The Man Who Can't Be Moved

EMMA-LEIGH'S POV

“When’s the last time that you talked to your parents?”

I glance up from the mirrored makeup compact cradled in my left hand and frown; I’d been requested by Peyton to touch up her face in the cramped and dimly lit public rest room on the third floor of City Hall and the last thing I’d expected her to talk about a mere fifteen minutes before tying the knot was my extremely dysfunctional family. I’d been looking forward to talking her out of the customary pre-wedding jitters I can’t imagine any bride not going through them; the realization that you’re about to commit yourself to someone in the truest sense of the word is overwhelming. It’s one thing to love someone to the ends of the earth and to ‘play house with them’ -as my Papa always calls living common law- but it’s something else entirely to have that legal bond tying the two of you together for -what should be- the rest of your lives. I know that to most it’s just viewed as a piece of paper; a legal document proclaiming you husband and wife.

But I can’t help but believe -regardless of how fairytale-ish it may seem or how immature I may sound- that there’s more to it than that; always and forever doesn’t exist in your signatures but in the vows that you spoke to each other and the symbolic exchange of rings you took part in. I’d been nervous before I’d gotten married and I’d gone through a few minutes of near blind panic as I considered what people would say about me for getting married not only so young but so quickly into my relationship and it Max was having second thoughts or regrets. My anxiety had never been about questioning my decision to marry him; I had known rather quickly that I was madly and hopelessly in love with him -in fact, I’m pretty sure I had started falling in love with that night at that seedy bar in Scranton when he’d saved me from falling on my ass- and that I wanted to spend always and forever with him.

I’d expected Peyton to go through the same worries; she’d successfully talked me out of all of mine before I’d walked down the aisle and I’d been fully prepared to do the same thing for her. Yet here she is, as confident and composed as ever. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her break a sweat; I’ve never seen her lose her temper or heard her raise her voice and I’ve most certainly never seen her rush into anything or make hasty, half assed decisions. Tyler hadn’t been right for her. In fact, he’d been a complete and utter bastard to her. To everyone in his life during the months he’d spent sowing his wild oats with practically ever puck bunny that showed even the remotest interest and guzzling booze as if he couldn’t live without it. That Tyler hadn’t deserved her; he’d been a drunk, obnoxious loser who’d poisoned everything and anyone around him. And while I can forgive him for the slight hand he’d had to play in the loss of my baby and we’re still in the process of repairing our relationship, I certainly will never be able to forget about it. In the same way I’ll never forget the way he’d pissed away his chance at happiness with the most phenomenal woman I’ve ever met. Sure, Kelsey is a wonderful girl; she’s vibrant and witty and adorable as all hell and she’s a lot of fun to be around. But she’s no Peyton. Those are some huge -and insanely expensive- designer shoes to fill.

I envy her; her grace, her poise, her ability to never hold a grudge and to laugh and smile through even the toughest, shittiest days of her life. She manages to easily insert herself into peoples’ lives and change them for the better without doing very little at all. She’s patient and tolerant and is always willing to offer a shoulder to cry on or a sympathetic ear no matter how hectic her own life is; she’s been known to drop anything and everything -whether it be something important for work or even a quiet, romantic night with the love of her life- in order to help someone through their problems. Tyler hadn’t appreciated her; he had taken for granted the beautiful and enormously special gift that he’d been given in Peyton. Kris on the other hand doesn’t waste a single chance when it come to showing her or telling her how much he loves her; he’s thoughtful and attentive and breathtakingly romantic and sweet and he worships the ground she walks on. They deserve each other; two people that leave a remarkable impression on everyone else’s lives without even knowing they’re doing it.

