Don't Kiss the Bride

“Aw,” I say over the lump forming in my throat. “That’s so sad. But it sounds like you guys gave him a good life.”

“We did. Jude’s much more sensitive than he lets on. He took his parents’ divorce so hard. And then after Erin…” She exhales a deep sigh. “He was never the same. The drinking, then the drugs. All that self-destruction. We worry about him.”

I don’t know what to say about Erin. Do I offer condolences? Remark on how tragic it all is? Just not say anything?

“He’s clean now. So, that’s a good thing,” I say optimistically. “He seems to be doing great.”

“He is. But honey, forgive me for saying… I know you two keep saying your marriage isn’t real. But if there’s a chance for more, I think he’d make you very happy. He deserves to have someone love him. To take care of him like he tries to take care of everyone else. It’s so hard for him to trust and let people in.”

I nod and swallow back unexpected tears. “You’re right. He does deserve that.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that will never be me. That’s not what Jude signed up for.

And I feel awful that him marrying me might prevent him from finding the right woman.

“I’ve probably said too much,” she says apologetically. “But I can’t help myself. He’s like a son to us.”

“You didn’t say too much. It’s all very sweet. Do you have any children?” I hope it’s not rude to ask, but I’m too curious not to.

“No, that wasn’t part of the plan for us. But we love Jude and Erin like our own.”

“He’s lucky to have such a loving family,” I say, wishing I had relatives like this. I did, at one time. My grandparents were sweet and supportive. Like Jude, I also spent weekends and holidays with them to “give my mother a break,” as my grandmother would say. It wasn’t really to give my mother a break, though. It was to get me out of her house for a while so I could have some normalcy. Many times, my grandparents tried to convince my mom to let me live with them, but she refused and threatened to not let them see me at all. To her, I was one of the things that belonged in her pile of stuff.

“You’re part of the family now, too,” Aunt Suzy says, wiping her hands on a towel. “Actually, I have something for you.”

“For me?” I ask in surprise.

“Yes, I’ll be right back.”

I wonder what she could possibly have for me as she darts from the kitchen and goes down the hall toward what I assume are the bedrooms.

“Okay,” she says, when she returns a few moments later. “I think you’ll love it.”

She hands me a white, folded T-shirt. I slowly unfold it, dumbfounded as to why she’d be giving me a shirt. The fabric is soft, so threadbare that it’s almost transparent. The neckline and hem are worn to a fray, and several tiny holes are scattered on the garment.

I stare at the light-blue guitar and dove logo on the front, trying to remember where I’ve seen it before.

And then it hits me.

“Oh my God.” My words are slow. I’m overcome with shock. “Is this what I think it is?” My hands shake as I hold the shirt open and run my finger over the iconic Woodstock logo.

“It sure is. Jude told me how much you love old music and vintage clothes. I’d love for you to have it. I haven’t worn it in years, but there was a time when I lived in it, as you can tell. I hate that it’s sitting in a drawer.”

“I can’t take this,” I say, trying to hand it back to her. “This is rare. And special. It must be worth money—”

She pushes it back to me. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t care about that. I’d love for you to have it. Please.”

“A-are you sure?” I ask.

She smiles reassuringly. “I’m positive.”

“I’m speechless.” I hold the soft shirt against my chest. “I don’t even know how to thank you for something so amazing. I love it.” I gently hug her. “Thank you, Aunt Suzy.”

I can’t believe she just gave me a genuine, authentic Woodstock T-shirt. I have a lot of cool shirts, but none of them come close to the epic-ness of this one. And it means even more that it came from Jude’s aunt.

We go back to chopping vegetables, and she tells me all about her Woodstock experience. She says the next time we come over, she’ll show me photos of old concerts, Jude as a little boy, and the squirrel. She’s excited to show me her record collection. I’m fascinated, but my mind is spinning with emotions.

She’s an incredibly sweet woman, and it’s clear she absolutely adores Jude. Guilt is eating away at my conscience—being in their home as a pretend wife, being treated like real family. A ball of sadness has crept up into my throat. If this were real, I think I would’ve grown to like this. I’d be looking forward to seeing Aunt Suzy and Uncle Al again and getting to know them.