The Mother Road (35 page)

I pump into her until there is no more orgasm left in my body, and I collapse on top of her. Her hands immediately go to my back and her fingers make small, circular motions, comforting me. I bury my head in her neck and smell her brilliant strawberry scent, probably for the last time.

“I’m still mad at you,” she whispers, clearly spent from our love making.

Did you catch that? I said love making not fucked, sexed or…porked. To me, that was love making because I couldn’t imagine feeling this all-consuming euphoria with someone if I wasn’t in love.

I love Marley, always have, always fucking will.

Do you know what the most devastating thing is about being in love? You would do pretty much anything for that person, even if it meant setting them free so they can grow and be the person they’re meant to be.

My love for Marley is strong enough for me to let her go; too bad my heart is still battered and bruised from the first time I said goodbye.

**MARLEY**

I’m literally on my last nerve.

Annoyed, frustrated, irritated, angry…all feelings coursing through my body right now. Why, you ask? Because my brother has turned into one of those glittered out, over-baked bridezillas who is never happy until the wedding is actually over.

I started my day at the ripe hour of five in the morning. Thanks to my late night sex-capades, I didn’t get back to my room until almost four, which gave me an hour of sleep. Paul came charging into my room, dancing around in a robe, and stating to the world that he was getting married to the most beautiful woman he’s ever met.

I give the guy credit for being romantic and excited about his own wedding, but when a girl is nursing a rocked out vagina and trying to catch a little shut eye, the last thing she wants is her brother prancing around like a deer who got high on a mixture of drugs, serenading the world about his impending nuptials – kind of like he’s Julie Andrews, on top of a Swiss mountain singing about the hills being alive with the sound of music.

What I really wanted to do was stay the night at Porter’s and wake up to his arms wrapped around me and his beard rubbing against my bare shoulder. But that didn’t happen. Nope, I was told to go back to my room. Want to talk about feeling like a used, wet blanket? Have the guy you’re in love with tell you to leave his bed before you can even talk to him about your “situation.”

That’s what I’m calling it, because what else can you call it? A relationship? No, we border the line of fuck buddies more than a relationship. Then we have Paul and my dad to worry about.

Christ, Paul would probably scream like a hyena getting his balls twisted off if he ever found out about what Porter and I have been doing behind his back. That’s not something I want to witness, at least if nothing ever happens with Porter.

After Paul woke me up in a
My Fair Lady
kind of way, I proceeded to make everyone in the house breakfast, which included Porter. When he came into the kitchen, his eyes blazed when he saw me, but then turned neutral when he saw Paul gabbing away at the counter, chin in hands, and kicking his feet in excitement.

We stole a moment together when he helped me clean up the mess from breakfast, but it was a short-lived peck to the forehead before Paul started screaming for Porter to help him trim his beard appropriately. He’s a twenty-six year old man who doesn’t know how to properly trim his own beard. He blamed it on nerves; I blame it on the fact that he’s a needy little puke.

Once the beards were trimmed and I was left cleaning up the clippings in the bathroom—do you feel the tension starting to rise? – Paul felt his skin was looking pale and asked me for any beauty tips for exfoliating his skin to bring out his natural glow. Not wanting to dive deep into my beauty repertoire, I told him about a baking soda facial mask we could make, which then resulted in my dad, Paul, Porter and myself all wearing facial masks for twenty minutes and watching college football on TV.

In between taking care of Paul, I made sure to tend to Savannah, who thought it would be fun to get ready in the RV. A good thought, but not when the bathroom had days-old crusted clippings, pee, and toothpaste attached to it. That’s how I found myself cleaning it so Savannah was comfortable on her wedding day.

I took pictures before I cleaned for bribery purposes. Paul owed me. I’m thinking maybe a two-hundred dollar gift card to Sephora would do. I will bring that up later when I tell a little white lie about Savannah freaking out about walking down the aisle and how I saved the day by calming her down.

I don’t mind lying to Paul; I don’t mind it all.

The wedding was beautiful. Savannah looked gorgeous in a cream lace trumpet dress that hugged her every curve. Paul and Porter both wore well-tailored midnight blue suits with white shirts and dark orange ties.

