Ugly Girl Ties the Knot Read online

  The weather was beautiful. Cold, but not too cold—brisk. I started out in a sweatshirt, with a plan to take it off if I got too hot while running. I turned on the running app on my phone, queued up some Beatles songs, and then I was off running.

  And you know what? It felt fantastic.

  I loved the wind coursing through my hair, and my feet felt light as air on the level pavement. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought to do this before. I was going to run every single day for the rest of my life! I was going to run that 5K that everybody always talks about at work, then I was going to start training for marathons. I was absolutely infatuated with running.

  At first.

  Maybe it was the fact that my shorts were too tight. But a few minutes into the run, my thighs started to feel like they were rubbing together uncomfortably. I tried to ignore this sensation, but very quickly, “uncomfortable” turned into “somebody lit a fire in-between my legs.”

  (And not in a good way.)

  Then my ankles started to burn too. And my knees. And my lungs. Oh God, my lungs really hurt. Is this what people who exercise mean about “feeling the burn”? Because every part of my body felt like it was on fire.

  I finally stopped running and bent forward, leaning on my knees as I gasped for air. I felt like I was going to throw up or faint. I couldn’t decide which.

  I stood there, clutching my chest like I was having a heart attack for several minutes. A 20-year-old girl running by actually stopped and asked me if I was okay. I managed to catch my breath enough to tell her that she didn’t need to call 911.

  When I could finally breathe again, I checked my phone app to see how far I had run.

  I had gone a quarter of a mile.

  I walked around the park for a lap, then tried running again. I didn’t do much better. All told, I managed to run half a mile. And at the end of it, my thighs hurt so much from chafing that it was hard to walk home. I was scared to peel off my shorts and check out the damage.

  Sam was in the living room, sitting at his computer, when I limped in. He looked me over, from my limp hair in a ponytail to my sweaty clothing. He raised his eyebrows. “Looks like you had a really good workout.”

  There’s no point in lying to your fiancé. “Not really. I suck at running.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard.” He closed his laptop. “Do you want me to go with you next time for moral support? I wouldn’t mind getting back in shape a little bit too.”

  Oh God, the last thing I wanted was for Sam to see me gasping for air after running one block.

  “That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I think I’m going to focus more on diet.”

  Sam shrugged and didn’t push me further. I did feel a little bit bad, because it might’ve been nice to go out running with him. Maybe once I lose some weight, my thighs won’t chafe so much and I’ll be able to give it another try.

  But for now, I’m pretty sure running is completely off the table.

  March 6:

  Even though I’m excited about getting married, I can’t seem to get excited about the wedding itself. I know weddings are something that girls plan their whole lives, but not this girl. The thought of standing in front of dozens of guests, all staring at me while I walk down the aisle dolled up but still not all that attractive and trying not to trip on my high heels, does not fill me with excitement. I think girls who dream about big weddings are girls who love being looked at and admired. I’m not like that.

  (In case you hadn’t guessed.)

  “I want you to have your dream wedding,” Sam told me yesterday while we were lying in bed together. He stroked my arm lovingly as he said it. “I don’t care what it costs or what I have to do.”

  Actually, my dream wedding would be at City Hall or possibly Vegas. Just me and Sam. Nobody else there, nobody watching. Just the two of us. I told him that.

  “Are you serious?” he said.

  I think a lot of guys would be happy to find out their fiancée didn’t want a big fancy wedding. Sam didn’t look happy.

  “I just think weddings are really stressful,” I said.

  “Yeah, but…” Sam frowned. “Don’t you want your family to be there?”

  “Not really.”

  He looked troubled. “Well, my parents would… I mean, they really want to see…”

  I felt guilty. I know Sam was conflicted between wanting to give me what I wanted and also his desire to have a big huge wedding for some reason. It doesn’t make sense to me that Sam wants a huge wedding. I mean, I don’t think he’d like everyone staring at him any more than I would.

  But then again, for reasons I don’t understand, he’s really proud of our relationship. Plus he’s very close with his family and he’s the last of his brothers to get married, so I think his family was hoping for a big wedding.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We can have a real wedding. Just not too big, okay?”

  He nodded. “All right. I don’t want to stress you out, Millie. But don’t you think it would nice to have all our family and friends there when we get married?”

  I sometimes forget that Sam actually really likes his family and is very close to them. For me, I feel like this is just going to be an opportunity for my family to pick on me and tell me they think I’m making a mistake.

  March 9:

  Now that I’m actually living with Sam, there are all these little details I’ve been noticing about his apartment—things that are adaptations for his disability. Like, for instance, none of the doors have knobs. They all have handles because he has a lot of trouble turning knobs.

  Probably the most adaptive equipment is in the bathroom, like grab bars for the toilet and a special plastic chair in the shower, but there’s stuff all over the apartment. The other day, I was cooking dinner in his (I mean, our) kitchen and I was looking for a spatula and instead discovered a whole drawer of weird looking utensils and stuff with special handles. He doesn’t use any of them though, as far as I’ve seen. I guess he doesn’t like them and can manage without them. He can move his fingers by cocking his wrist backwards, and he seems to be able to wedge utensils and things like that between his fingers. When he types, he uses the joints of his little fingers to hit the keys. He’s actually very fast, considering.