And did I mention she’s drop dead gorgeous? I can’t stop saying it enough. She’s sexy and alluring yet in a classy and demure way; it’s in her impeccable fashion sense and her soft voice and her graceful smile. Today she looks absolutely incredible; channelling Jackie O in a high, ruffled collared winter white crepe blouse with rhinestone and pearl buttons and bell sleeves and an ankle length satin skirt of the same colour. Her shimmering blond tresses have been styled into an elegant chignon and a simple pair of diamond studs adorn her ears and she sports a cuff bracelet and choker in cream, champagne and black fresh water pearls. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her guts and want to scratch her eyes out.

“Now that is rather odd wedding day conversation,” I remark, as I swipe a blush brush through the loose powder, smooth it across her cheeks, forehead, chin and down the slope of her nose before blowing lightly on her face to rid her skin of excess makeup. “Of all he things you could pick to talk about when your moments away from marrying your Prince Charming it has to be my parents?”

“Tyler told me two days ago that your folks have no idea about the baby,” she says, and screws her eyes shut as I touch up both her shadow and liner.

“You were talking to Tyler?” I find that even more odd than her bringing up my mom and dad. “Why were you talking to him? I thought Lepretty has this huge hate on for my brother still and doesn’t want you anywhere near him. Not that I blame him for feeling that way. I just thought that…”

“He’s in therapy for his anger management,” Peyton reminds me. “And part of his session the other night was to bring someone along that he had wronged and to read this whole prepared apology and an explanation to why he’d acted the way he’d had and why he felt he deserved forgiveness.”

“So you just went along? You just agreed to it? Kris was okay with that? I would have thought that…”

“Kris trusts me to make the right decisions with my life and our baby’s,” she says. “He knows that I’m a big girl and that I can take care of myself. And he understood why me going was important to Tyler’s recovery. And to my own.”

I nod in understanding and then hold her face still with one hand and use the baby finger on the other to slightly smear her charcoal liner.

“Your parents don’t know about the babies? Tyler said that he nearly dropped on the bomb on the other night. They were all talking about you and he started talking about incessant morning sickness and due dates and they had no clue what he was going on about. He had to cover it up by saying he was talking about me.”

“Remind me to kick his ass when I see him at the game later,” I grumble.

“You should have told them, Lee-Lee. They’re your parents and that’s their grandchildren you’re having. And I know you’re not exactly on best terms with either your mom or your dad…”

“My mom’s a mean, spiteful bitch and my dad is an emotionally absent asshole that cares more about his poker buddies than his own family,” I irritably interject, and tossing the compact, blush brush and eye pencil into the travel case of makeup Peyton had brought along, snag a tube of liquid blush from one of the compartments. “I don’t want them knowing about the babies. And I especially don’t want them knowing about the operation.”

“You’re their daughter, Em. I know they’re exactly Ward and June Cleaver, but…”

“They hate Max,” I remind her, as I snap open the lid on the blush and squeeze a quarter sized drop into my palm. “Legitimately hate him and wish he’d fall off the face of the earth. My mother can’t stand him because he’s apparently not good enough for me; he’s not good looking enough, he’s too charming in what she considers an ‘egotistical’ and ‘sleazy’ way and he’s not rich enough. If he’s not making a million or more, it’s apparently a waste of my time. And my dad…well my dad doesn’t like him because he feels threatened by him. Because Max isn’t afraid to say out loud what everyone is thinking and he doesn’t let anyone shit all over him and doesn’t think twice about calling someone out on being a fucking douche bag. In my dad’s opinion, Max is too loud and too obnoxious and way too possessive and domineering. Oh, and he thinks he’s a separatist because he’s from Quebec. And my dad has a massive pickle up his ass when it comes to separatists. I could go on and on. My parents apparently have lists miles long about why they can’t stand my husband and why I shouldn’t have married him.”

“Jesus, Lee-Lee…” Peyton winces as my the tips of my fingers dig painfully into her cheeks as I rub the blush into her skin. “…take it easy…”

“Sorry…” I give a sheepish smile and recapping the tube in my hand, toss is into the makeup kit with a clatter. “I don’t want to talk about my parents, P. I don’t even want to think about them. They’re nasty, hateful people and all they want to do is ruin my life. Getting away from them was the best thing I ever did.”

