Veronica Winters’ lip curled as she looked over the selection of prints from her and Brandon’s engagement photo session. Each image reminded her of what an unremarkable couple they were. Veronica held a black and white photo that captured the hand-clasped couple from the waist down. She was suddenly reminded of Grant Wood’s American Gothic, a familiar image of an old married farm couple standing side-by-side, resilient and determined.
In the photo, Veronica wore ill-fitting flats despite preferring heels. But, with Brandon being only 5’8”, and she, a solid 5’7”, Veronica would’ve towered over Brandon like she did the boys in sixth grade back when they called her the Jolly Green-Eyed Giant.
Staring intently at the photo, as if to understand by studying it, Veronica took in the floral knee-length skirt hanging flaccidly from her oval-shaped waist. What did she want and why wasn’t she happy? Brandon was easily the best man she’d ever known, let alone dated. He was cute. He was responsible. He was faithful. He adored her.
And, after a series of shitty relationships, of men who’d taken too much and given too little, Brandon’s stability was a gulp of fresh air. Her mother was elated when her 28-year-old daughter introduced her to a nice guy who was “obviously smitten”.
In the string of disasters before Brandon, there was Rob, a former car salesman whose side hustle was a small pot farm in his second bedroom. He’d been okay, but then she found out he was as liberal with his cock as he was his pot politics, and after months of negotiating, of Rob swearing he’d ditched the side chick (or was it chicks?), they split up because, as Rob said, he was “tired of trying to be faithful to a woman I’m just not that into.”
After that, there was Eric, the good on paper guy. Eric was a high-level DOD contractor with a 401K and a mutual fund. He was ambitious and encouraging, like a trainer at a gym. When he wasn’t waxing his cherry red 911 or networking, he was giving Veronica unsolicited suggestions for what she should do with her life.
At that time, Veronica was working an entry-level admin job at a private physiotherapist firm. She’d made it clear when she met Eric that the job was just to pay bills. It wasn’t demanding and during her downtime, she could work on sketches for the children’s books she illustrated as a freelancer. He’d been impressed when she told him her plan to become a full-time children’s books illustrator, but that admiration wore off as soon as he realized how much time establishing a freelance career took.
Eric’s refrain of “my buddy Jeff’s girlfriend cooks for him” grated on Veronica, so one rare night, she made tacos and invited Eric over for dinner. “Wow, that was great. You should cook more often. Put down your crayons and just make dinner for me every night.”
“Put down my crayons?”
“Don’t’ get offended.” Eric shrugged swigging his Corona. “But let’s be real. You’re not going to make anything illustrating. Let’s be honest. Your drawings are okay but come on. You could be learning to cook, to be the kind of woman with the kind of home a hardworking man wants to come home to.” Veronica put her taco down and rolled the napkin in her nap around her hands.
Another swig. “Or you can get another cat, so your bed won’t be cold at night,” Eric added.
A week later, Veronica found a kitten in the parking lot outside work, and she brought it home. Eric took one look at the cat and left. A few days later, he was tagged on Facebook in pictures with a smiling red head named Katie, and Veronica realized she’d accidentally broken up with Eric. It was the first time she’d been the one to end things, and even though it was a mistake, it felt good.
Dating Brandon had been a fluke. They met and established a friendship over both having had a series of failed relationships¾his usually characterized by years of dating, an anticlimactic “moving in together stage”, followed by stagnation and, ultimately, termination upon finding out his paramour had started cheating shortly after they moved in.
Going from friend to something more with Brandon was a slow burn, their feelings warming like a tea kettle on the stove, but then, they never quite made it whistle.
Veronica put down the black and white picture and looked at her ridiculously large engagement diamond. It was the size of a chickpea, which, on Brandon’s salary was absurd, but she’d once¾at her cockiest¾said, “I won’t say ‘yes’ to a small ring. If a man wants to be with me, he needs to be ready to show he’s willing to sacrifice to have me.” A small part of her had hoped that Brandon would’ve said no and would’ve dumped her because deep down, she wanted someone who made her whistle.
It was during a lazy Saturday of mall shopping when while waiting at the Starbucks counter, Veronica’s mother, Linda, sighed heavily, blonde bangs fluttering off of her forehead exposing grey roots, and she said, “You know, it’s better for you to marry someone who loves you more than you love them.”
“Is that the voice of wisdom and experience I hear speaking?” Veronica thought of her father, on a golf course somewhere, no doubt.
“Obviously. After all, I got married because¾”
“You got knocked up.” Veronica reached for the latte the purple-haired barista slid disinterestedly across the bar.
“I was going to say because I thoughtI was in love, but yes. Things were sodifferent then.” Linda took her own latte and lead the way out of the coffee shop and back into the mall. Veronica followed, her eyes grazing the stores. Across from Starbucks was a shuttered jeweler. Next to that, an empty box where Gadzooks had once been. There was a Victoria’s Secret she and Linda had already visited. Then, a shop full of miscellaneous kitchen appliances, a Cookie Co., and a few storefronts down, an Express promoting a going out of business sale.
