My One and Only. Kristan Higgins
all the necessary qualities of a husband…he just needed a little shove into full adulthood.
Actually, I had right here next to my plate a honey-do list to help Den on that front. Get a second job, as he had too much free time as a firefighter and really shouldn’t be playing Xbox as much as I knew he did (or downloading porn, which I suspected he did). Get rid of the 1988 El Camino he now drove—one door green, all other parts rust—and drive something that didn’t make him look like an impoverished pimp. Cut off the rattail, because please! It was a rattail! And lastly… Move in with me. Despite our four or five nights a week together, Dennis still lived in a garage apartment he rented from his brother. I had a two-bedroom house on the water.
My plan had been to wait till he accepted my offer, then pass over the list and discuss.
But he wasn’t accepting.
I confess that I was a little confused. I asked Dennis for very little and accepted him the way he was—a good guy. Sure, he was still something of a kid, but that was fine. Though I wasn’t one to get all sticky with proclamations, I loved Dennis. Who didn’t? A native Islander like myself, Dennis was mobbed by friends wherever we went, from the guys who worked on the ferry to the road crew to the summer people who occasionally dropped in at the firehouse.
Granted, maybe he wasn’t the, uh, most intellectual man on earth, but Dennis was kindhearted and quite brave. In fact, he’d saved three children from a house fire his second week on the job a few years ago and was something of a local legend. And speaking of kids, Dennis was very good with them, natural and at ease in a way I’d never been, despite my hope to have kids of my own one day. Dennis, though—he’d get on the floor and roll around with his seven nieces and nephews, and they adored him.
And—one couldn’t rule this out—Dennis liked me. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you how many men got that retracting-testicles look when they learned what I did for a living. Women too, as if I was a pox on our gender just because I facilitated the end of crappy marriages. There was a fair number of people who’d cheerfully slash my tires after I’d signed on to represent their spouses. I’d been called a bitch (and worse), had coffee thrown in my face, been spit on, cursed, threatened and condemned.
I took it as a compliment. Yes, I was a very good divorce attorney. If that meant a larger-than-normal percentage of the population owned voodoo dolls with red hair and a tight gray suit, so be it. In fact, I’d met Dennis when my car was rammed by an angry wife and the MVFD had to cut me out (no injuries, and a nice damages award from Judge Burgess, who had a soft spot for me). “Wanna grab a beer? I get off in half an hour,” Dennis had said, and more shaken than I’d let on, I agreed.
He didn’t seem scared by my reputation as a ballbuster. Wasn’t intimidated by my healthy paycheck, funded by the dissolution of happily-ever-after dreams. So yes. Dennis liked me. Though I didn’t sigh with rapture when I looked in the mirror, I knew I was attractive (very, some might say), well dressed, hardworking, successful, smart, loyal. Fun, too. Well…sometimes I was fun. Okay, sure, there were those who’d disagree with that, but I was fun enough.
All in all, I thought we could be very content. And content was vastly underrated.
As I well knew, marriages were fragile birds of hope, and one in three ended up as a pile of dirty feathers. In my experience, the vast majority of those were the oh-my-darling-you-make-my-very-heart-beat variety…the type that so often ended in a pyre of hate and bitterness. Comfort, companionship and realistic expectations…they didn’t sound nearly as glam as undying passion, but they were worth a lot more than most people believed.
There was one more reason I wanted to get a commitment from Dennis. Soon, I’d turn thirty-four, and when that happened, I’d be the same age as my mother the last time I saw her. For whatever reason, the thought of being (alone, adrift) single…at that age…it felt like a failure of monumental proportion. In the past few months, that thought had been pulsing in a dark rhythm. Same age as she was. Same age as she was.
Dennis was silent, his napkin now confetti. “Dude, listen,” he finally said. “Harp. Er. Harper, I mean. Uh, hon…well, the thing is…”
At that moment, Audrey Hepburn’s whispery voice floated from my purse—“Moon River,” the song indicating a call from my sister. Like Audrey, my sister was lovely, sweet and ever in need of protection. She’d moved to New York recently, and I hadn’t heard from her much these past few weeks.
“You wanna take that?” Dennis asked hastily.
“Um…do you mind?” I said. “It’s my sister.”
“Go right ahead,” he answered, practically melting in relief. “Take your time.” He drained the remaining half of his beer and turned again to the Boston Red Sox.
Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker… “Hi, Willa!”
“Harper? It’s me, Willa!” Though my stepsister was twenty-seven, her voice retained a childlike chime, and the sound never failed to bring a smile to my face.
“Hi, sweetie! How’s the Big Apple? Do you love it?”
“It’s so great, but Harper, I have news! Big news!”
“Really? Did you find a job?”
“Yes, I’m, um, an office assistant. But that’s not my news. Are you ready? Are you sitting down?”
A chilly sense of dread laced through my knees. I glanced at Dennis, who was focused on the ball game. “Okay…what is it?”
“I’m getting married!”
My hand flew to my mouth. “Willa!”
“I know, I know, you’re gonna have kittens, and yes, we just met a couple weeks ago. But it’s like kismet, is that the right word? Totally real. I mean, Harper, I’ve never felt like this before! Ever.”
Crotch. I took a breath, held it for a few seconds, then released it slowly. “I hate to be a buzzkill, Willa, but that’s what you said the first time you were married, honey. Second time, too.”
“Oh, stop!” she said, laughing. “You’re a total buzzkill. I knew you’d freak, but don’t. I’m twenty-seven, I know what I’m doing! I just called you because…oh, Harper, I’m so happy! I really am! I love him so much! And he thinks I walk on, like, water!”
I closed my eyes. Willa had married her first husband when she was twenty-two, three weeks after Raoul had been released from prison; the divorce followed a month later when strike three came after he robbed a bead store. (I know. A bead store?) Husband #2, acquired when my sister was twenty-five, had come out of the closet seven weeks after the wedding. Only Willa had been surprised.
“That’s great, honey. He sounds, um, wonderful. It’s just… Marriage? Already?”
“I know, I know. But Harper, listen. I’m totally in love!”
So much for live and learn. “Going slow never hurt anyone, Wills. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Can’t you say you’re happy for me, Harper? Come on! Mama’s totally psyched!”
This was not a surprise. My stepmother, BeverLee of the Big Blond Hair, lived for weddings, whether in the family, the tabloids or on one of the three soap operas she watched religiously.
“It’s just fast, that’s all, Willa.”
Willa sighed. “I know. But this isn’t like those other times. This is the real deal.”
“You just moved two months ago, honey. Don’t you want to enjoy the city, figure out what you really want to do for a living?”
“I can still do that. I’m getting married, not dying.”
There was an edge in my sister’s voice now, and I figured I’d dangle a carrot. “True enough. Well, this is exciting. Congratulations, honey! Hey! I’d love to throw you guys a big wedding out here on the Vineyard. All the good places are booked for this fall, no doubt,