success.
That night, his body curled around mine, Miller’s body warm on my feet, I fought off sleep. I just wasn’t ready for the day to end and him to fly away in the morning. I had been so nervous about the weekend, the wedding, and all for nothing. Brett had been perfect, complimenting the girls, dancing most of the night on the floor, jumping on stage with the band at one moment and showcasing an impressive ability to—of all things—play the guitar. I’d fallen deeper in love with him at every turn, with every introduction, with each wink he gave me and kiss he stole. It was as if his profession of love had opened a floodgate in my heart, and my body was finally allowing a hundred powerful emotions to pour forth and link my soul to his. I had pulled aside my father early, his gruff exterior becoming even more rigid when I ordered him off of Brett.
