Minutes
She was in what she had decided to be married in—dressy, but not done up, never done up—it had just never been her style to primp and prepare. It was a dress, and it was white—though it had yet to be determined to any but her, the man she was to marry, and possibly her past lovers if that colour was appropriate, and even were it deemed not appropriate, Byron's knowledge of her screamed that she would have worn it anyway. It clung close to her curves at the top and flared out, not ostentatiously, at the hips, forming her into the very image of an ivory handbell, her pale skin looking even more peaches-and-cream against the even paler soft white garment exposing it.
Her hair was dark this week, which stood off nicely from the nearly-monopolizing fairness of the rest of her body. A very dark purple, Byron noted, catching the colour that peeked out when the sun touched its seemingly heavy blackness. Before that, it had been bright red, for a long time. But, as women tended to do their hair or have their hair done for their wedding days, so did she indulge in another of her gender's time-honoured traditions she claimed to hate for their "girlieness." But, as always, she put her own twist on the traditional mode, opting for a shocking new colour over a style that would require sprays and mousses. Her hair was down, and straight like needles, the way it had been far more days of her life than not.
Rather than a veil, she had set a silver tiara atop her head. Only it wasn't real silver, as Byron knew it had been given to her three years ago as a gag gift from her mother. It had been purchased in the child's section of an accessories store, plastic coated in reflective silver paint and adorned with small gold jewels lining its crescent and three pale pink jewels on the points of its crown. It, like her hair, sparkled in the sun. Byron had heard whispers of it being extremely childish, and ruining her outfit, and making it obvious that she wanted to be the centre of the universe at her wedding. Not unlike every other woman on the planet who thought they were better, who felt the exact same way but refused to admit it, he had thought in response to this last comment with more than a little anger.
He knew she hadn't done it to grab eyes. She had done it to inject a little youthful fun into her appearance, her attitude, and the day. She had always claimed to hate all the attention she got for just being herself. Though her appearance today differed than usual, she still was unquestionably, uniquely herself. Whereas normally, her lips may have been coloured as darkly as her new hair, she had applied shiny, faintly-peach lip gloss and nothing more to her face. Her fingernails were short and devoid of polish. One was chipped, and hadn't been filed. These things simply didn't matter to her. She felt beautiful in her own way. She was smart enough to know that nobody would, or should, pay attention to little details such as these, and the only ones close enough to her to do so would know that this was the way she was and continue to look upon her as they always had.
Byron wrenched his eyes from her.
"Thanks." He heard her shy blush in her voice. He glanced up to meet her eyes, and saw, along with the confirmation of this suspicion, an odd look in them.
"Feet getting cold?" he teased, hoping to bring a smile to her lips.
Slowly, she shook her head. Her tiara was a little crooked, he noticed. Without thinking, he reached out to correct it. This coaxed the smile out of her he'd been hoping to see.
"How would I live on my own?" she joked. "You've always taken such good care of me."
Byron sighed, for a moment dreading a long, sob-filled womanly speech before remembering just who he was dealing with. "I try," he amended.
"Um. . . ."
She said it so softly, but Byron's attention was on her before the louder clearing of her throat that followed.
"There's something . . ." she began, "I wanted to ask of you before . . . before this all goes down."
"Why, yes! I will be your bridesmaid."
Marisse cracked a grin. Now there were tears in her eyes.
"Now that . . . I'll be married, and that'll probably be forever, and he and I will be moving. . . ."
That piqued his attention even more. "Moving?" he questioned, and answered for himself, "Out to Westwood."
"Yeah. With his company." She paused for a long moment. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I just wanted you to enjoy the time we were having together without having to dread the wedding. I didn't want to burden you with more bad news. . . ."
They both knew that she meant the announcement of her engagement she had reluctantly made to him one night after hours of RPG cards at his place. Byron remained silent, trying his hardest not to recall the awful clash of emotions that had risen in him when he'd swallowed that news. He had loved the woman steadily, unfalteringly, with all of his heart since the first day of high school, and would forever kick himself for keeping that fact hidden too long, and missing his chances.