Me? I was stuck in a “rustic” orange long satin dress that was probably the least flattering dress Savannah could have picked. But, hey, it’s not my day. I just feel bad for her pictures. Photographing terrible decision making is never fun for those who look at the pictures later on down the road.

Paul cried, anyone shocked by that? But instead of his weasel like crying that makes you want to pluck his nostril hairs, he gently leaked tears as Savannah walked toward him. It was sweet.

During the picture-taking, Porter kept telling me how beautiful I looked, but I could see a little humor in his eyes on occasion. What’s a guy really going to say when you’re wearing a dress full of sashays and giant bows? It was when Savannah brought out cowboy hats that I had to put a stop to the
Gone with the Wind
meets
Howdy Doody
compilation. I left the hat wearing to Paul and Savannah, who owned it while pretending to ride a sack of hay. Have I mentioned they’re perfect for each other?

Now that I’m finally enjoying the reception, all beard clippings are taken care of, and I’m finally wearing mascara for the first time in several days, I can try to breathe, even though Porter is only a few feet away talking to a family friend.

You can really judge a man by the way he wears a suit. He is confident if he tailors it specifically to his body, making sure his butt is on display and his shoulders are defined. Looking Porter up and down, I can tell he’s a confident, prideful man. He holds his beer by gripping the neck, not the bottom of the bottle, his hand that doesn’t hold his beer is casually hanging in his pocket, and his body language is inviting to everyone. Sex radiates off of him and it’s killing me just to watch him from afar, wondering what tonight might bring, if he will actually want to talk to me.

“If I didn’t find my Pauly, I might have gone after Porter,” Savannah says, sitting down next to me. “He’s incredibly sexy.”

“Uh, sure,” I say, a little uncomfortable.

“I can see why you hooked up with him.”

“Excuse me?” Shock and fear run down my spine. “Savannah, where did you hear that from?”

Casually, she takes a sip of her wine. She never drinks; if she does, it’s a glass of wine and that’s it, but by the soft sway in her shoulders, I can tell she’s had one too many glasses. “Paul and I were talking about it while eating dinner. Those mashed potatoes were to die for. Weren’t they?”

“Wait, Paul knows? Does my dad?”

“Pretty sure. I guess they talked about it with Porter last night. He seemed casual about the conversation.”

“Who seemed casual about the conversation?” I watch Savannah sway to the music, and if it wasn’t her wedding day, I would slap her in the face and force feed her coffee until she was sober enough to tell me all the information. Instead, I exercise my inebriated human patience.

“Porter was casual. I asked him about it. He just laughed.”

Laughed? My gaze falls on Porter, who is still talking to family friends. He looks at me, smiles, and then turns back around to his conversation. Why the hell would he laugh? Did he deny it?

“What did Porter say? Did he deny what happened?”

Savanah giggles. “No, he said you were like his little sister.”

See the steam billowing around me? That’s because my stomach is a tea kettle at boiling point right now and the steam is pouring out of my ears. I’m ready to rage.

He said I’m like his little sister? Well, if that’s the case, we did some pretty incestual stuff last night.

“When Paul told me about you two, I was super excited, but he told me to calm down. Apparently, you two are just a fling; at least that’s what Porter said. Nothing serious, just a little fun.”

Don’t get mad at Savannah; she’s drunk and it’s her wedding day. Do not slap her, I repeat, do not slap that drunken slur of a smile off her face.

“Just a fling?” I ask, teeth grinding.

“I guess so, but what a fling. You couldn’t have chosen a more perfect man, well besides Paul, to fling it with. But flinging it with Paul would be gross.”

“My bride!!” Paul wobbles over to us, beers in his hands and his arms outstretched. “You’re magnificent. I’m so going to go down on you tonight.”

“Paul! Jesus,” I shudder, trying to scrub that visual out of my mind. In the most disgusting way possible, he’s sticking his tongue out at Savannah and making short, nauseating flicks, while Savannah sits in front of him and claps. “Can you two stop? That is beyond disturbing.”

“You’re just jealous your fling with Porter is over,” Paul says, sitting right next to me. He tickles my chin and says, “Get some good lovin’ on the trip, sis?”

I don’t mind hitting Paul at all. I slap his hand away and say, “Don’t touch me and why the hell do you know that?”