  There are a few things he really can’t do without equipment though. Like buttons. You actually need a lot of dexterity to button your shirt or pants. He’s got this little device that he threads through the button hole in order to button his pants, although I have noticed he avoids buying pants that have buttons. He can use that on his shirts too, but the button holes are a lot smaller so it takes him for freaking ever to do it. So he generally just leaves his shirts buttoned and puts them over his head.

  Sometimes he ends up with a shirt that’s unbuttoned, which lately has probably been my fault, what with my unbuttoning them in a fit of passion. This morning he wheeled over to me while I was pulling on my socks with his shirt completely unbuttoned.

  “Little help, Millie?” he said with a sheepish grin.

  He doesn’t usually ask me for my help with anything, but there was something wifely about doing his buttons for him. As I fastened the buttons all the way up to his neck, I started to feel a little turned on. I inhaled his aftershave.

  (I really love the way Sam smells. Is it weird to say that?)

  “How are you with ties?” Sam asked me. “I’ve got a meeting today and I want to look presentable.”

  “Terrible,” I said. I’ve never tied a tie before in my life. Why would I have? I’m a woman.

  “Eh, screw it,” he said.

  I don’t think anyone actually cares much if Sam wears a tie. I mean, he’s one of the computer techie guys. The fact that he showers and shaves already puts him way ahead of the rest of them.

  March 10:

  Sam and I first met when I called the Computer Helpdesk and he picked up the line. Even though he still does occasional shifts there, usually when someone calls in sick, he’s mainly
moved on to bigger, more important things. He even has his own office. After all, they don’t pay him the big bucks to tell people to turn their computers off and on and see if it works this time. His area of expertise is computer security issues, and he came aboard after a big data breach, so he’s been working hard to make sure our company’s data is all nice and secure.

  (As you can tell, I have absolutely no idea what he actually does. But I’m sure they don’t pay him six figures to sit around looking pretty.)

  Despite the fact that he no longer works at the Computer Helpdesk, when the big bosses need their computers fixed, they call Sam on his cell phone and he’s pretty much forced to come on over. (He also does the same for me.) I think he finds it sort of annoying, but there are shit parts to every job.

  Sam and I were supposed to go to lunch today, but he called me and told me he was stuck installing some upper-level guy’s printer. I thought it was an asshole move for the guy to make Sam work during his lunch doing a menial task, but Sam didn’t sound too upset about it. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Why don’t you meet me up here?”

  He gave me directions to an office two floors up. I waited about ten minutes, then went upstairs to find him. The office he was in belonged to some junior executive whose name was Jacob Winston. Somehow that name sounded familiar to me—I guessed I had met him at some meeting.

  Sure enough, Sam was sitting behind the desk, looking up at the computer screen and pecking at the keyboard with his knuckles. Before he saw me, I spent a few seconds looking at him. Sam is so hot. I’ve never dated a guy who was as cute as he is. Nerdy cute, but still incredibly cute. I love the way he looks when he’s deep in concentration, his brow furrowed as he peers through his glasses at the computer screen.

  “Should work now,” Sam was telling Jacob Winston. “Let’s print a test page.”

  He got the printer going, then he looked up and his face brightened when he saw me. “Millie!” he exclaimed. I love the way he still lights up whenever he sees me.

  “Hi,” I said, shifting in the doorway.

  The youngish junior executive, Jacob Winston, was staring at me. I had no idea why, but it was making me uncomfortable. He looked really familiar to me, but I was still having trouble placing him.

  I have to admit, this guy Jacob was incredibly handsome. You know how in those teen movies from the eighties, there would always be the rich, good-looking asshole who was going after Molly Ringwald or whoever and was also a really good skier or dancer or I don’t know what, but in the end, the cute, dorky guy would get the girl?

  Well, Jacob Winston looked just like the rich, good-looking asshole in all those movies. His sand-colored hair was thick and perfectly styled, his features were classically chiseled, and he even had, I swear to God, a cleft in his chin. And to top it all off, his suit looked like it might’ve been more expensive than my engagement ring.

  (Not really. Nothing is more expensive than my goddamn engagement ring.)

  “Jake,” Sam said. “This is Millie, my fiancée.”

  Jacob Winston was still staring at me. I guess he was thinking that Sam and I made an odd couple: an ugly girl and a quadriplegic. I held out my hand to him. “Nice to meet you.”

  He reached out and gripped my hand hard enough that it sort of hurt. Why do some men think a handshake is a pissing contest? You’re a big, strong man—I get it. No need to break my fingers.

  “Actually,” he said, “we already met.”

  I knew it. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m bad at recognizing people.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “It was a long while ago. We went to high school together. I was about three years ahead of you. I think your house was only five blocks from mine.”

  My eyes widened. Oh my God, that’s where I knew him from! He was Jake Winston, one of the most popular guys at my high school. But how on earth did he know me? I was a little wallflower in high school, and he was a senior back when I was a freshman. Unless he took notice of me because of my remarkably bad looks. I didn’t realize I was so memorably ugly. I wanted to crawl under Jake’s desk.

