Steve's therapy, redux

Monday, July 21, 2008, 7:00pm

Dr. Debra Sussman's office

After my illustrious attempt at therapy back in the day, I never thought I would be in a shrink's office again, but here I am.

"Steve, Felicia, come on in," she smiles, as if we were her long-lost cousins.

"Please call me Tim," she says.

Debra extends her arms to hug us, but we hesitate, and she ends up patting our shoulders. It's awkward.

The room seems made for calm reflection, from the maroon couch to the soft carpet and the nondescript wallpaper; though it manages to relax me, I forget what it looks like five minutes after I leave.

"So, what's up?" Debra says, placing her hands in her lap.

"We've been fighting," Tim says.

"Really?" asks Debra, raising her eyebrows, as if she were some kind of accountant or tax adviser who couldn't possibly help us. "What'cha been fighting about?"

"I work late hours at a restaurant in downtown Boston. I barely get to see Steve at all, since he works during the day, and he's really frustrated about it. He never gets to see me, and we're newlyweds, and he feels like we should be spending a lot more time together."

"Is this correct, Steve?"

"Yeah. But she didn't mention that she has wanted a chef job for a long time. This is her lifelong dream, and it's finally coming true, and she needs me to be more understanding about that. She loves me, and enjoys our time togther, but she also needs to be happy and fulfilled careerwise, and this is the only way she sees to accomplish that right now."

Debra looks at me, then at Tim, then back at me. The room fills with silence for what feels like an hour.

"Let me tell you something," she says, matter-of-factly. "You just stated each other's points of view perfectly. Know how I know you did it perfectly?"

We look at her.

"Because you didn't interrupt each other, and you didn't correct each other. Not once. I have couples who have been coming to me for 18 months who still can't do that. You did it the first day!"

She smiles.

"Can we go now?" I ask, and we all laugh.

"Steve, did you know what the hours were when she took the job?"

"Well, yeah, but--"

"So that's a yes?"

I know where she's going. I didn't object when Tim was interviewing for the job, so I have no right to object now. But that's an oversimplification.

"And Tim, you spent a lot more time with Steve before you took this job, right?"

"Yes! But he knew that--"

"So that's a yes also," Debra says.

Good! For a minute there, I thought I was being ganged up on.

"Steve, do you want her to quit?"

"No, I just want more of her time."

"How's she supposed to do that? She works late nights!"

Umm...

"And Tim, do you want Steve to just be happy with the way things are now? Are you happy with the way things are?"

I would really love it if Tim said the right thing here. I'm not going to lie to you: It's hard feeling like I've taken a back seat to my wife's career.

"I miss him," Tim says, looking sadly at me. "I know you might not believe that, Steve, but I miss you so much."

"Me too, Tim."

"So you want me to tell you how you can spend lots of time together while you both work full time on different schedules," Debra says, looking at us.

"No, I told you we were fighting," Tim says. "The problem is the fighting. We're not communicating."

"You're communicating fine," Debra says.

"We're communicating fine today," Tim says. "At home we're screaming and swearing, and..."

"Fighting is not a bad thing, you know."

"It is when it's taking over the marriage," Tim says.

Wow. These two aren't playing around. Better just stay out of their way, for now.

"Steve, do you agree?" asks Debra.

So much for keeping my nose out of it.

"Trust me. We wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to come out here unless it was an emergency," I say. "You know, I just wish--"

They both look at me. "What?" They say in unison.

"No, it's nothing, it was just something stupid."

"Say it," says Debra. "There's no judgment allowed in this room. There are no dumb statements."

"I was just gonna say, I wish we could both stay up all night and spend that time together instead of sleeping. But, I go to work in the mornings, so I have to sleep."

"Wait a minute," Debra says.

"No, I can't pull all-nighters. There's no way."

"You don't have to," she says. "Steve, what time do you get home from work?"

"I dunno. Six-thirty? Seven?"

"And what time do you get home, Tim?"

I see where she's going with this. I get home, eat something, and sleep for seven hours or so, then Tim gets home and we chill out until I go to work.

"You could just sleep when you get home!" Tim says. "Then we can spend time together!"

"I know. But that would screw up our body clocks big time, wouldn't it?"

"This is not a long-term solution, guys," Debra says. "But it sounds like you're not connecting, and you need more time together. Give this a shot. Stay up together and talk about your situation. Talk about your long-term goals as a family. Are you planning on having children?"

"Yes!" Tim says.

"You do realize it's going to get harder when you have kids, right?"

"We know," Tim says, looking at the floor.

"Spend an overnight together and talk about how you're going to fit kids into your schedules. That's your homework," Debra says.

"...I'm guessing Jay Leno is out of the question..."

Marriage was supposed to end my story.

The fancy wedding was the final scene, after which I would say, "...and we've been together ever since." I was supposed to put away my bad habits like out-of-style clothes, and lead an uneventful existence until I the day I end up stuffed into a box wearing a fancy suit. But alas, things have happened.

Tim worked hard to find her job. She networked tirelessly, chased down endless leads, and tolerated every perverted restaurant owner who refused to even consider her for a chef's position because she happens to have a vagina ("You're cute! Why don't you work for me as a hostess? You'd make good money!")

She finally found a sous chef job in downtown Boston. It was far (35 miles), the pay was less than she wanted, and of course the hours were horrible, but she was thrilled.

