Wendy Markham - Slightly Married

He tilts his head. “You mean, would I rather be the one calling the electrician and paying him than the one calling the guy who calls the electrician and pays him? Or, better yet, would I rather be the one who gets a bad shock trying to figure out if an electrician is necessary in the first place?”

“You don’t have to be so negative. You’ve never gotten a shock in your life.”

“I’ve gotten plenty, since I meant you.”

His tone is light and I can’t help but grin. “You mean the little lightning bolts of passion, right?”

“Definitely.” He grins and kisses my forehead affectionately. “Whoa. Sparks.”

I make a face at him.

“Come on, Trace. Do we have to discuss this right now? Don’t you think you should try and live in the moment a little? You know…bask in the glow?”

“I’m glowing,” I protest. “Sparking, too. Remember?”

“Maybe on the outside. Inside, you’re fast-forwarding, scheming real-estate strategies…”

“Scheming makes it sound like I’m doing something wrong.”

“Planning, then. Is planning better?”

“Much. And I can’t help it. I’m excited.”

“So am I. Let’s just enjoy it for a while. This is the only time in our lives we’re going to get engaged. So tonight, let’s bask, dammit.” The Candell dimples deepen charmingly.

“I’m basking. I’m definitely basking,” I say with a laugh, feeling a little sheepish. “Basking, glowing, sparking…”

“Good.” Jack gives me a squeeze, kisses my forehead again and opens the fridge.

What I don’t dare admit aloud is that in my heart, I’ve been engaged to him for months—ever since his mother, Wilma, told me he had the heirloom ring in his possession.

We…will raise…a fa-mily…a boy…for you…a girl…for me…

See, I like to be proactive. Not only have I got our entire future mapped out, but I already picked a wedding date. Which reminds me…

“While we’re basking,” I say to Jack, “what do you think of the third Saturday in October?”

“For what?”

He didn’t really say that, I tell myself, watching him grab an Amstel Light, then head to the living room to fish the remote from beneath the toppled stack of magazines on the coffee table.

What he really said was, I would love to marry you on the third Saturday in October, darling.

And he isn’t really turning on the television and flipping the channel to ESPN.

No, in reality, he’s heading for the shower to wash his stinky feet for the romantic candlelight dinner we’re going to have tonight to celebrate our engagement.

Except, he’s not.

“Jack—” I am incredulous, watching him bend over to unlace his dress shoes, one eye on the television “—are you watching TV?”

His gaze flicks in my direction.

“Yes?” he says tentatively. “Why?”

“It’s just—” I break off and try to think of a way to phrase it. A delicate way. Or at least a way that doesn’t involve any four-letter words.

I settle on, “I thought we were basking.”

“We are. I just wanted to check a couple of scores.”

“But…” The mind boggles. “We just got engaged, remember? For the only time in our lives. Don’t you think we should…celebrate? And maybe…talk about the wedding?”

“You mean, plan it?” he asks, wearing the same expression he might have if I asked him to knock over the Bank of New York branch on the corner to prove his love for me.

“Not the whole thing right this second, but we definitely need to set a date.”

“Okay, the third Saturday in October. That sounds good.” He pries his shoe off his foot, then peels off his black dress sock and sniffs it.

Watching him, I have to remind myself that I am head over heels in love with him. So what if he behaves, on occasion, like a caged primate at the Bronx Zoo?

You find him endearing, faults and all. You really do.

You have to, because the moment his little quirks cease to be endearing, it all goes to hell in a handcart.

“I told you my feet were going to stink,” he tells me before tossing the sock in the general vicinity of the laundry in the corner, which I hope to God is dirty.

I smile to show that I have absolutely no problem with stinky feet. No problem at all.

I’m in love, dammit.

“About the wedding…” I say as he bends over his other shoe.

“Yeah?” The other shoe comes off and he’s sniffing that sock now.

Okay, I’m sorry, but he just crossed the line from endearing to freakish.

“Jack…cut it out.”

“What?”

“Please stop smelling your sock.”

“I’m just seeing if it stinks.”

“The other one did. What are the odds that this one doesn’t?”

He makes a face and it sails through the air after its partner. “Zero.”

Mental Note: you are in love with this man. Quirks others might find unappealing—disgusting, even—are charming to you. Going to hell in a handcart is not an option.

I allow myself a moment to get back into a romantic frame of mind before saying again, “If we do go with the third Saturday in October—”

“I thought we just agreed on it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“The number-one place we’d want to have it at is booked all the other Saturdays in October, actually, and by now it’s probably booked that day, too. There aren’t that many other decent places to choose from, so…”

Oops.

I said too much, starting with the word booked.

But instead of asking the obvious—how can you possibly know that, if we’ve been engaged less than an hour and we’ve spent every moment of that time together?—Jack asks, “What number-one place is that?”

“Shorewood Country Club. In Brookside,” I add at his blank look.

“We want to have our wedding in Brookside?”

“My hometown,” I clarify, realizing there must be a crack enclave in the South Bronx also called Brookside. No wonder he’s mixed up and wearing that are-you-out-of-your-mind? expression.

“We never said that,” Jack informs me as he sneaks another glance at the television, where an ESPN reporter is animatedly recapping some game.

“I know we didn’t say that. We never said anything because we never talked about it before,” I point out.

I neglect to add, That’s because you once said something along the lines of “getting married is for assholes.”

Pardon his French.

“I just assumed we’d get married in Brookside,” I say instead.

“Why?”

Realizing a crash course in Nuptials 101 is in order, I patiently explain, “Because weddings are usually held in the bride’s hometown. Kate and Billy’s was in Mobile, remember?”

To Jack’s credit, he doesn’t point out that there’s a tremendous difference between a charming Gulf Coast city and a tiny blue-collar town south of Buffalo on Lake Erie.

To his discredit, he says instead, “Well, since we happen to live in New York, where there are millions of decent places to have a wedding, why wouldn’t we just get married here?”

I’ll admit this gives me pause.

Because, when you come right down to it…he has a point.

Why not just get married here?

Back when I was certain I would eventually marry my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw—which, unbeknownst to me, Will McCraw never once considered—I assumed the wedding would be right here in New York.

That’s because Will didn’t like Brookside. He didn’t like my family, either, I suspect, although he never said it. What he did say, frequently, and in their presence, was that he didn’t like Brookside. Pretty much in those words.

Just one of the many reasons I suspect that all those novenas my mother sent my way for years were probably her pious Catholic answer to voodoo. If there’s any truth to the power of prayer, my messy breakup with Will can be attributed to Connie Spadolini’s direct pipeline to God. Imagine what she could accomplish if she converted all that maternal energy to global causes.