Marital Bitch(7)
“So, here’s the thing, pretty girl,” he grins devilishly. I’m sunk and I know it. “We got,” he looks at his watch and presses a button on the side, illuminating the dial, “a little over an hour left until midnight, and your birthday will be over. What do you say we make one of those wishes of yours come true, huh?” I’m confused. I haven’t a clue to what he is referring.
“Huh?” I ask. Before I can see it coming, he drops to one knee. Suddenly, things become very clear, but I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. Obviously, Brad has Vegas fever. People are starting to notice the crazy man on his knee and it’s making me nervous. They seem to have no apprehension about gathering around and watching the show.
“So, you wanna marry me or something?” He is still grinning, there on one knee, and I am mortified. This is so typical—he sees a problem and sets out to fix it.
Sanity be damned!
“What!” I screech, unable to find any control to my volume. I am half-past freaking out and he is the epitome of calm. At least our friends aren’t here to see this. I just want to crawl into a hole and die. With the best of intentions, he has managed to make me feel even more insignificant, and less than, and so terribly alone.
“Dude,” he laughs, “you’re my best friend. You wanted to get married by thirty, and that one’s past, so let’s just do it, okay? And can you answer me soon? My knee is fucking killing me here.” The crowd is getting larger and everyone seems to have an opinion of sorts: Marry him. Ask him where the ring is. I’ll marry you. He’s hot, if she doesn’t marry him, I will. The comments seem endless, though not a one is against the idea.
“Yeah, okay,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “But you do realize that after the wedding we’d be married, right?” The crowd laughs in unison and it’s Brad’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Annulment, pretty girl,” he is winning me over with his logic. And the being on bended knee thing. In my drunken fog, this looks like a viable option.
“People get them all the time. So, come on. Will you marry me, pretty girl?” I shift my weight from foot to foot and back again, making him stew. There is something about Brad that always makes me lose my sense of reason. One time he even talked me into an impromptu trip to the tattoo shop. I chickened out and got a very small flower on my hip bone instead of the beautiful, but large, hibiscus flowers I had wanted to begin with. He didn’t let me live that one down for weeks.
I find my resolve slipping away at rapid speeds. This is Las Vegas. I mean, it’s sort of the thing to do here, right? And I’ll be single again before my vacation is even over, so, why not? Not that being single is so appealing or anything. And a teeny, tiny part of me may think he looks sort of, kind of cute down there, like that.
“Yeah,” I shake my head, “but if we’re going to do this we better get going. My birthday’s almost over.” Brad hops to his feet, grinning, and gives me a fist bump. Our onlookers begin to disperse. I wonder if this is, perhaps, the strangest display they’ve ever seen from a newly engaged couple.
We hail a cab and Brad tells them what we’re looking for. The driver knows exactly what we need to do and he drives us to the nearest ATM, where Brad gets out enough cash for the marriage license; then the cabbie takes us to the courthouse. We get out and Brad pays the guy an advance on his tip to stay put.
It’s a Monday night, so the courthouse is practically empty. Once we start filling out paperwork and handing over the cash, the reality of what I’m doing sinks in; but Brad keeps making jokes about being married and having a story to tell his buddies at the station. He’s really excited about this. Brad is all about having stories to tell his buddies back at the station. I try to convince myself that I’m going through with this in an effort to make my best childhood friend happy. It’s a pitiful attempt. Deep down I know I’m not trying to make him happy. I’m trying to make myself happy, if even for one night.
Back in the cab, Brad ruffles my hair and shakes me into giggles. He’s so carefree and silly. I can’t help but join in the spirit. I had a few stray day dreams as a teenager of what it would be like to be with Brad, and I may have scribbled Mrs. Bradley Patrick and Mrs. Colleen Patrick in a notebook a time or two—or a hundred.
Little does Brad know that by doing this, I’m accomplishing two of my goals without any of the hassle of a real wedding or actual marriage. I resolve to find my old diary in my parents’ attic and jot this down. I’m totally going to make the sixteen-year-old girl inside jealous. Speaking of jealousy, I’ll have to make sure Lisa Wilks hears about this. That woman has hated me since we were in Kindergarten and Brad wouldn’t let her kiss him no matter how many times she tried. He always let me kiss him though.