“I know that they can be a little…what’s the word…overbearing…sometimes…”

I snort derisively and snatch a bottle of shimmering peach lip gloss from the case sitting next to me on the sink ledge. “Overbearing? They want to control every aspect of my life. They want to lock me up in the house and never let me see daylight or breathe fresh air. You know what my mother wants to do to me? Some wacky fucking thing she’s learned in this new age healing course she’s taking? She wants to have this re-birthing ceremony. Can you believe that? Apparently they wrap you up in blankets and they sit on you and push you and all this shit. I guess it’s supposed to represent a mother giving birth. You’re supposed to come out all cleansed and purified or some crap like that.”

“Okay…so that’s a little…weird…” Peyton agrees. “But deep down I think they’re just concerned about you, Em. You’re their daughter. Their baby. And you’re only nineteen years and you ran off behind their back and got married to a guy that’s not only twenty-five, but who has a rather frightening track record with women and who…”

“Peyton…” I sigh exasperatedly, swipe a coat of gloss onto her lips. “…I love you to death. You know that right? That I love you even more than my own family? And that I consider you the sister I never had?”

She nods.

“Well please don’t think I’m being a total bitch when I say this but…” I pinch her chin between my thumb and forefinger and force her to look me dead in the eye. “Max is my husband. My be all and end all. And no one disrespects my husband like that.”

She blinks at the harsh tone to my voice and the intensity that darkens my eyes. “Lee-Lee, I would never…”

“My parents no longer have any bearing on my life,” I soften my voice and use the tips of my baby fingers to smooth excess gloss from the corners of my best friend’s mouth. “They never gave a rat’s ass about Tyler and I growing up and now all of a sudden they want to come across as candidates for parents of the year? They’ve never gotten involved with my personal life until now so why should I bother telling them about the babies?”

“Because they’re going to be grandparents.” Peyton stresses, as I turn my back on her and begin packing up the make up, “Because there’s all this uncertainty surrounding your health and the babies’ lives and they might like to know how serious things are. Maybe this is their way of trying to get involved in your life. Maybe they’re trying to make amends for…”

“Too late,” I say, and slam the lid of the makeup kit closed and snap the locks into place. “It’s too late for them to make amends. Not after everything that’s gone down between me and them over the years. The way they made Tyler and I compete with our brother’s ghost for attention and affection, they way the acted as if we were nothing but burdens, the way my dad…”

I bite my tongue before my secret comes tumbling out. There’s only one person in this world that knows about what happened to me as a child and I plan on keeping that way. I trust Max with not only this but with my life in general; I know he’d never betray me or hurt me. And some bones are just better left buried. If Tyler ever found out about what had gone down, he’d snap and most likely head to the Soo to seek revenge. And that in turn only makes his own personal issues even worse. I can’t do that to him; I can’t burden my brother no matter how much he’d hurt me in the past.

“…let’s just say that my dad isn’t exactly the poster child for husband and father of the year,” I finally continue. “Things are just better the way they are. Me in Pittsburgh, them in Sault Ste Marie.”

“I still think you should give them the chance,” Peyton gently encourages. “I understand where you’re coming from and I get why you’re so upset with them, but these…” she reaches out and lays a hand on my stomach. “…these are their grandbabies. And you’re their daughter. I just can’t help but feel that they deserve to know about this. Especially if anything ever happened to you or the twins. Wouldn’t you rather they be forewarned about things? So it’s not a mortal shock if something goes wrong?”

“They won’t give a shit,” I argue. “I know them, P. I lived with them for the first eighteen years of my life. They won’t care about me or my babies. If anything, it will only set my mother off on one of her tangents and my dad will go on and on about how Max has me right where he wants me; barefoot and pregnant. I can’t deal with that, okay? I can’t deal with them. I don’t need anymore drama in my life and…” my sentence is abruptly cut short when a sharp burning sensation suddenly creeps up in my stomach, and I wince and lay a hand on the lower left hand side and force myself to remain calm. The OB had warned about moments like this; smaller, insignificant cysts bursting and causing some pain and maybe even some slight bleeding.

