Chapter 21

The major problem is that she got caught. He had the subtlest net of all; actually winning her heart.

Suddenly the images of the three of us were shattered. They survived Jodi’s wedding, since Tyler fit so perfectly into the freeze frame in my mind. He seamlessly wooed her and wed her and nestled into the ample folds of fabric in her life. It all happened when I was away. I don’t really know their story. What I do know is that their apartment is modest and warm, that they love each other dearly, and that she seems so peaceful.

I think this is the one I want, she said. She admired herself, her tiny form twisting in the gathered satin.

It was beautiful. Really stunning. It was strapless satin with the perfect gathers and twists to accent the smallness of her waist, the flawless lines of her arms. When she walked it slinked.

It’s funny, how girl’s minds work. We wrap so much of ourselves- our worth, our style, and our beauty- into one day. We think that if the bouquet is too small, the lights too bright, or our dress to cheap that it will somehow reflect on the future that we are just beginning. In reality, it should be the least stressful day of your life. When you get to promise yourself forever to the man who has captured your heart- or something like that. So why does it matter what food you serve, what music you play, or what dress you wear?

And yet it does.

She sauntered in and looked at Anna. Her face fell. She stood there looking concerned, as Anna blurted out you don’t like it!

No. I don’t.

She crumpled. Like one of those little pencil sharpeners they used to sell at the zoo. The ones with an elephant or a giraffe on top, and when you squeeze them, the animal tumbles into a heap. She crumpled as if someone had simultaneously removed all the bones in her body at one time. And as tears filled her eyes, blood filled the capillaries in her chest, arms, neck and face. Her skin grew splotchier and redder as the tears poured down her face. And I remembered.

Her eyes get bluer when she cries.

As she hung up the phone with her mom, I pulled her into my arms. I felt her tears, hot and bitter, as they trickled down my skin. Once someone’s tears roll down your chest, there is no turning back. Not that there was any option at this point anyway.

Like drug addicts sharing a needle, I said.

We were trying to put our friendship into words. One of those conversations that only happens when everyone else leaves, and the lateness of the hour and the exorbitantly high sugar content of the food you’ve eaten leaves everyone slightly delirious. It’s like when addicts are coming down from a high. It makes you think.

It’s not even worth it to say yes anymore. To handsome strangers with intriguing accents and persistence that could make a mosquito jealous. They used to be fascinating, something to experiment with and explore. They’d take me to dinner or out to a show. Driving. They’d take me to scenic views and pour honey into my hears. Eres tan bonita they’d say. Quiero besarte. What do you do once flirting becomes a bore and superficial conversations become itchy? Just sitting there listening to such moronic filth makes me feel like someone has poured thistles in my prom dress. I just want to leave the formality and get the pestering little buggers off of me.

What is it like to have a conversation with the man who will share your bed, your home, and your heart for the rest of your life?

No one ever understands. Buck, he is starting to get it. That when you marry one of us you get a package deal. You don’t just get one of us; you get us all.

They met over 3 years ago, as both were sworn to a level of chastity that only priests and nuns could understand. As they sweat and toiled over a new alphabet, they would talk. They would attract attention. They would be scolded for giving such singular attention to another.

Over the next 18 months, her hair would grow darker. Armenian winters will do that to you. He would lose a lot of weight. Armenian winters will do that too, if you let them. She would get sick and quiet and lose the alacrity that causes women to mimic her and men to follow her. She would conform to the image of what people thought sister missionaries should be; quiet, dignified gospel mules, carrying a message as the beasts of burden carry food and materials. Completely stifling the innate sparkle, the subtle sex appeal she was born with. At times they even convinced us that it was our fault for being born with such a bawdy hair color. At least they convinced me. I think she had an inner strength that made her know that being attractive is not a sin. She would obey complacently as they told us that wearing our hair down was inappropriate. Then they said it was hair dye or a hat. She wore a hat. I dyed mine. By that point I saw the color of my own hair as a curse, a problem, a source of all my stress. But not her.

Even when that man chased them on the railroad tracks, she knew it was not her fault. She knew that being beautiful is a gift. Even as other Sisters would say she craved that kind of attention. That she acted a certain way to earn it. She knew. More than I knew. Knew that it was, for lack of a more expressive word, crap. So as I cowered home, redheaded and dejected, she stood forward, beautiful, bold, and blonde, and declared to the jealous women that secretly craved to be her, and the men who silently stereotyped her that she was who she was. That god had made her that way. And that she wasn’t changing.

Who knew a hair color could say so much, huh?

She would be home for over a year before anything would happen. Men came and left, growing more and more entranced with her beauty of mind and heart as they grew more and more impatient with her passion for life and her indecisiveness, he waited.

And then he cast his net. Weaved of sparkling honesty, of boyish charm. Of controlled heat. Of trust, simple and pure. And as she swam along, he surrounded her. All the shimmering warmth of his embrace. They forgave each other and learned to love. Before she had realized what was going on, he had completely caught her. Offered her a tank in which to swim. A big, lovely tank. Where she would always have enough food and she would be protected from predators. Where she would never consider the miracle of other fish again. There are other fish in the sea, just not for her.

What are you doing, what is that, what are you doing?! She exclaimed, more and more frantic with every syllable.

I don’t know! He answered. Honesty.

Before we all expected, even before he expected, they had committed themselves to one another. She had voluntarily put the diamond on her hand, baffling the world and him with her consent.

And now he is starting to understand. He watches as she makes decisions, determined to please everyone else along with herself. What do you call the opposite of bridezilla? Bridemegalon? Bride Japanese tourist?

Skilled fisherman. Tyler and Buck. Gentle, skilled fisherman.