I was thrilled for her, too. There was joy, pure joy, in her face when she told me the news. She was going to get paid to do something she absolutely loved. I was proud that she persevered, and impressed at how ambitious she was about it all. I knew she would have to work many late nights, including lots of weekends, but we'd find a way to spend time together. We were newlyweds, right?

As it turned out, "many nights" turned out to be five or six a week, "late" meant 1:00 or 2:00 am, and "lots of weekends" translated to every weekend.

At first, I felt better with a shower of kisses, an "I'm sorry, baby" and a cowgirl-style, middle-of-the-night fuck. But it got old fast.

When I wake up for work, she's still sleeping, and when I get back, she's gone, already on her way to the restaurant. I hate coming home to an empty house, with nothing for dinner and everything in darkness. I hate going to bed alone, as if I were a single guy all over again. I got married for companionship, and it feels like I never get any. Call me spoiled, or greedy, or whatever you want, but this sucks.

Tim tries to make it up to me. She didn't dare take a weekend day off for the first six months or so, but then she managed to get a Saturday and Sunday off, and took me to a bed and breakfast in the mountains, where we turned off our cell phones and she catered to me like royalty the whole time. She cooked me everything I wanted, paraded around in sexy outfits, and sucked and fucked me as if it were my last two days on Earth. I did feel a lot better after that, but she had to work 12 days straight to make up for all the favors, and nothing truly changed afterwards.

The argument goes something like this:

"You're never home."

"You supported my career choice; now deal with it."

"I didn't know it was gonna be this bad!"

Add in a few "bitch"s, "asshole"s and "fuck you!"s, and it's more or less a weekly conversation at the Caruso household. It's interesting, in a way, how we can make the exact same points so many times without resolving anything. It occurs to me sometimes that this is how marital problems get started. But that could never happen to Tim and me.

Could it?

Tim says I need to deal with it while she builds her career, since I spent many a long week building mine, and I remind her that I wasn't married or even dating anyone at the time. Every argument has a counter argument; every jab earns a jab in return. We are both too good at arguing, too good at turning things around on each other to make any progress.

Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen if we don't find any common ground on this issue. "If you want me to quit, I'll quit," she always says, but I know she doesn't mean it. If she ever left that job because of me, I'd never hear the end of it. I wonder if we would ever split up because of this.

The arguments keep getting louder, and the problem has infected other areas of our lives. On nights when she's actually home, we usually end up going to bed mad. At a party, if one of our friends mentions working late, we glare at each other. How much worse can it get?

"Why doesn't she just quit?" my brother Chris says. "Her marriage should be more important."

"Says the guy who's fucking around with some young hottie."

Yeah, he's still boning her.

"Different!"

"What about Tim's side? She'll say that it's just her being away from home, and that's not the end of the world either."

"You see your wife two days and two nights a week. That's not enough!"

Wednesday, July 16, 2008, 5:45pm
Steve and Tim's house

I've been in Cincinnati for three days on business. I am exhausted, physically and mentally, and glad to finally be back.

"Nice of you to come home," Tim sneers as I pull my suitcase through the door.

"Wow, three whole days alone, Tim. How did you handle it?"

"You mean three days since I had to do your laundry? And a sink full of dishes?"

"I left at three AM, Tim! How the hell was I supposed to do chores?"

She jumps up from her seat at the kitchen table. She's wearing a powder blue short-sleeve T-shirt that I've always loved on her. It's a little baggier since the breast reduction, but she's still sexy as hell in it. I'm smitten by her, even as she crosses her toned arms across her chest and looks lasers at me.

"Why are you traveling so much? I hate when you're not here!"

"You do, Tim? Why? It's not like you're ever home anyway."

"Don't be sarcastic. Your chores are your responsibility, and if you don't do them, then it's more work for me!"

The anger spills over inside me. She's reaching, looking for something to rag me about, probably so I can't rag her first.

"So leave the goddamn dishes and laundry then!" I shout. "At least let me get in the door before you start pestering me. Bitch!"

"Fuck you! You are such an asshole!" she shrieks, whipping a plastic tumbler at me. It careens off my arm, leaving a mark.

I grab the tumbler and throw it back at her as hard as I can, but she's already left the room. It bounces off the wall with a hollow thwok!

I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for my racing heart to slow down. I open the paper, but I can't concentrate. I might as well be trying to read Klingon.

I look up. Tim is standing over me, her beautiful face stony with anger. Or maybe it's disappointment.

Is this it? Is she leaving me? Is she going to ask me to leave?

"I want us to go talk to someone," she says, finally.

Steve's wedding: The aftermath

Sunday, October 21, 2007
Kahului International Airport, Maui, Hawaii

I've flown across the country lots of times. It gets easy after awhile: Do some work for a couple of hours, knock out a few crossword puzzles, watch a movie, take a nap, and you're there. But none of that prepared me for flying to Hawaii.

It's five hours from Boston to LA, and another five from LA to Hawaii. It's like flying across the country and back again all in one day.

In Hawaii, every local clock, as well as the position of the sun, tells us it is 3 in the afternoon, but our bodies are telling us it is 8:00 at night, and that we should be getting ready for bed. We should be fine tomorrow, as long as we keep ourselves awake for the next six or seven hours. Somehow.

After stepping off the plane, it takes us about 45 seconds to get Hawaii-fied. We deplane and walk 50 feet, turning left onto a long hallway with a floor-to-ceiling picture window, and I stop dead in my tracks as I look through it. To those who live in Hawaii, it's nothing. To me, it's a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh, a work of art burned in my memory forever.