She cleared her throat again, obviously nervous. "I'm sorry we never got our chance." Her voice was gentle—liquid silence, mixed with the stinging salts of regret and remorse.
He shook his head, unable to lift his gaze from the grass below his feet. "Don't be. Like I said, what I feel for you is an inconsequential factor. I told you to let your relationship run its natural course. And if this is where it led you, something must be going well. What's meant to be will be."
"What if I don't want it to 'be'?"
He stopped, his insides icing up. His line of sight connected with hers, firmly, more seriously than he'd ever looked at her in his life. He felt as though her big, soft brown eyes might be crushed under the pressure his were putting on them. "Do you?" he demanded, his tone neutral to conceal the racing, erratic beating of his heart, the cold sweat that had broken out all over his body. He needed her to be serious. Needed it, for his own sanity.
Not to his surprise, she squirmed free of the lock and sighed. "I do want to marry him," she admitted, as though it were a thing to be ashamed of.
"Then marry him."
"But. . . ." She faced him, hopelessly, palms open and out, looking at a complete loss for words that would apologize to him properly.
"I told you. I don't matter."
"I don't want to leave you behind," she wailed.
"Well. . . . I guess this is that 'now or never' situation we knew would come eventually." He said it not to be callous, but to admit the truth to them both. It was now—or rather, minutes from now—or never. Byron, or her fiancé. Him or me. Byron knew the answer; he knew he wouldn't win. And once she signed those marriage papers, he would forever be a runner-up, a failure to achieve the grand prize.
"Riiiiight." She drew out the word like it was required to fill a three-minute gap in time. "Actually, that coincides with what I was going to ask of you."
The minutes she'd filled with her long-winded word elapsed now in total silence. "What," Byron finally dared to ask.
"One kiss."
"No! Marisse, you're engaged. You're getting married in ten minutes!"
"It won't take you ten minutes to kiss me."
He looked into her eyes again, and was stunned to discover no hint of a joke in them. "You're fucking serious." His voice was deep and flat; his phrase wasn't spoken in the form of a question.
"Deadly," she intoned, the sound nothing louder than a purr.
His eyes travelled to the ground by route of her body, like melting ice vainly clinging to the steep slope of a hot rock face. He wished he hadn't indulged in the long look. A strong shiver coursing through him now was telling him that kissing her once wouldn't be so bad, which went completely against what his mind was screaming.
When next he looked up, she had drawn closer—much, much closer. Their bodies would brush if either drew a breath; her chin had tilted so that her lips were inches from his. The volume of the voice in his head increased, but his body and its resolve grew weak at just the knowledge of her being so close, wanting what he wanted to give her. A rush of dizziness crashed over him forcefully, his visual picture of the world, all but the burning image of her lips, faded out, and he crumbled at the feet of temptation.
She pulled away suddenly, and every shred of every single feeling that had swelled up within Byron was suddenly replaced by an overwhelming, sickening fear. "I'm so sorry . . ." he started to say.
"I have to go . . . get married now." She looked, and sounded, disgusted.
He watched her turn and leave without another word, before he realized what had happened. His suit jacket was on the ground. His hair had been mussed by her combing fingers. His belt buckle had been released, and the zipper of his pants was halfway down. She hadn't been disgusted with him, by far. She had been disgusted, ashamed, by the fact that she hadn't found him disgusting at all. She'd wanted more than the one kiss she'd initially requested, and deliberately passed it up upon regaining control of herself.
All of her love and lust he would ever get had come and gone. Byron checked his watch. Discovering that the bride was due to journey down the aisle in three minutes, he sat down in the grass for three minutes and satisfied his urge to cry. And when the time was up, he dried his eyes and brushed off his clothes and put on his image once again—the one that had hidden his feelings for her when he should have let them out, and failed to hide his feelings for her when he ought to have kept them inside. And he made his way, as a proud, unconditionally-supportive friend, to witness the marriage of the woman he loved to a man he desperately wished he could be.