The disclaimers: Every character who matters is at least 18. A work of fiction (more or less). Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental (for the most part).
After reading a metric crapton of Lit stories, I'm resigned to the unfortunate truth that many ideas and plot devices that I'd imagined I alone conceived of have already been imagined and written by others. So there's an explanation and acknowledgment if you, dear reader, say to yourself "Hey, I've read this before!" or worse still, "He ripped off
." Many have done it far better, others, I humbly think, less so. My hope is that my presentation stands on its own.
Then there's the MC. Some of you will think the MC is too pure, or too shallow, or perhaps a sad, wimpy, whiny excuse for a man. And you're probably correct. And Hayleigh? Trust me, every man has a Hayleigh. She usually exists only in myth and legend, but she lives in his heart and soul as real as any living person. To my gentleman readers, I hope that you recognize her living in yours.
This isn't intended as a BTB story, though there are obvious BTB elements in it. This is a romance. It isn't whether the guy gets the girl, It's whether he gets THE girl. And I know it takes a long time to get there. I've been percolating this story for at least a year. I have a lot to say about finding a soulmate, and let's just leave it at that!
Finally, this is my second submission, so please bear with me as my writing skills mature (one hopes) down the road. The whole story is basically written; I'll publish the rest if the comments justify it. Otherwise, try and try again.
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So you want to know the backstory. I won't tell you everything, becomes decorum prohibits. I'll tell most of it, but you have to understand that I tell the tale through the lens of my own eyes, and my eyes miss a lot. That's how I found myself in my little drama. I suppose the wedding is as good a place to start as any.
My long-awaited wedding was to be held on the second Saturday in June. My fiancé, Jennifer, chose the date. I couldn't argue with her choice. A mid-June wedding fell nicely between our college graduations in May, and our planned move to Chicago for the start of my law school classes in the Fall. We expected the June weather in our middle Wisconsin home town would be near to perfect, though I would have happily married Jenn on the most miserable day the gods could conjure. Rain, sleet, tornadoes, hurricanes, earthquakes, floods, locusts, frogs, whatever. Bring it! As it turned out, the gods conjured up a soul-crushing disaster of a day. A Class-5 shitstorm worthy of a Cecil B. DeMille epic or J.J. Abrams special effects extravaganza. Imagine the Red Sea crashing in on Ramses' charioteers in the Ten Commandments, combined with the eradication of planet Vulcan in the Star Trek reboot.
The ill-will of the gods aside, the weather was even better than could be hoped for. If there ever was a picture postcard day, this was it. Even the morning air smelled good, which wasn't always the case in a medium-size town plopped in the middle of Wisconsin countryside and dairy farms. The omens were good. Never trust an omen.
I awoke earlier than usual, at about six o clock, which didn't surprise me given the subterranean stresses that a wedding imposes. Still, I wanted to savor every minute leading to the ceremony, so I lay in bed for a good hour pondering my undeserved good fortune and imagining over and over that moment when I would lift Jenn's veil and kiss her as my wife for the first time. My wife! Have I mentioned that I was in love?
My mother broke me out of my prenuptial musings. "Tommy! Tommy! Are you awake? It's almost seven o'clock and you have to be at the church by ten!"
Mom was wired, even for her. Her voice bounced off the walls of the stairwell and rattled around my second-story bedroom. Not that it mattered. Today I would overlook just about anything. Just about. I let her know that I heard her, else she would tromp up the stairs and then talk my ears off about a zillion bits of wedding minutia that had already been talked to death. I tried to shout just loud enough so that she would hear me and then carry on with whatever minor frenzy was controlling her at the moment. Frenzied had been the natural order of things for the last week or so. Though I'd never admit it, I loved it. All of it. I know that a wedding is supposed to be the bride's day, but I'd bet that I was even more into the whole thing than was Jenn. Have I mentioned that I was more than smitten?
I told my mother that I'd be down in a few minutes. Time to get rolling. Places to go, things to see, people to marry.
The first order of business was to take some pressure off my bladder. I had played poker into the wee hours with my boyhood pal and best man, Steve, and another groomsman, Angel, who I met a few years ago at a construction job. Angel and I both worked for his father, Alejandro, who started in the trades and ended up owning his own fast-growing construction business. As it turned out, Angel and I attended the same university, but because he was an EE & ME double-major and I wasn't on the engineering track, we'd never met up at school. On the job we started out with friendly arguments over the merits of our favorite sports teams, and after a few months became close friends.
My Uncle Jim, my father's brother, and also a groomsman, left early because he said he would feel "out of place with a bunch of kids." Steve had suggested that we hang out for a few hours at a topless joint an hour's drive or so away, so I could get one final look at what was soon to be off-limits for the rest of my life. I passed, because as I saw it that would have been disrespectful to Jenn. So the bachelor party, such as it was, basically consisted of punking each other and killing off a few cases of LaBatt and Moosehead over the course of several hours of poker and billiards in our finished-out basement game room. My father was particularly fond of his game room. Picture Packers meets Brewers, right down to one entire wall painted as a mural of Lambeau Field on game day. I was almost named Vincent Bartlett. Dad put in a fully-plumbed wet bar, a killer home theater setup, the obligatory poker table, a billiards table, and even a professional quality shuffleboard table. It reeked gloriously of testosterone.
So we stayed in and drank to our hearts' content. No one got truly drunk though. Jenn would have been miffed if any of us showed up with a hangover, and I wanted to be at 100% so I could enjoy the whole ceremony with a clear head. I rolled out of bed and meandered bare-arsed to the bathroom. In my nakedness I remember pondering that Jenn would be the only girl I would have for the rest of my life. I was completely fine with that, and besides, Jenn took care of my needs well enough, all things considered. Have I mentioned that I was stupid in love?
After getting into the nearest clothes at hand I made my way to the kitchen. The familiar smells of a standard Midwest breakfast filled the entire downstairs. Mom and my sister, Danielle-we all called her Danni-were yakking up a storm. As usual. Dad was nearly silent as he scanned the morning paper and sipped at his coffee. As usual. He peered over his paper at me with a pensive expression. Not as usual.
"You and your crew were up pretty late last night. I hope you have enough gas left in your tank to get through the day," remarked my father. His wry smile suggested he was just messing with me, but the edge in his voice hinted at actual concern.