Two palm trees stand side by side, bent slightly to one side as if curved by the wind. Behind them is a hulking mass of black rock the size of a strip mall. The sky is cartoon blue, a shade we might see in Boston once or twice a year, when the pollution takes a day off.

I used to think we flew halfway around the world, but that's obviously not true. Clearly, we've flown to another planet entirely, where no one stresses about the weather, because it's gorgeous every day. In fact, I bet no one stresses about anything here, because it simply doesn't make sense.

"...just gonna stand here all day?" Tim is asking.

"Hm?"

"Let's go get our luggage! I can't wait to see the hotel!" she chirps.

6:01pm
Makena Beach, Maui

I'm unprepared for the view. The horizon stretches endlessly from east to west--an uninterrupted meeting of sky and water so profound that suddenly, I can comprehend my place on earth, the overwhelming hugeness of the planet and everything beyond it.

Warm waves splash against my feet then retreat back, scurrying away from me like shy children. The sand is...cleaner here, softer, less rocky than I am used to, and the water melts it away around me until I find myself buried ankle deep in it.

Tim and I find a spot above the tide and sit, me leaning back against my elbows, her sitting between my knees, watching as the sky burns pink and orange and the sun slowly disappears into the ocean.

"I'm tired," she says.

"Don't go to sleep, hon. It's too early!"

"I won't."

Neither will I.

2:32am
Makena Beach

"Shit! We fell asleep!" Tim says.

So much for beating jet lag.

Steve's wedding: the duringmath, concluded

"It is truly an honor for me to introduce to you for the very first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Steve Caruso!"

Most people don't get applauded very often, and it is quite a rush. Kind of strange, too, since we didn't do anything particularly unusual.

Up until a week ago, our wedding song was going to be "Have I Told You Lately" by Van Morrison, but "Bubbly" by Colbie Caillat took a late lead, and we decided to go with it at the last minute. The tempo is odd and hard to dance to, but we aren't interested in much besides whispering to each other and swaying slowly, anyway.

The rest of the bridal party joins us on the dance floor. As the song ends, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around.

"You're my best friend," Paulie says, and I hug him back without looking him in the eyes, because I am sure he's sobbing like a kid going off to his first day of Kindergarten.

He lets go of me and hugs Tim, and I hug them both, and pretty soon it's the biggest group hug you've ever seen, right in the middle of the dance floor. Today, there is no family drama, no fighting, just lots of love all around.

Chris takes the microphone for a toast. "Steve and Tim are one of those couples that you root for, the way you root for a favorite team," he says. "We all noticed a change in Steve when he and Tim started dating. You could see how crazy they were about each other, even when they were saying, 'Ohh, we're taking it slow, it's nothing serious.'

"I speak for everyone in the family when I tell you, there were a lot of people praying for this. And today, Steve and Tim's wishes came true, and ours did too.

"I love you both, and I wish you a lifetime of happiness."

I get up and hug Chris when he is done, and laugh to myself as I think about the day not so long ago when I kicked his ass and put him in the hospital. It seems like a million miles away now; I feel as close to him as a brother can be.

**********

"I'd like to call your attention to the dance floor," the DJ says, "where the bride and groom have a surprise for us!"

People look up from their salads, then exchange curious glances. Tim has changed out of her wedding dress and into a slinky white one with a long slit up the side.

Before anyone knows what to make of it, the music starts and Tim and I are tangoing feverishly across the floor, amid hoots and hollers.

The tango was my idea. I suggested it months ago, and Tim loved the idea, so we hired a choreographer. Week after week, we practiced pretty much daily until we could do the dance in our sleep. Mindy told us that was the goal, to be able to go from start to finish without thinking about the next move.

We've had tons of practice, yes, but it's not nearly the same as doing it for an audience. The adrenaline is flowing, the spins are easier, our feet move faster, and we have to fight to keep from getting ahead of the music.

The song ends, we take a bow, and every guest is out of their seat, applauding thunderously. We bow again, and the applause gets louder before finally fading. Mindy said there would be a huge ovation. Guess she was right.

The dance is the one thing we hear about most for the rest of the night. Even now, weeks later, people still mention it to us. It just goes to show you: It doesn't really matter where the wedding is, or what you had for dinner. It matters who was there, and what happened.

**********

The limo is supposed to pick us up at 4:30 and take us to the hotel. That's only about a half hour from now.

People always talk about wedding night sex like it's a big deal. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to be fuck-ready tonight at all. I am exhausted.

We agreed not to do it for a full week before the wedding, to build a little sexual tension. We usually go at it once a day, sometimes twice, so at this point, I am ready to burst. But having the wedding stress off my shoulders is such a relief that eight hours of sleep might just make me come.

"Hey everyone," Tim says over the speakers, and I look to the front of the room, where she stands holding the mic. "I'm trying really hard not to be corny, but I'm very bad at this..."

What is she doing?

"I just want to say that I've been through a lot in the past couple of years, my surgery, getting a new job, moving, and it was pretty stressful, and I feel so lucky that Steve was there to help me every step of the way.

"Steve, I'm very sure I would not have made it through in one piece without you, and I'm so lucky to have you. You are the most caring, supportive person that I have ever known. I love you more than words can possibly say, and thank you for making me the happiest wife in the whole world."

