Free A Mess of Reason by A. Wilding Wells Page A

to run into Bobby Guild, an old
high school buddy who handles the control center here at the Echo
Mountain airstrip.
    “Where is it? Point it out. I’d love to see
what a cocksucker’s plane looks like. No balls, no head…is it pink
and glittered?”
    “Dude, he came in and out of here in like
three hours yesterday. He left last night around nine o’clock. He’s
a big deal right? He’s the guy Tess is marrying, isn’t he?”
    “He’s a douchebag. You’re sure he left last
night? Positive it was him getting on the plane, not just his pilot
and crew?”
    “Yeah, I was talking to him about some tour
he was on just before he walked up the steps to his jet. Seemed
nice enough to me. Major bruise on his face, and for sure stoned
out of his gourd, but just sort of chill.”
    “Dude, I gotta fly. I’ll see you round,” I
tell Bobby as my heart starts racing.
    She is alone on her birthday. Alone at home,
lying to all of us. She’s humiliated and embarrassed. He did this
to her. I knew it. I wondered how the hell she was able to spend
her birthday with him, but I figured maybe he pulled off some
heroic movie-inspired apology and she’d come around. Now though,
I’ll put money on the fact that he doesn’t even know it’s her
birthday. He’s an even bigger dick than I thought possible. How the
hell in her right mind is she marrying him? What is she drinking?
It’s like the asshole has poisoned her and she can’t get it through
her thick skull what a bona fide jerk he really is. Twenty-nine is
a big deal for her. She brings it up way to much not to notice;
it’s as if she thinks she’s going to expire or something, as if
some little ticking thing inside of her is going to explode past
thirty.
    I fly home way to fast, my adrenaline
guiding me. I know exactly what she needs; I know exactly how to
give it to her. Every year, one day after Tess’s birthday, I start
present-hunting for her next birthday. She’s the easiest person
ever to please—that is, if you’re willing to listen.
    Tess is the furthest thing from high
maintenance—she’s as you’ve seen—tickled with sentimental stuff
more than anything. That’s her Achilles’ heel. Tess came from very
little and made herself into something remarkable; she’s always had
the drive and ambition of a superhuman. She’s one of those girls
who’s got as much moxie and tomboy in her as she does all the girly
sugar and spice. She’s that flavorful mix of luscious that startles
you with her inner fire.
    That’s why watching her let him—that
douchebag, Creed—walk all over her makes zero sense to me. It’s
like that ring he gave her has some kryptonite in it that’s zapping
her inner power of yummy. She’s the girl who tries to arm wrestle a
guy like me and is certain she can take me down. How can you not
love her? I can zing a forty-yard sideline laser—I could pin her
down with my pinky finger.
    Does it simply come down to fact that she
wants to be married and start banging out kids? Is it that? Is it
the fact that he got to her first (even though technically I did,
but never made my move…where was my rocket shot then? How did I
drop that pass?)? Of all the topics we discuss—and man, we cover
the gamut—somehow marriage and kids was never one of them.
    I haven’t missed spending a birthday with
Tess since we were fourteen. All through college, all the years
later, I always made my way to her, no matter what was going on in
our lives. You can imagine the girlfriends I’ve pissed off over the
years; more than a few breakups came from my insistence to get to
my best friend. Problem was, once they saw a photo of her, all hell
would break loose.
    Every year since she was fourteen I’ve made
her a mess of a Hostess birthday cake. It’s exactly what you’re
picturing it be. A mashup of Twinkies, Ho Hos and Ding Dongs that I
slam a bunch of sparkler candles into. Don’t ask. All I know is the
smile on her face when she’s eating it kicks the ass