They walked side-by-side past the detritus of the ‘90s, and Linda continued, “You had to get married if you got pregnant back in my day. Never mind that I thoughtJohn was in love with me. He certainly acted like it.” She touched her fuchsia-colored lips to the brim of the latte cup lid and sipped.
“Men are all in love when they’re having sex,” Veronica replied recalling that night in the backseat of Toby Stark’s 4-Runner her sophomore year. The homecoming game wasn’t the only thing lost that night. After a crushing defeat on the football field, Veronica’s crush Toby, the cute senior quarterback with long brown hair that flipped out under his baseball cap, had been alone in the parking lot. She’d pined for Toby since ninth grade when he’d stopped at her locker and asked if she was going to watch his game. That was all it took, him singling her out for a moment, for her to faithfully attended every home game.
The night of the game, Veronica stayed until the bitter end, even when her friends called her an idiot for staying and left to go to Subway in the third quarter. She watched the players slump off the field after grudgingly shaking the other team’s hands. She saw Tony press a palm to his wet forehead and then rub his forearm across his eyes. He was crying. Her heart ached to console him, so she dawdled gathering her things, played a round of snake on her Nokia, and then went to the bathroom and touched up her lip gloss.
Veronica looked at herself in the mirror. She was pale, so she pinched her cheeks to add a flush of color. Damn her mother for not letting her wear makeup. Veronica rapidly blinked her green eyes to brighten them and ran her fingers through her long, pin-straight brown hair. She inhaled deeply then tucked her thumbs under the pink straps of her bunny backpack purse and left the bathroom.
A lone silhouette stood in the gravel parking lot. She recognized Toby’s jacked up navy blue 4-Runner and knew the guy digging his toe into the dirt and casting his gaze skyward had to be Toby.
“Sorry about tonight,” Veronica said when she was in earshot. “You played really well.”
Toby jerked his head, realizing he was no longer alone. A loud sniffle and a little too thickly, “Yeah, thanks. Crappy way to end my senior year, though.”
Veronica shrugged. “I’m sure it won’t be what everyone remembers about you.”
“It will be what I remember,” Toby said.
“I’m sorry.” Veronica moved in close to Toby. She wrapped her arms around him. For a second, he just stood there, then he hugged her back. She felt tiny in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest. His heart beat a steady rhythm in her ear.
Veronica started trembling and the words of comfort she had planned stuck in her throat.
“You cold?” Toby asked.
“A little.” It was a lie.
“Wanna sit in the truck?” Toby threw open the back door.
Veronica nodded and climbed into the 4-Runner’s backseat.
Toby slid in next to her, closing the door, and cupped her lips with his open mouth. His tongue pushed against her teeth. It took her a moment to register that the wet, slippery sensation was meant to be a kiss. He was kissing her. She opened her mouth, and he shoved his tongue in. He exhaled. Hot, sour breath filled her mouth.
As Veronica’s tongue struggled against his, she was only acutely aware of his hand under her shirt, sliding up her ribcage, until he pulled the right cup of her bra to the side, and his thumb and forefinger applied practiced pressure to her nipple. Veronica gasped, pulling away.
“Sorry,” Toby said. “I just got carried away.”
“It’s okay,” Veronica replied automatically.
“We can go slower,” Toby offered. “You’re just so fine. I couldn’t control myself.”
Veronica felt a pull between her legs. It was the same feeling from when she’d laid on bed at night and thought about being alone with Toby in a closet or a classroom. She could always come up with a good reason for them to be together. There was a tornado drill or an active shooter situation, and with not enough time to get anywhere else, she ducked into a broom closet where Toby also happened to be. Or vice versa. Toby might duck in where she was hiding. In this version, she’s wounded emotionally or physically and in helping her while admiring her bravery, Toby falls head over heels in love.
Physically, her fantasy ended at kissing, and those kisses were frankly better than the real thing, but the flattery…his words tonight were exactly what she’d imagined him saying. You’re so fine. And I couldn’t control myself.
“We can stop if you want,” Toby offered.
Veronica became aware of herself sitting on the edge of Toby’s backseat, his milky face shining in the dim greyness that filled the space between them.
Veronica shook her head as Toby said, “I was just thinking that being with you would be the kind of good memory that would erase the bad memory of the game.”
“I hope I’m more than a memory to you,” Veronica exhaled, finding her voice.
“Definitely,” Toby moved toward her again, his hand cupping her breast before his mouth reached her face.
Looking back, Veronica recalled, as Toby panted and thrusted, him gasping, “I love you, baby. Holy shit.” Then he stiffened. After he finished shuddering inside of her, he’d rolled to the other seat and rubbed himself with a damp towel he’d pulled from his gym bag before handing her the same towel, which felt unctuous. Her hand had landed where he’d wiped his peen. She cleaned herself off and handed the towel back to him.