She pauses as the "Awwwww"s subside.

"The night that Steve and I first met--and please, don't get the wrong idea about this--but I was on a date with another guy."

She pauses again as the room fills with laughter.

"It was nothing serious, I promise. The guy wasn't my boyfriend or anything. But I met Steve, and we talked all night long, and by the end of the night, I was a smitten woman.

"It was about 2:00am, and the place was closing, so the DJ played a slow song. And I wanted to dance with him, so I said, 'Ooo! This is my favorite song! You have to dance with me!' Meanwhile, I had never heard the song before in my life."

Laughter.

"So we danced, and it was actually a few months later when we actually started dating, and then one night after we had been together for a while, he said, 'Honey, listen to what I downloaded!' and it was the song we first danced to. And I was like, 'Awww!'"

I know where she is going with this now, and I am really flattered.

"I thought it would be nice if we played the song now, so we can dance to it again."

The DJ plays the song, "Sweet Bitter Love" (which is playing now) by Aretha Franklin. Somehow, as she sings, Aretha manages to convey deep love and deep sorrow at the same time, and I can't help but feel a bit sad myself, that this amazing party is almost over, and that it might be a long time before I see many of these people again.

But it's more than that. As I think back on that first night, it amazes me that Tim and I wound up together. I was dating Stephanie, she was with Dom. In fact, she probably went home with Dom and fucked his brains out that night, and many other nights before she and I finally got together. What if I never saw her again after that night? Just like that, she would have been out of my life forever, and this day never would have happened. It's sad to think that I could have missed out on everything we've had over the last two years.

I've been thinking about Mom a lot today too. Yes, I am sure she would have managed to make a scene somehow, but it would have been nice to have her here just the same. I was the only one of her three sons who she did not get to see on his wedding day.

The song fades out, and Tim and I goodbye our way around the room.

As we walk through the door, I turn and look one back final time at the festively decorated hall and the smiling guests as they wave us a fond farewell.

As Sam Malone once said, I am the luckiest son of a bitch on earth.

"I, Felicia, take you, Steven..."

Saturday, October 20, 2007, 4:12am
Residence Inn, Room 2104

I'm late.

Holy shit, I'm late!

I snap upright in bed and frantically fling the covers away, grabbing for the digital clock next to me and knocking it to the floor.

I was supposed to be there at 10:30. And now it's... it's...

It's still dark outside.

I exhale slowly through puckered lips, as if blowing cigarette smoke. My nerves are getting the better of me.

I weave my way through the living room, around my sleeping brothers and friends, and manage to drink half a glass of water before going back to bed. I sleep for what seems like forever, roll over, and check the clock. 4:49.

11:10am
Northern Pines Country Club

"She's not ready yet," Chris says.

I peer out a heavy oak door and take a long look. Every ornate wooden pillar has been carefully adorned with tulips and silk bows; guests fill neatly-curved rows of antique chairs, and soft music plays over strategically-placed Surround Sound speakers.

It hits me that every one of those people are here for Tim and me. They all got up early on a Saturday morning, put on fancy clothes, and drove to a country club in the middle of nowhere to see us get married. If this many people care about me, I guess I'm doing all right.

"Steve, she's ready. She's ready!"

I take a deep breath and look at my watch. It's 11:21.

Chris and I walk out the door and across the room, stopping in front of a huge picture window which overlooks towering pine trees and an ocean of flawlessly green grass.

I look around, my eyes picking up friendly, familiar faces in the crowd: Aunts and uncles, old friends from school, and, in the front row, my dad.

I am so glad he got to be here, so glad that he lived when the doctors said he might die. This day would not have been the same without him.

He smiles at me and rubs at his eye. What a softie.

The opening notes of Kanon in D by Pachelbel waft from the speakers, and my niece MacKenzie bounds down the aisle, just like she did at practice, dumping handfuls of rose petals as she goes.

Next up the aisle is my best friend Paulie, striding purposefully, hands crossed at his waist, mouth and eyes turned downward, as if this were a funeral. He's probably trying to keep from crying.

Lila follows close behind him, a vision of beauty in her rasperry-colored dress, her long hair pulled up in an ornate bun, with one strand hanging down, just the way I used to like it.

Tim and Lila love each other. They have grown very close over the past couple of years, and we agreed right away that she should be in the wedding, as crazy as that may sound. With all the people that Tim and I have been with, Lila is the only ex here today.

She catches my eye as she sits down and gives me a bright-eyed smile, and I smile back. I wasn't always good to Lila, but seeing her face now, I know that everything is okay between us, and I am glad.

My brother Greg. He walks the aisle and takes his seat, waving sweetly to his daughter MacKenzie on the other side of the room.

Next is Tim's cousin, Ellie, who came all the way from California to be here. She and Tim have been close since they were little girls, and often called each other when they had no one else to talk to. As soon as we sat down to pick the bridal party, the first name Tim thought of was Ellie's.

Ellie is no waif. From across the room, she is all boobs and hips, and I am sure she will have her share of admirers at the reception. She takes her seat.

Next is Tim's sister, Drea, the Maid of Honor. A hush falls over the room as she walks past, maybe because it's almost time, and maybe because Drea is so beautiful. She really is like a younger version of Tim, except a bit taller, with darker hair. She walks with a straight back and a quiet confidence, like a runway model.