“It was so obvious. Dad and I laughed about how you thought you were so clever sneaking out of Tacy. We’re not idiots, Marley.”

Embarrassment washes over me. I could handle Paul knowing…for the most part. But my dad? That’s a different story. I don’t want him to ever know me as a randy lady.

“And you talked to Porter about it?” Fishing for information from your drunk brother is totally legit, especially after having to put up with all his prissy, obsessive tendencies.

“Yeah, he’s over it.”

The way Paul says, “He’s over it,” so casually is a stab to the heart. Was last night the last hurrah for Porter? And if it was, why even talk about it with my family? Why not deny it? Now I just look like an idiot who can’t keep it in her pants.

“Gahhh, I got beer on my suit jacket!” Paul screeches. Leaning on me, he presses his suit jacket against my dress.

“What are you doing?” I try to back away, but Paul won’t let me.

“Using your dress to soak up the beer.” He breathes directly on my face, the smell of wet bread stinging my nose. “It’s hideous and you’re just the bridesmaid…tend to me.”

“Get off me,” I shove him, but he goes nowhere.

“Beer, get the beer out,” he mumbles, pressing his jacket against my thigh, creating a very awkward situation for the both of us. “The beer is staining my jacket, Marley. Why aren’t you helping me?”

“Maybe because your breath has disintegrated all of my brain cells.”

“Not like there were many!” Paul laughs and lifts his beer before dropping it right on my lap. “Boom, mic drop.”

Beer splashes up my dress and pools in my lap.

“Paul, what the hell?” I slap him with my bouquet, which he catches in his hand and sniffs.

“Aw, are you feeling ugly? Don’t worry, no one will think I spilled beer on you, they’ll just think you peed yourself.”

“How is that better?”

He laughs, a full on belly laugh. Grabbing my small bouquet, he sticks it in the back of my head as an accessory to my hair and claps. “It’s not, but that bouquet is just divine on you.” He lifts off of me and calls out to everyone at the wedding. “Everyone, don’t worry, I didn’t spill my beer on Marley, she just peed her pants. She had an underdeveloped urethra as a child, so I can see why she might have problems now. Don’t judge her; embrace the piss.”

“Paul, shutting the hell up right now might do you some good,” I say through clenched teeth.

At this moment, I wish I had venom that shot out of my mouth whenever I wanted; I would peel Paul’s skin off his face with my freaking snake serum shooting out of my pissed off glands.

“Don’t tell me to be quiet on my wedding day.” Paul stumbles as he rises on his rickety log legs. He pulls Savannah into his side and kisses her on the head. “We want to thank you all for being here, and despite Marley stealing the show with her underdeveloped urethra, we can’t tell you how happy we are you came. Last night, I talked to my best friend Porter about his intentions with my sister…”

“What are you doing? Sit down. Sit down now,” I pull on his suit jacket, but he just drunkenly swats me away.

“I thought we were going to have another wedding on our hands, but turns out, it was only a fling and he sees Marley more as a little sister.” There is a collective “aw” in the crowd. “I know, we were touched by the sentiment too. Porter will find his special someone one day. Marley, she will grow to be an old pilly-cardigan-wearing bag lady with a snaggle tooth. But we will still love her.”

Paul turns to me and tickles my chin again. This time, I grip his hand and twist it to the point that he bends and screams.

“I told you to shut up.” I’m standing over him now, hand twisted just enough that he’s feeling pain through his alcohol-clouded head, while pure, dragon-slaying rage pours out of me.

“Marley, let go of your brother.”

Dad is holding a beer in his hand…a beer!!

“Dad are you drinking?”

“Porter gave it to me. Told me to relax.”

Porter steps into the McMann massacre, closing off the circle. “He seemed stressed about Paul getting married. I thought it would be good for him.”

“He doesn’t drink!” I shout, while letting go of Paul’s hand, who crumbles to the ground, clenching his hand and holding it up to the sky, praying to God to sacrifice him.

“I’ve had only a little bit, Marley. I’m a grown man; I know what I’m doing.”

I turn to Porter and stick my finger into his chest. He glances down at my dress and does the worst thing he could possibly do in this situation, he smiles.