After a pause, “Oh, nasty. You didn’t say you were on the rag.” He held the towel up¾the shadow of her blood discernible in the scant light.
Veronica wasn’t on her period, but she mumbled, “Oh, wow. I must’ve just started. I’m so sorry.” She pulled her panties up, aware of the painful throbbing between her legs. Her jeans were next. She winced as the stiff seam made contact.
Toby was finished dressing now and looked at the discarded towel on his floor. “It’s okay. You can wash it and give it back to me.”
Veronica nodded. Her arms shook as she fastened her bra and yanked her shirt on over her head.
Toby drove her to her car on the other side of the football field. He leaned over, kissed her left cheek, then reached across her, and opened the door.
“I had a nice time.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and grabbed her purse.
Toby reached into the backseat and handed her the soiled towel as she slid out of the car. “Me, too. Thanks for the memory, Vanessa.” Veronica’s mouth fell open.
Toby pulled away, the door slamming shut as he punched the gas.
Had Toby been even remotely charitable, Veronica mused in hindsight, perhaps she’d have rebounded from that night. It’d have been a sore spot, sure, but she’d have recovered, maybe even been wiser and a little more confident.
The following Monday, Veronica sought Toby out during their lunch wave. She found him under a cluster of live oaks trees near the auditorium. She wanted to speak to him privately, but when she asked if she could talk to him away from the other football players, the cheerleaders, and the school’s most popular seniors, he’d waved his hand and said, “What’s up? Just tell me right here.”
Veronica pulled her backpack to her front, unzipped it, and produced his freshly-laundered, folded towel. “I just wanted to give this back to you.”
A pretty girl with strawberry blonde hair tucked herself under Toby’s arm. The pretty girl tugged Toby’s letterman jacket around her chest, and Veronica put it together. “What’s up?” the girl asked. “I’m Amber. Toby’s girlfriend.”
Veronica nodded.
“Is that your towel?” Amber asked, giggling pippishly.
“Nope, not mine. What’d you find it after the game or something?” Toby asked.
A tremor in her voice, Veronica said, “My mistake.” She dropped the towel and left. For the remainder of the school year, Veronica’s only indication that Toby was indeed aware of her and what they did was that he made every effort to avoid their paths crossing because she almost never saw him after that encounter during lunch.
Veronica didn’t date again until college, and by then, she’d at least become assured of her looks and her abilities. She could discern when a man was just looking for sex. Usually, it was a cocky guy, one so sure of his wealth or position or potential and one who seemed so aware that she was destined for a life of mediocrity, that he felt sure she’d do him just for the pleasure of being with someone who was going places, and sometimes, she allowed it.
Between these encounters, Veronica had relationships, and Brandon was the “best”. This was even more obvious when Veronica first showed Linda her engagement ring. “Oh, darling,” she’d gushed, “he must really love you.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Veronica shrugged taking a seat at the counter bar in her mother’s kitchen.
Linda grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter beside the fridge. Her back still turned she said, “Don’t sulk. That’s the kind of ring a man gives a woman when he’s planning to be faithful. You don’t just leave a man like that.”
“I know, but I just don’t feel¾”
“Forget your feelings,” Linda snapped, whipping around, her fingers busily uncorking the Coppola table red wine. “Marriage is a contract. Your entire dating life is a negotiation. You’re interviewing clients until you find one you want to do business with. The luckiest ones land clients with looks and money who are devoted. Next best is a client who has at least one or two of those qualities.” Linda poured two glasses of wine. “Brandon’s not rich, but he’s devoted as hell, and he’s not a bad looking guy. I haven’t seen you do any better.”
Veronica couldn’t argue, and so she gulped her wine. The semi-dry liquid burned the back of her throat, but the alcohol’s immediate effect was all she needed. Her head swam, and she felt good. Good enough to not clapback at her mom, to remind her of how messed up her decision to marry the man who knocked her up made Veronica. Maybe if her mom had waited for a man who’d loved her at all, Veronica’s memories wouldn’t be full of lame excuses as to why her dad missed her recital or her graduation or her birthday dinner. He wouldn’t have been too busy banging someone else’s wife. And then someone else’s. And then someone else’s.
No, at least Brandon wouldn’t go around sleeping with someone else’s wife. He wouldn’t even look at their wives.
Veronica glanced once more at the picture, her curly brown bob and stricken expression cut from the final photo. Even without her face, her posture savored of un-enthusiasm, but there was also a resilience, and she thought once again of her female counterpart in American Gothic.
They weren’t standing side-by-side, but Brandon’s hand was wrapped possessively and reassuringly if not a little awkwardly around her fingers.
Surviving together. That’s what they were doing¾would be doing¾until the day they died. Happily-ever-after nor love requisite for marital success. She sighed and slotted the photo into the engagement album that would be on display next to the guest list at their wedding next month.