Drea is just 18, and therefore miles cooler than anyone else in the room, but she has been a huge help in getting ready for the wedding. Whether it be making phone calls, running errands, or reminding us about important tasks, she's been the Most Valuable Player for us. Thanks to Drea, the wedding planning was a lot less stressful than it might have been.

She walks past the chairs where the rest of the bridal party sits and stops at the front of the room, across from Chris and I.

As if on cue, the violins swell to a crescendo. Every guest in the room stands and turns around, and Tim makes her way up the aisle, her right arm holding her father's left.

The first thing I notice is her bare shoulders. The strapless, sleeveless gown was a great choice, given her long, dainty neck and toned upper body. Silk gloves stretch past her elbows, and she's holding a cluster of deep red roses.

The dress is smooth and blizzard-white, with a train that extends for a mile behind her. Her makeup is flawless, like a movie star's, and even from 20 feet away, my cheeks flush and my heart flutters at the sight of her denim blue eyes.

She is far too beautiful for words, so completely perfect that, if I drop dead this minute, my life will have been worthwhile for intertwining with hers.

The music fades. Marvin extends his hand and I shake it. "Congratulations, son," he says, and I am touched that he would call me that. He is not one to show emotion easily.

I take Tim's gloved hand in mine and it's almost as if I am in the presence of royalty, like I somehow lucked out and got to meet a celebrity.

"Hi," she smiles.

"Hi," I say back.

**********

The vows come and go quickly, so quickly that I barely remember them. But as the Justice of the Peace says "You may kiss the bride," I know that, at long last, we finally made it, that I did not screw this up, and that despite my past, I have a great life ahead of me. Applause washes over us and we walk triumphantly back down the aisle together, smiling and laughing.

Now, it's party time.

Steve's wedding: The duringmath

Friday, October 19, 2007, 11:45am
Steve's office

"Steve, the implementation budget for Adams Corp. is gone," Ted says.

"Project isn't done yet, Ted."

"But the budget is gone."

No matter how long we stay on the phone, nothing productive will come from this conversation. Ted's call is a symptom of deeper problems.

Our salesmen use their considerable powers of persuasion to coerce clients to pay us huge sums of money. They are so driven to bring in business, in fact, that they sometimes do stupid things like lower the price. I have no respect for a salesperson like that.

Go ahead. Walk into a Lexus dealerhip and tell the salesperson that you really like the car, but you don't want to pay $70,000. Instead, you'd like to pay $40,000. I can tell you for sure you'd be leaving there on foot. You wouldn't get a deal like that, and you wouldn't expect to, either.

"Why do you care, Steve?" you are asking.

Easy. Because the price that the customer agrees to includes a budget for my team to implement the software. And the lower that number is, the faster we have to get the project done, and the less time we have to manage the details. Oh, and if there is any delay whatsoever, we are fucked. Just like we are now.

I was smart to get out of my last job. The hours were ridiculous, the work load neverending, and the politics overwhelming. But my new job isn't paradise either.

My team is going to end up finishing this project in a quick and sloppy way, and none of the time we work on it from now on will be billable. Unless, of course, the salesperson is able to get more money out of the customer, which never happens.

This kind of thing happens constantly around here. Because of that, sometime next January, Bert will call me into his office and ask me why my team isn't billing more. He ought to know the answer without asking. Or maybe he does know, but he's looking for an excuse to keep from giving me a bigger raise.

The funny thing is, though, I don't even care. It will bother me someday, but right now, work is nothing more than background noise. I keep repeating to myself, "This time tomorrow, I will be married."

Married. Married. Married. I think about the word so much that it seems foreign, unfamiliar. Marriage is for old, stuffy people, isn't it? Could it be that I am really going to do this?

Yes, it could, and the truth is I am so proud to be marrying Tim. I know, she had her partying phase, and she screwed around a hell of a lot more than I did--in fact, that is how I met her. But I sense a seriousness about her, a devotion to me and our relationship that I have never felt with anyone else. That devotion makes me want to do the same for her, makes me think of her constantly, fills me with the urge to grab hold of her and never let go.

Yeah, I definitely can't wait until tomorrow.

2:00pm

"Guys, I'm out of here. I'll see you in two weeks," I say, as I dash out the door to a wave of goodbyes and good lucks.

7:00pm
The Brown Stone House
Rehearsal dinner

Chris stands up and taps his glass. "The lone holdout is finally caving in," he begins, to a gale of cheers.

"Thanks for coming out, everyone. It's going to be a great day tomorrow, when my little brother finally gets married. I think you made a great choice. I think you both did," he says, smiling at Tim and me.

The guys are staying at a hotel tonight, and the girls are at my house. As I walk to my car, and Tim walks to hers, I quiver like a 17-year-old on his first date.

I look at Tim, at her beige blouse and blue skirt, at her long blonde hair and round blue eyes, and feel that rush of pride again. Tomorrow, she will be my wife. And yeah, the little boy inside my head wonders what she sees in me.

She hugs me and I close my eyes, inhaling her perfume, touching her silky hair. "You're nervous!" she laughs.

"Not as nervous as you!"

"I'll see you at the wedding," she whispers, and I watch her drive away.

Steve's wedding: The beforemath

Thursday, October 18, 2007, 7:00pm

I'll say it again: I'm glad I waited a long time to get married. I got a lot of womanizing out of my system, and I am mature enough to make smart decisions. Like my bachelor party, for example. My one request was that we have it two days before the wedding, not the night before. I've seen my share of hungover grooms.