“Lee-Lee…” panic immediately settles into Peyton’s voice and she lays a hand on my back. “…what is it? Are you okay? What…?”

“It’s nothing,” I assure her, and closing my eyes briefly, force my breathing to remain deep and slow as I wait out the pain. “See…” I turn to my friend with a somewhat shaky smile plastered on my face. “It was nothing. I’m fine. Nothing to be worried about.”

“Everything is something to be worried about with you and the babies. Maybe we should postpone this. Maybe we should worry more about getting you to a doctor and checked out and…”

“Peyton…I’m fine…” I insist. “…it happens a lot. The OB said it was nothing to get worked up about. That I’d know if there was something seriously wrong. Please don’t freak out about this. This is your wedding day! The most important day of your life! Now…” laying my hands on her shoulders, I turn her to face the mirrors that line the wall behind the sinks. “…what do you think? Did I work my magic or what? Not that you need any magic worked on you considering you’re drop dead fucking gorgeous…”

“I love it,” she gushes, a graceful, appreciative smile curving her lips as she reaches up and lays her hands over mine. “Thank you,” her voice is shaky with emotion and maybe even a slight touch of nerves. “For being here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, baby cakes,” I entwine my fingers with hers and press a kiss to her cheek. “Now about we get out of here? How about we haul ass and go and get you married? Sound good?”

“Yeah…” her smile broadens and she squeezes my hands tightly. “…sounds perfect.”

******

MAX’S POV

“Souhaitez-vous ne rien faire?” I practically growl in Tanger’s direction, as he frantically paces the width of City Hall’s third floor outdoor smoking lounge. It’s nothing more than a patch of cement five feet by five feet adorned with a couple of rickety plastic deck chairs and a wrought iron bench that is bolted into the ground. “You’re going to wear out the fucking pavement.”

“I can’t help it…” he laments. “Do you realize what’s about to happen? Do you understand what’s about to go down? I’m going to get married, Max. I’m ten minutes away from becoming someone’s husband. Do you realize how nerve wracking that is to think about?”

“No Tanger, I don’t…” sarcasm drips heavily from each of my words. “…I have no idea what it feels like because I didn’t just go through the whole thing myself four months ago. Vous devez simplement vous détendre. It’s not like you’re about to be sentenced to death or anything like that. If you were this nervous about getting married, maybe you should have just waited until summer. You would have been a hundred percent sure by then and…”

“I am a hundred percent sure,” he interjects. “It’s not that I’m second guessing what I’m doing. I want to marry Peyton. I’ve wanted to marry her for months now. You know how I didn’t want a big old thing in Montreal. You know I wanted to do this whole justice of the peace thing right from the get go. I only agreed to all that other shit to shut my parents up. I’m just…I don’t know…” he rakes a hand through his ‘sex hair’. “Je suis vraiment nerveux.”

“It’s normal,” I assure him, and take a long drag from my cigarette. “Completely normal. You’re about to commit yourself to one person for the rest of your life. For better or worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and health and forsaking all others and all that shit. What isn’t normal is you pacing like that and me thinking I’m going to have to talk you down off that ledge. Would you just sit down? Just take a seat and relax, okay? You’re freaking me out here. It’s giving me an ulcer the size of Texas just watching you.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he mutters, and shoves his hands through his hair once again before taking a seat alongside of me on the wrought iron bench. “I love her and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with her and I know in my heart that this is absolutely what I want. What we both want. Yet look at me…” he holds his hands out for me to see how bad he’s shaking. "Tremblais comme une feuille.”

