That's Us

Fantasy 2

so bad, but I knew I would just make things worse if I showed up at your parents’ house in the middle of the night. I thought I was going to lose my shit.” Ken planted a kiss on the top of my head and pulled me even closer. At first, I thought he was trying to comfort me, but it might have been the other way around. Harley’s usually playful demeanor was gone, replaced by something uncharacteristically urgent and austere. Hearing the sincerity in his voice made my heart constrict, and in that moment, I realized that I’d been blaming the wrong person. Ken was a grown man who could do and who happily did whatever he wanted. He didn’t have a curfew. I did. And I was the f**k-up here. I kept my face snuggled into his chest, into his musky T-shirt that smelled like gasoline fumes and cigarettes. He smelled like a car guy, my car guy. “It’s not your fault, Ken . This s**t is on me,” I said. Ken took half a step away and held me by my upper arms so that I was forced to look at him. What I saw was heartbreaking. His beautiful, mischievous face had been transformed into something I barely recognized the dull bloodshot scowl of a man who’d been up all night, drinking and thinking, both to excess. Even his carefree blond pompadour had disappeared, shoved under a black woolen beanie that matched the circles under his eyes almost as well as it matched the atmosphere between us.

“No, it’s on me. All my life, I’ve just done what I wanted when I wanted and said, f**k the consequences. I wanted you to stay with me, so I did whatever it took to make that happen, even after I’d promised that I would

get you home on time.” Ken’s tone was rough and his volume was climbing. “I just f****d your whole life up because my house feels empty and wrong when you’re not in it.” Ken shoved his hands in his pockets, breaking physical contact with me, then tilted his head back and shouted, “Fuuuuck!” into the sky. I scanned the parking lot to make sure the authorities hadn’t been alerted, then took a step forward and resumed our embrace. Breathing harder now, Ken reluctantly pulled his hands from his pockets, but instead of hugging me back he cupped my face in his palms and tilted it up toward his. Ken continued in a gruff whisper, “You have no idea how sorry I am. I feel like a complete piece of s**t, and I don’t know what to do to make it right. You have to let me make this right, baby.” Ken’s brow was furrowed, and those bloodshot blue eyes bore right into my soul. He was nervously tonguing the silver hoop piercing that wrapped around the center of his big, beautiful bottom lip, and I wanted nothing more than to kiss his fear away. Seeing the pain etched on his face hurt worse than the truckload of despair I’d been hauling around since last night. Who was I kidding? Car or no car, I couldn’t stay away from this man for a day, let alone forever. And as if on cue, Ken, sensing that I was on the precipice of making yet another bad decision, decided to give me one last little push. “I want this to be forever, Lady.” Jesus. Okay, okay. You’re forgiven. Can we go back to being happy now? Trying to lighten the mood and pretend as though I hadn’t just broken up with him in my mind a few hours earlier, I popped two cigarettes into my mouth, lit them both, and smiled as I handed one to Harley. “Is this another proposal? You haven’t asked me yet this week, you know,” I mused. Ken had been asking me to marry him almost daily for the last two or three months, ever since the day he’d found a gaudy gold Cartier ring on the sidewalk outside my work. He’d been coming to see me on my lunchbreak when he spotted it, so naturally, as soon as he’d walked in, Ken dropped to one knee, thrust that little piece of s**t into the air, and proposed to me right in front of my boss and all the good patrons of Pier 1 Imports. It was the first of at least three dozen m humiliating public proposals. While having to repeatedly reject Ken in front of our friends, coworkers, and strangers had started off horribly embarrassing and awkward, over time, it’d become a running joke between us. I was just too damn young, and he was just too damn carefree for either of us to take marriage seriously. But I had to admit, seeing Ken, legendary bad boy with the face of an angel and the body of an ex-con, on bended knee was really starting to grow on me. Ken turned a gleaming impish eye on me and brought his right hand to his chin, as if he were mulling over a quick parking lot proposal. He’s back! My playful Ken! Yes! As he rubbed his oh-so-sexy stubble and scanned the audience of pimply-

faced teenagers watching his every move, my eyes were immediately drawn to the four letters I had etched on his knuckles the night before. Giddily, I squealed, “You really didn’t wash your hand!” and reached for it reflexively.

When my thumb slid across the unexpectedly slippery A and D, I glanced down, searching for the source of the slime, and gasped. The skin around each letter was an angry pink color, and the entire surface was slick with what looked like Vaseline.

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

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Dear Journal,

My first Super Private Journal That Braden Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever entry was perfection, Journal! Perfection! I covered all four objectives an adorable pet name, compliments, spontaneous floor s*x, and a surprise personalized tattoo somewhere visible and brazenly unprofessional. Check, check, check, and check!

None of it was true, of course. Well, some of it was true. Ken did have tattoos. He did have a shock of blond hair, pretty puppy-dog eyes, and a big ol’ pouty pierced bottom lip. He did ask me to marry him all the time with a shitty little piece-of-s**t ring he’d found on the ground. And he did call me Lady. Swoon. So, the Subliminal Spousal Bibliotherapy seeds have been planted, and evidently, they have already taken root. Just last night Braden and I went to this little bar in Athens to see a local rock legend we really love named Stevie Nicks. While we were milling around waiting for the show to start, I got bored and decided to test the waters a little bit. Braden and I had the following conversation.

I glanced at Braden to open the conversation, and slowly reached my hands to show him, "So, Stevie posted a photo of his new tattoo on f*******: yesterday, and it’s pretty badass. He got this Microphone pop–style

on the back of her hand with his dad’s name going across it in a banner. It looks so good."

Braden looks pale and said, "I’ll bet he got it next door. That place is open twenty-four hours and always looks busy." he said with poker face. I immediately took my phone away and said "Oh, yeah? Maybe we should stop by there after the show." I was shocked of what he said, "You looking to get some new ink?" but pretended like I am not, "No, but you are." he faced me and responded, "Oh, am I?" I smiled a little and, "Yep. You’re gonna get a heart with my name on it." he looks confused but he seems wants to do it for me, "And where am I going to get it?" I responded, "Somewhere highly visible like your neck probably. Or the back of your hand, like Butch. YES! Oh my God, that would look SO good! You have to, Braden! A heart with my name in a banner across it right on the back of your hand! It would be soooo romantic!" If I would see myself I would probably looking likea kid with sparkles in the eyes. "What about on my forearm?" he said. I crossed my arms, "Why? So, you can hide it? Like you hide your love?", "Um, no. Because I like forearm tattoos. But if I did get one, it would be a compass rose, not a heart." I smiled and asked, "Would it still have my name on it?" "Nope." I was mad, "WHY NOT?!?! I gave you two beautiful children and all of my best years, motherfucker!" I shouted. "Exactly. I don’t want the name of some old lady with two kids on my arm." Needless to say, the tattoo objective is going to take some morework. So, while we’re waiting to see if I can covertly manipulate my husband intomaking some poor and very permanent choices, how about I tell you the realstory behind one of my own very poor choices, Ken?