Tim and her friends rented a limo and took off for a night of bar hopping. As for me, my brothers and friends came to my house, blindfolded me, poured shots down my throat (it tasted like rum--whatever it was, it was nasty), then packed me into the car and drove for a while. When they pulled the blindfold off, I was at a VFW hall that I had never seen before. I bet they hired a stripper.

I hate strip clubs. If some hardbodied 19-year-old is going to wave her cleanly-shaved pussy in my face, she better be prepared to have my dick in her mouth as soon as I can yank my boxers off. But no, they smile, flirt, thank me for my dollar bill, and then bend over for the guy next to me. If I'm getting some at home, I don't need to see some other chick naked, and if I'm not, seeing a girl I can't touch is just going to frustrate me.

A mountainously fat tattooed man holds the door open for us. I guess he's there to protect her, but it's hard for me to be intimidated by a guy who probably can't even tie his own shoes. "So you're the lucky guy, huh?" he chuckles.

"Yep, that's me."

"No touching," he says, raising his voice to a harsh growl as he addresses the crowd. "And keep the noise down. You break the rules, we're outta here. And there's no refunds."

A door at the back of the room opens, and in walks Bree, in a "Hard Cock Cafe" t-shirt and pink short shorts.

By now, you guys know me. I like them tiny, with long hair and straight teeth, and Bree could not have been any better if I made her myself. She's maybe 4'10", with hair down to her ass, and a mouth straight out of a toothbrush commercial. The guys howl at the sight of her.

They plop me into a chair in the middle of the room, then form a semicircle around me. "Are you the one who's getting married?" she asks, in a high-pitched little girl's voice.

The voice puts me over the edge, and I go rock-hard despite the alcohol. She's just a kid, but she knows what the hell she is doing.

She pulls her t-shirt slowly over her head, exposing a plump, tanned pair of breasts, and proceeds to straddle my legs, brushing her long hair against my face. She turns around and wiggles her perfect bubble ass at me before bobbing it slowly up and down against my crotch.

I can't help but wonder what it would be like to fuck her. And I wouldn't mind seeing her naked--

She slips her thumbs under her shorts and slides them down, stopping halfway down her thighs, then bends over and places a hand softly against her right ass cheek. The guys are going crazy, but I barely hear them.

She steps out of her shorts and bends over again, farther this time, and her pussy lips open like flower petals. I ache to fuck her, to grab her petite little hips and slam them into mine...

She turns around and our eyes meet. I've got The Look now, the look she's probably seen 1,000 times, the look that tells her that I am hers. If a man has The Look, she could tell him to gargle with broken glass, and he'd do it gladly. And she knows it.

She sits on my lap, facing me, and tugs at my shirt. "Are you trying to undress me?" I ask.

"I like bare skin," she smiles, pulling my shirt off and flipping her hair over one shoulder. She bends over and nibbles at my neck, as my eyes slide closed and my hands find her naked hips.

My friend Paulie used to go to strip bars all the time. He even dated a few of the girls. He told me that his secret was not to hit on them, but to talk to them about their day jobs or their families. Every other guy in the place was telling them, in disgusting detail, exactly what he wanted to do to them, while Paulie was coming off as a regular Joe.

No, I'm not planning on nailing her, but instinct kicks in. "How old are you?" I ask.

She totally ignores the question, instead breathing in my ear. She bends her knee and rubs her leg agaist mine, closely enough that I can feel the heat of her crotch.

My breathing quickens; my hand squeezes tighter on her thigh. "You can touch it if you want," she says, and I look up to see her face so close to mine that our noses are almost touching.

"But the guy said--"

"It's okay," she whispers.

I don't want the guys to see. They'll see me do it and think they can follow suit, and pretty soon they'll get carried away, and she'll be out the door.

I let my hand slide down the inside of her thigh, and brush the backs of my fingers gently against her clit. Is this going to happen?

"Go ahead," she coos in my ear, as if reading my thoughts. I extend my index finger and all at once I feel her warm wetness. Am I really fingering the stripper?

She pushes her hips against me, driving my finger deeper, pressing my face between her tits. I remain there for a long moment and I can feel her breath, quick and shallow. Is she enjoying this?

I've been to plenty of stag parties over the years, and at the really wild ones, the stripper would disappear into the ladies' room, and a long line of horny drunk guys with $20 bills in their hands would form outside the door. I can't help but wonder how far this particular one would go...

The crowd is getting restless. "You better go make the rounds," I say, pulling my finger out of her, and she does.

She's gathering her clothes when Chris grabs me. "I've got a surprise for you," he says, and pulls me out the door and across a dark parking lot to a building the size of a backyard storage shed. "Wait here," he says, and walks out, pulling the door closed behind him.

Minutes pass, and the door opens again. "What am I waiting for?" I ask, and my heart stops as I see the Hard Cock Cafe shirt and pink shorts.

"Me," Bree smiles, and she closes and locks the door.

"Are you... are we..."

"You have really good friends," she laughs.

Chris must have paid her an extra couple hundred dollars to fuck me.

She peels off her t-shirt and straddles me, just like she did at the party. "You were hard before. I could tell," she smiles, flashing her flawless teeth.

Oh really? You knew I had an erection? Nothing gets past you, does it?