“Ceci est normal. Tu vas être correct,” I assure him. “This is the biggest step of your life, Tanger. Other than becoming a dad, this is the most enormous and important event of your entire existence. You’re going to be someone’s husband. Someone is going to be your wife. You don’t think it’s normal to be freaked out over that? Over the idea of spending the rest of your life with just one person? Tout le monde passe par ce d'une manière ou l'autre.”

“In one way or the other…” he mutters, repeating the last part of my sentence. “…que diriez-vous? Étiez-vous présent nerveux? You didn’t seem this nervous to me right before you got married.”

“The only thing I was nervous about was whether or not she was actually going to show up,” I admit. “I was fucking terrified that she was going to change her mind. That she’d either get to the church and tell me she couldn’t go through with it, or just not come at all and leave me there. That’s what I was nervous about. But was I freaked out about the thought of spending the rest of my life with her?” I take another deep drag of my cigarette and exhale slowly. “Non, je n'étais pas nerveux à ce sujet à tous. I knew pretty early that I was in love with her. That I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her.”

“How early is early?” Tanger asks. “Like early into actually being together or early as in when she was still with Sid?”

“I knew that I was in love with her while she was still with Sid,” I confess. “I knew that time I met her Ross Park Mall that there was something different about the way I felt for her. That I’d never, ever felt that way about anyone else I’d ever been with. It was like my whole world revolved around her; I would have dropped everything and anything and anyone just to see her. And our first night together…I don’t know…afterwards I noticed that I felt different. That the sex had felt different. I can’t explain it. I guess it felt like forever to me. Like I could see myself not only sharing my life with her, but my bed too.”

Tanger nods slowly as he lets my words sink in.

“But as far as the whole wanting to marry her part goes, it was just a spur of the moment thing that happened. We were in town to play the Canadiens in November and I went to see her at my brothers and as soon as she came bursting out the door and running towards me I knew she was it for me. I don’t even know if I actually thought about asking her to marry me before that night. I just sort of busted it out, you know? I just asked off the top of my head and she said yes. I mean, I knew that I didn’t want to live without her. I was fucking miserable being that far away from her. I guess I just realized all those feelings all at once and I just thought, fuck it and said, ‘let’s get married’.”

“Just like that?” my friend asks. “That’s how you asked?”

“Not the most romantic way,” I admit with a chuckle. “And probably not at the most opportune time either.”

“Jesus…” he groans. “…please tell me you didn’t ask while you two were…”

“Not during,” I assure him. “But right afterwards. You know when you’re all still sweaty and tingly from head to toe and you’re thinking you’re going to die it was that good? We were just lying there and I busted it out. It wasn’t even really a question. I was just like ‘let’s get married’.”

“I honestly can’t believe she’d say yes to that,” Tanger mutters.

“She didn’t at first. I actually had to spend an hour convincing her that I just didn’t say it in a moment of weakness. That it wasn’t just post-orgasmic bliss talking. Important thing is that she did say yes. And that she showed up and didn’t change her mind.”

“Good thing for you,” he agrees, and then leans his head back against the brick wall behind us. “And for me and Flower and Dupers, too. ‘Cause had she not shown up, we would have been the ones listening to you bitch and moan and bawl like a little girl over it. I could not have handled that shit. I don’t even know if I can handle this Max,” he jerks his shoulder in my direction. “I don’t know what to make of this one. The Max that gives peps talks and waxes poetic about love and shit. I guess I’m so used to the perverted, obnoxious Max that this is hard to grasp.”

“Hey…don’t insult me, okay? I‘m still like that. Perverted and obnoxious. Just now I’m also a one woman man. And if I can fall in love and settle down and be perfectly happy with the thought of spending forever with just one girl? Fuck, anyone can. You’ll be fine. It’s just pre-wedding jitters. We all go through it in our own way. So just calm the fuck down; pull up them big boy pants and just do it.”

“I would just do it if the justice of the peace wasn’t running late,” he grumbles. “And I thought you quit,” he nudges me with his elbow as I remove a pack of smokes and a lighter from the inside pocket of my suit jacket and help myself to a second cigarette.