  “Right,” I said. “Jake Winston. I remember now.”

  He beamed at me. “I’m glad.”

  “Right,” I said again. I just wanted to get the hell out of this office. I’m not big on nostalgia and this whole interaction was making me uncomfortable. “So Sam, are you mostly done?”

  “I think so,” Sam said. He looked at Jake. “You know, Millie and I were about to go to lunch. But maybe you’d like to join us?”

  No! I tried to send Sam silent messages to retract his invitation. The messages were not received.

  “Thanks for the invitation,” Jake said. He smiled at me. “I’d love to come.”

  All right, I’m going to be totally honest:

  I had a bit of a crush on Jake when I was in high school.

  It wasn’t that big a deal. He was in my Spanish class when I was a freshman and he was just so… cool. It was cool that he was practically flunking out and had to take freshman Spanish as a senior. It was cool the way he wore his sun-streaked hair shaggy like Kurt Cobain. And back then, it was cool that he didn’t seem to care about anything.

  I mean, it would have been weird not to have a crush on him.

  But remembering my unrequited crush didn’t make me want to go to lunch with Jake. Maybe if I had somehow sprouted from the ugly duckling into a beautiful swan, maybe this lunch would be the start of some great romantic endeavor.

  But then again, it wouldn’t, since I’m engaged, of course.

  When we were in the restaurant and looking at our menus, Sam put his arm around me. I thought that was odd, because it’s not something he usually does. He’s usually affectionate, but that was kind of… possessive. Sam’s never been the type to be jealous or possessive before.

  “So tell me what Millie was like in high school,” Sam said to Jake.

  Even though I was embarrassed, I couldn’t blame him for asking. I would love to know what Sam was like in high school. From what I’ve been able to piece together from the trophies I found in his old bedroom, he was an even bigger nerd than he is now: he was on both the math and the chess team. Of course, he wasn’t in a wheelchair back then and was probably still pretty cute, so that makes me wonder how successful he had been with girls. I have to believe he did fairly well, despite being a bit of a geek.

  “She was pretty much the same,” Jake said with a smile.

  What the hell did that mean? I was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.

  “She was really good in Spanish,” Jake said.

  “Thanks,” I said. I added, “So were you.”

  Jake laughed. “You really don’t remember me very well, do you? I was awful.”

  Actually, I remembered him perfectly in that class. And yes, he was awful. A complete slacker. I was just being polite.

  When I looked at Jake, I felt confused. They say that the most popular guys in high school never amount to anything, because all they’re interested in is being cool and they aren’t smart or hard workers. But Jake had done really well. He was only three years older than me and already a junior executive. What’s up with that?

  Life really isn’t fair.

  “So when did you guys get engaged?” Jake asked.

  “A month ago,” Sam replied. He nudged me and I held up my left hand to show off my ring.

  “Wow,” Jake said, raising his eyebrows. “Sam, that must have cost you a bundle.”

  “I wanted her to have the best,” Sam said. “She deserves it.”

  (Aw.)

  “Well, congratulations, you two,” Jake said. “I still haven’t met the right girl, so it’s great that you’ve found someone so wonderful.”

  Huh. Did that mean he thought I was wonderful? Or that Sam was wonderful?

  Why was I analyzing this? Obviously, he was being polite. “Thanks,” I said.

  There was a long, awkward pause where Jake was just kind of looking at me. “I’m r
eally amazed to see you, Millie,” he finally said. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “I guess,” I said.

  Most of the rest of lunch was spent with Jake telling me the fates of people from his class in high school. Apparently, he somehow kept in touch with a lot of these people. I didn’t really know many of them personally, but they were all really popular kids. So I knew who they were, and hearing about them was a little like reading a tabloid for celebrity news. I didn’t keep in touch with anyone from high school.

  On his part, Sam was quiet for most of the lunch. Obviously, he didn’t have much to add to the conversation, but he kept a pleasant smile on his face. And with the exception of when we were actually eating, he kept his arm around me. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed like he was tightening his hold on me as the meal progressed.

  He seemed a little bit jealous. Seriously though, I don’t think he had to worry that the most popular guy from my high school was going to somehow steal me away from him. That’s pretty laughable.

  March 12:

  I talked to my mother after work today. I had a half-hour conversation with her and didn’t quite manage to mention that Sam and I got engaged.

  (Actually, she’s still under the impression that we’re broken up. Oops.)

  My mother doesn’t like Sam. She doesn’t want her oldest daughter marrying a guy who’s disabled and she’s made that pretty clear. She’d rather I not get married at all. So I’m taking the coward’s way out and not mentioning our engagement until I absolutely have to.

  This will almost definitely backfire in my face in the near future.

  Sam told his parents the same night we got engaged. I was sitting in the living room with him when he was on the phone with them. “Guess what?” he said. “Millie and I are getting married!”

  I was sitting several feet away but I could still hear his mother screaming with joy on the other end of the line. Pretty flattering.

  A minute later, Sam was pushing the phone into my hand. Apparently, Jean wanted to talk to me.