"Do you want to touch me again?" she breathes in my ear, and before I can answer, she takes my hand and guides it between her legs.

"We can't have sex," I hear myself say.

No way I'm fucking this little skank. I've never paid for sex in my life, and I'm sure as hell not starting two days before my wedding. Yeah, I know, someone else is paying, and it doesn't matter. It's an insult. What, I can't find anyone on my own?

Besides, it's not exactly appetizing to think about the three or four thousand scumbags she's probably fucked--bearded, beer-bellied truck stop types with cigarette breath, I'm sure--and she probably acted just as hot and horny for them as she is for me.

She looks at me.

"You're really hot," I say, "and I'm sure we would have a lot of fun, but..."

"You love her. You're being a good fiance. That's so sweet!" she chirps in her airhead voice.

I probably shouldn't ask her this, but I am loaded, and it is my party, so...

"Are you... do you still get paid if we don't..."

"Your brother said you were going to chicken out," she laughs. "So he made me promise that if you didn't..."

"That he was going to pinch-hit for me?"

"Mm-hmm."

I walk back out to the party and find Chris. "A prostitute at my stag party, Chris? A hooker? Really?"

"What are you talking about, Steve?" he smiles.

"I'm not fucking a whore, Chris."

He sighs. "Have you seen her? She's incredible! Did you look at her, or were you too pussy-whipped to open your eyes?"

"She's hot."

"Hot? Steve, she's the hottest little spinner I've ever seen! She's exactly the way you like them! What's your problem?" He fixes his dark eyes on me, his jaw set firmly, like a disappointed parent.

"Chris, you used to be a little more discriminating. This chick has probably seen more dicks than the urinals at Gilette Stadium."

"So I'll give you a dome."

"I'm not interested."

"You're my brother," he says, softly. "I want you to have fun. This is your last night of freedom!"

"I plan on having fun for the rest of my life. Oh, and by the way, I heard you're my backup."

He laughs. "Guess I better go."

"Hey Chris." He turns around.

"I want details."

"You got it, bro," he smiles, then turns and disappears out the door.

T minus 7

"Where's the contract? Steve, where's the contract for the DJ?!" Tim shrieks, shuffling through a pile of paper.

"I don't know, Tim."

"What do you mean, you don't know! You're supposed to be the organized one! This is the DJ for our wedding! If we don't find this, we're screwed!"

"Tim, we booked the guy three months ago. We paid a deposit. He'll be there."

Welcome to my life of the past eight weeks. Yes, Tim is the most beautiful, sexiest woman I have ever laid eyes on. She is also quickly losing her grip on sanity. I can't wait for our wedding to get here, not just because I love her, but because I don't want to duct tape her mouth shut.

We decided to keep the wedding small and cheap. And still, no matter how much time we devote to planning this five-hour event, we go to bed with a thousand details unattended to, and Tim can't sleep because of it.

"This is our one chance to get this right," she'll say, tears forming in her eyes. "If we screw this up, that's it."

I am so glad I waited until my 30's to get married. It made me realize that, whether the wedding is successful or disastrous, everyone, including us, will forget the details in a few years' time. We won't remember that the tablecloth did not match the flowers, or that the DJ pronounced Paulie's name wrong. And yet, these are just the things that Tim sweats endlessly about.

I tell her that this should be a happy time, that we should wake up thrilled every single day as we look forward to being husband and wife, that we are going to do something for each other that we have never done for anyone else, ever. I tell her I am excited because I know this is the first step toward our dream of having a family.

"I'll be excited after we cut the cake and dance," she says.

**********

"Hon, can you leave work early tomorrow?" she asks, as I stare at the TV.

"Hon?"

"What?!" I shout, then wheel around to look at her, and drop my Diet Pepsi.

In her underwear, she's as thin as an anorexic runway model.

"Jesus, Tim! You're wasting away!"

"I'm not that thin."

"You look sick!"

"Thanks."

She gained 10 pounds after moving in with me, which put her around 127. On her 5'2" frame, the result was curvy and delicious. She's at least 20 pounds lighter now, and believe me, her Angelina arms are not attractive.

"Seriously. Why are you losing so much weight?"

"If my wedding dress is too big, I can gain weight to fill it out. It's easier to gain than to lose."

"You're gonna make yourself sick."

"Leave me alone, please."

I realize the day is going to be here and gone before we know it. I really wish there were some way I could bottle it and save it, so I could sample it again in 20 years.

I've been thinking a lot about my life lately, about how far I have come as a person and how important this is for me. Ever since I was a kid, I have always wanted this, always envisioned myself married and having children. I am so happy to finally be going for it.

The only thing that annoys me is how I keep hearing the same jokes over and over: "Ready to take the plunge, Steve?", "Getting cold feet yet?", "Putting on the old ball and chain, huh?". Hilarious.

I would love to write more, but this is the busiest I have been in a long time. I'll try to check in briefly over the next couple of weeks, but it might be hard.

Wish me luck, thanks for reading, and I promise there will be more Bismarck when I get back home. With my new wife.

Sounds weird, eh?

The marrying man

The last time I asked someone to marry me, I was 23 years old. Actually, that was the only time, since Tim is the one who proposed to me.

The first time, I was too allergic to the future to think about what I was doing; after considering it for about 15 seconds, I walked into a jewelry store at 1:00pm and walked out 45 minutes later, a small box in one hand and a $2500 invoice in the other.