“I did,” I confirm. “I quit as soon as Em and I got together ‘cause she said she didn’t want kissing me to be like licking an ashtray. And then she got pregnant and with all the worries about the operation and stressing out over something going wrong and losing the babies…” sighing heavily, I slip the smoke between my lips and light it. “…just be fucking thankful I don’t have a worse vice. I don’t do it around her; I don’t smoke in the house or in the car or if she’s with me out on the street. And I’ll quit before the babies come.”

“No wonder you’ve been so fucking slow on the ice,” my friend complains. “No wonder you’re fucking winded only halfway through your shift. Soon they’re going to have to have an oxygen tank on the bench just for you.”

“Don’t you worry about me and my bad habits,” I retort. “I can still skate fucking circles around you.”

He gives a derisive snort and both shakes his head in disdain and waves a hand in his face when I blow a mouthful of smoke in his direction. “What if she changes her mind?” he suddenly asks, sheer terror in his voice. “What if she decides last minute that she doesn’t want to get married? If she doesn’t want to get married to me?”

“Tanger…come on…Peyton’s crazy about you. Anyone who can’t see it every time she so as much looks at you has to be blind. Would you just relax? Everything’s going to be fine. You need to just take a deep breath and…”

“Gentlemen…” Em pokes her out the door. “…both the bride and the JP are ready.”

“About fucking time,” Tanger mutters, and jumps to his feet. “Do I look okay?” he asks my wife. “Everything looks alright?”

“Very handsome,” Em assures him, tucking his hair behind his ears and then tightening and straightening his tie and smoothing out the shoulders and lapels of his jacket. “Max on the other hand…” she scowls at me as I butt out my cigarette and tuck the package and lighter back into my pocket and join her at the door. “…you smell,” she informs me, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Gum?” I hold my hand out.

“La douleur dans mon cul!” she huffs, and rummages through her impossibly small silver and black beaded hand bag that, surprisingly enough, holds a hell of a lot of shit. Useless shit, to be exact.

“Vous m’ aimez,” I pout dramatically, and then tap my foot impatiently against the cement. “Come on, woman!” I cry in mock exasperation. How hard could it be to find a piece of gum in there?! My brother sends us cases of the shit!”

“I’ve got breath spray,” she offers, and holds up a tiny white tube. “…spicy cinnamon flavour.”

“Your brother in law works for a chewing gum company and you don’t have one piece? Not a single one?” I heave a heavy sigh and then crouch down slightly; opening my mouth and motioning for her to use the spray.

“You really have to give up smoking,” she informs me, and liberally squirts the inside of my mouth. “It’s a totally disgusting habit and I can’t handle kissing you when you’ve been smoking. And you know how much I love kissing you…”

“I will quit,” I promise. “As soon as the operation is over and one with, okay? Long before the little rug rats come along.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she says, and then turns for the door. “Now we better get going before…”

Snagging her by the wrist, I yank her towards me and then circle her waist with my arms from behind. “I love you,” I say, and press a kiss to her cheek. “I don’t know when or where or even how it happened, I just know it did.”

“Some things aren’t meant to be questioned,” she reasons, and then tilts her head back and smiles up at me.

“I’m just glad it did happen,” I say, and peck the tip of her nose.

“You certainly are one lucky bastard,” she declares with a playful wink, then wriggling out of my embrace, grabs me by the hand and pulls me towards the door. “Now haul ass! They can’t get married without us!”

She may be a bossy little bitch at certain given times. She may drive me completely insane. She may leave her bras and underwear hanging over the shower curtain rod, squeeze the toothpaste in the middle of the tube and leave the lid of. There may be left over milk crusted at the bottom of a glass she’d placed in the sink the night before and she may talk incessantly in her sleep and steal all the covers.

But for each bad, annoying habit, I can cite ten amazing things about my wife.

And most importantly, I love her to the ends of the earth. And I can’t imagine ever having to live without her.