Don't Kiss the Bride

I had no fucking idea that I’d start to have real feelings for her, or that I’d end up in her bed, kissing and touching her while she was half-naked. Or that I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about her and wanting to be with her.

None of that was part of my plan.

Now, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

“I guess the little hottie lost her wheels,” Kyle says.

“Huh?” I reply absently.

“That chick you took to the ER.” He nods toward the school parking lot. “Now she’s driving a mom car.”

Thankfully, Kyle doesn’t know that Skylar’s mom car is actually my Subaru. Nor does he know that she’s the one I married.

“She’s still hot as fuck, though,” he rambles on, staring at her. “I’ll bet she’s a lightweight. Get one beer in her, and she’ll be drunk off her tight little ass, bouncing on my dick like a fucking pogo stick.”

My blood boils like lava.

I give his shoulder a hard shove. “What the fuck, man?” I say.

He stumbles back and almost falls over his tools. “What’s your problem?”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Saying sick shit like that. She’s fucking eighteen years old.”

And she’s my wife.

Laughing, he shifts his gaze back to Skylar walking across the parking lot. “That’s even better.”

I glare at him. “No, Kyle. It isn’t.”

“You lose your dick somewhere, Lucky? She’s a random hot chick, not your fucking sister.”

When he moves to walk away, I grab the front of his shirt and slam him up against the back of the house. I get a sick satisfaction as the back of his skull bounces off the siding. “Don’t you ever talk about my sister,” I seethe.

His eyes widen, and he grabs on to my arm, trying to loosen my grip. “Dude, calm down. I didn’t mean your sister. I’m just talking shit.”

“Just keep your fucking mouth shut.” I ram my fist into his chest once more before letting him go. “Get back to work.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles as he walks away, straightening his sweatshirt.

I light up a smoke and turn back toward the school. Skylar’s walking with Megan, hefting her book bag onto her shoulder.

A slow smile spreads across my face. I think the book bag weighs more than she does. Every day she brings all of her textbooks home. Even if she doesn’t have a test, she studies every night.

She’s the most unique, beautiful, smart, and adorable woman I’ve ever met in my life. It enrages me that sick assholes like Kyle look at her like she’s some kind of fuck toy.

At noon, I take a lunch break and drive downtown to the jewelers to pick up my aunt’s diamond ring. She’s been calling me every day asking when she’ll have it back. While I wait for the manager to ring me up, I check out the glass cases filled with necklaces and bracelets. Everything is blinding and sparkling.

Speaking of sparkles…

I can see Skylar opening a pretty red velvet box on Christmas morning, squeaking with surprise, and smiling the biggest smile. Probably while wearing footie pajamas with freakin’ red-nosed reindeers on them. Smiling at that mental image, I peer through the glass case at a heart-shaped necklace that would—

Ugh. I can’t.

I bolt out of the store with Aunt Suzy’s ring and nothing else.

Buying Skylar jewelry would send the wrong message. We’re not together. She’s barely said a damn word to me since that night in her bed, and she’s been holing up in her room every night with the door closed. In a way it’s a relief. We got caught in a weak moment and weren’t thinking. Us getting involved would lead to nothing but a mess.

When I get back to the job site, the homeowner is waiting for me, stalking around her backyard wearing workout gear.

“What color will the siding be?” she asks, nodding at the framed-out garage.

“The same color as the house, just like we talked about,” I say, making sure I’ve plastered on my customer is always right smile.

“I don’t know…” Mrs. Thompson says, studying the house, then the garage. “Maybe it should be a different color. Like a complimentary color. Maybe gray. Or light blue. Even dark blue. Or dark gray.”

Here we go.

“It can be any color you want it to be, but you have to let me know by the end of the week so I can order it. I’ll bring some color charts tomorrow.”

She shakes her head and quirks her mouth to the side. “I’m just not sure. What color do you think it should be?”

“I’m colorblind,” I lie. “So…”

“Oh. What a shame. Well, let me ask my neighbor what she thinks. She’s an interior designer, so she knows all about these things.”

“That sounds great.”

She tucks her long, black hair behind her ear. “We love the work you did on the house. The new rooms are beautiful. Everyone says so when they visit.”