I was scared, actually frightened, by the debt. When she unceremoniously dumped me and kept the ring, fear turned to anger--but it amazes me how much drama such a small amount of money created. It burned at me for years, as if I had bankrupted my retirement account.

But that was several jobs and promotions ago. Now, $2500 means nothing. Tim and I refurnished our family room recently, and after dropping $2000 on furniture, and $1500 on an LCD HDTV (which rocks the house by the way, more on this later), we splurged on a fancy dinner ($97, inlcuding tip). That night, I slept like a baby. In fact, I slept better than usual, knowing that we had taken steps toward improving our home.

After proposing, Tim did not ask me for a ring. It was almost like she did not care, or that she wanted it to be strictly my idea.

When you are in love and planning to get married, you want everyone to know it. You want to talk about it, turn it over in your mind all day long. Having said that, it's easy to get out of hand. Some guys think this is a contest. "Bob got his girlfriend two carats, so I'm buying three for mine!" I want to buy her something extravagant, because I love her and want her to have the best. She doesn't deserve to be cheaped out on. However, I think anything over $10,000 is ridiculous to spend on a ring. I'm going to keep the price below that level if I can.

Tuesday, 11:30am
New England Diamond Exchange

"This is a gorgeous one," Ira says, pulling a ring from it's black felt bed. "See? It talks to you!" he purrs, turning it this way and that under the sharp fluorescent light.

Tim slides it over her pinky. "Hmm," she says.

It's far too small. Her hands are dainty, almost little-girl like, but the band is narrow and the stone unsubstantial.

"I think we need a bigger one," I say. Ira and Tim look at me. "Are you sure?" Tim says, reaching for the tiny price tag.

I pull the ring away. "She's not allowed to look at price tags. Okay?" I say to Ira. He smiles and nods.

He takes a step to his left and pulls another ring from the display case. She slides it over her finger and we all fall silent.

The band is platinum, and thicker than the others we've seen; the stone looks big and heavy, and its shine is clean and flawless. It doesn't matter how beautiful Tim is; the ring demands your attention, insists that you stare at its perfection.

I watch her as she studies the ring, as if she were a jeweler herself. "Can I see that... magnifying thing you put in your eye?" she asks.

"Sure," Ira says, handing her an eye loupe. He and I smile at each other; she is hooked and we both know it.

"What do you think?" I ask, finally.

She leans to the side, trying to read the price tag. I snatch it in my right hand. "Nice try."

"Steve!"

"Do you like it?"

"Oh my God," she breathes, just like she does during intense sex.

"How many carats is this, Ira?"

"Two and a half."

I need to know how much it costs, but it's important that I not look shocked, no matter how high the number. I glance at the price tag with a nonchalant smile.

So much for my $10,000 limit. But the ring is perfect.

"We'll take it."

With sincere condolences to women everywhere...

In hindsight, this makes perfect sense. Tim is on the pill, which is about 98% effective. We've never even had so much as a scare, in well over a year together.

I am completely flattered. Tim is beautiful, hard-working, driven and talented. She impresses me and turns me on. But, nonetheless, a subtle ache surfaces now and again, a lonely raft in an ocean of joy.

I was getting used to the idea of being a father. My brothers both have kids; many of my friends do too. You don't have to ask a father if he's happy with his children; you just have to watch him wrestle around on the floor with them, or listen to the stories he always seems to have about them on Monday mornings. I know we'll have kids someday, but...

"Are you proposing to me?"

"I know you said you wanted to wait until we were living together for a year, but it's almost a year," she says, so quickly that I can barely make out the words. "And I'm totally okay with a long engagement!"

"I--"

"We can do this, Steve! We can totally do this! We love each other!"

"Can I finish?" I smile.

"Okay."

"Yes!"

"Oh my God!" she shrieks, and we hug tightly.

We call my dad first. "It's about friggin' time!" he says. "If you waited too much longer, I was gonna marry her myself!"

The call to Tim's mother should be interesting.

"Steve and I are getting married," Tim says into the speakerphone.

Silence.

"Congratu...lations..." her father says in the background, his voice trailing off.

"Steve and I have something to talk about," Diana says.

"Tim asked me, Diana, not the other way around."

"Steve was less than honest with me," Diana says, completely ignoring what I just said.

"Mom. Do you have to ruin everything? I just told you we're getting married, and you're bitching at us?"

"I spoke to Steve a few weeks ago..."

"Mom, this was my idea, not Steve's."

"So Steve had no idea this was coming," she says, skeptically.

"None," I say.

"Hm."

"Mom, I'm marrying him, so just get used to it. I'm not gonna let you ruin my Christmas and my..." she buries her face in her hands.

"Diana, I think you ought to apologize to your daughter," I scold.

"Steve, I'm just trying to--"

"Diana! Apologize!" Marvin booms, so loudly that I scarcely recognize his voice. We all freeze.

Tim picks her head up. "Dad? Did that come out of you?" We burst out laughing, the four of us, and suddenly I know everything will be alright.

"I'm sorry for my display," Diana says. "Congratulations to you both. Steve, welcome to the family. We love you very much."

**********

The more I get used to being engaged, again, the more I realize it was a really good idea. We'll take it slow, we'll get used to being married, then we'll start a family. Thirty-six is a great age to begin this chapter of my life, especially since I've gotten all of the misbehavior out of my system.

My phone vibrates. Krista calling, it says.