My Second Wedding Date

"Harry, this is utter shit." I didn't bother replying to her statement, but simply grinned at her, before quickly turning my attention back on the road.

I'd never been a musical person, I was politely asked to leave the school recorder group at the age of 6; they say talent shows early on, and if I was anything to go by, so does the lack of it. I liked to think that if people had had a little more faith in me, I may have developed some sort of musical awareness. But, no, Miss Stephenson kicked me out and never invited me back. I had always blamed her for my taste in music, which everyone apart from me seemed to find horrifyingly terrible; on more than one occasion someone had joked about their ears bleeding.

I had never made an effort to be interested in music and as a result, it was rare that I ever listened to it. Occasionally I'd put a CD on in the car, but I hadn't bought anything new in years and quite often I preferred to drive in silence, allowing me space to think. Nikki had never understood how I could function like that; how I could live without having that one song that somehow managed to fit any mood I felt or that one album that I could listen to all day long.

"Seriously, my ears are bleeding," She pressed the eject button with such force that she may as well have punched it. I pulled into the side of the road and turned on the hazard lights, before reaching over and inspecting the side of her head closely. "What are you doing?" I reached my hand up and began flicking her ear lobe. "Ow!"

"My professional opinion, as a qualified doctor, is that your ears have not haemorrhaged."

"If they weren't bleeding then, they bloody are now." She clasped a hand against her now bright red ear. "Why the hell did you have to flick me?"

"Because I know how much you love it," I flicked her on the nose and then quickly restarted the car.

"Git." I could see that she was trying her hardest not to smile.

"Gorgeous and incessant turn on? Thanks ever so much, darling,"

"Dickhead. Think of one for that,"

"Dreamy, incomparably charming and kinky hunk, envied by all dudes."

"You're so annoying sometimes."

"Pot kettle."

"Pot kettle?"

"Pot calling kettle black,"

"Huh?"

"You've really never heard of pot calling kettle black?"

"My kitchen appliances can't talk," I tutted at her childishness.

"It's a saying," I explained.

"I figured." She began rummaging around in her handbag and soon pulled out her iPod. "Can I connect this up with the car?" I looked at her blankly, reminding her that I didn't have an iPod. "Did you even know that it was possible to connect iPods to car radios?"

"Fiddle about with it if you want, it might work," I started the car again and pulled out.

Sure enough, within 5 minutes she'd managed to get 'good' music playing through the speakers.

"I'll put on Colbie Caillat, she's my favourite at the moment,"

"Who calls their kid Colbie Caillat?" I moaned, wishing she'd just let me carry on playing ABBA. "Parents who give their children alliterating names are evil."

"It's a nice name. Stop whinging and listen."

I followed her command, deciding that arguing with her would be more hassle than it was worth; plus, I didn't want her to be in a bad mood when we had to be in the confided space of the car together for at least another 3 hours. Within 2 songs I could tell she was one of those guitar ladies, who sung about getting dumped by boys or falling in love with them, with both situations being dealt with in the stereotypical girly way. I didn't see the point; you couldn't even dance to them. Not that I was that into dancing anyway.

"It's so boring." I moaned.

"Just give it a chance,"

"You're going to be responsible for me falling asleep at the wheel." She smiled at my dramatics. "What if we crash? How are you going to deal with the guilt?"

"I'll just have to sue Colbie,"

"Seriously, how is Colbie even a name?"

"It's American,"

"Why is that an ok excuse?" I hit the steering wheel in fake frustration. "Why are Americans allowed to be dumb fucks and everyone act like it's ok? It's not ok. They're calling their kids ridiculous things like Colbie and Apple and Sage Moonblood and Jermajesty. It's not the African kids that need help; it's those poor things. It's a serious world issue."

"Nobody's called their kid Sage Moonblood,"

"Sylvester Stallone. Wikipedia it."

"Fine. Who called their kid Jermajesty then?"

"Jermaine Jackson,"

"Colbie is still a pretty name."

"It's not. It sounds like colbalt, which reminds me of the condom chewing gum,"

"What?" She finally let out a giggle that she'd been repressing for a while.

"You know! That chewing gum that comes in those packets that look like condoms."

"Again, what?"

"I don't know what it's called." I made a mental note to point it out next time we stopped at the services. "It's not important. The important part is that Colbie is a stupid name."

"At least it's original, unlike Harry."

"Yeah, 'cause Nicola's really revolutionary,"

"Nikki with two 'k's and an 'i' is pretty unique,"

"You only did that because you can't spell properly," I stated. "I've seen your reports, Dr Alexander,"

"I think you'll find I can spell perfectly well," She hit me playfully. "Focus on driving and the music,"

"How can you expect me to do that with such a pretty distraction next to me?" She leaned over and pulled my coat off the back seats, before draping it over her head.

"Better?"

"A little. I can still see your tits though,"

"HARRY!" She scolded me as she pulled the coat off herself. "You're so crude sometimes,"

"That ring on your finger gives me the permission to say things like that without being called crude,"

"Oh, so that's the reason you proposed? To get permission to be make rude comments about my body? It's all coming out today, isn't it Cunningham?"

"Don't be stupid. I proposed for the cooking."

"Charming,"

"As always,"

"Will you please just listen to the song? This one's my favourite."

"Why do you want me to listen to Colbalt so desperately?"

"Just listen to the bloody lyrics!" She shouted, finally reaching breaking point. I had trouble working out if she was genuinely upset or not. I guessed that she was probably just a little annoyed; well, I hoped that was the case.

Lucky I'm in love with my best friend, lucky to have been where I have been, lucky to be coming home again. Lucky we're in love in every way, lucky to have stayed where we have stayed, lucky to be coming home someday.

"Our song has to be bloody Macarena, typical us. We need a suitable first dance song, and I was trying to see if you liked my suggestion!" For the second time in less than half an hour I stopped the car.

I let my head rest on the headrest, with my cheek pressing against it, staring straight into her light brown orbs, I noticed the stony expression on her face melt away. "You don't like our song?"

"Of course I like our song. We just can't have it as our first dance." To be honest, I quite liked the idea of getting up on the floor and shaking my booty to the Macarena – it is probably the only dance I'm capable of doing, after all. She reached out her hand and interlocked her fingers with mine.

"Then I'll go with your suggestion,"

"Really?"

"It's pretty fitting, isn't it?" I smiled. "Being best friends."

"I was expecting a scornful, yet witty, reply,"

"Not so sure about the bit about being lucky, though." She hit me on the arm, laughing as I recoiled in pain. "Fuck you! You actually gave me dead arm,"

"Zak let me practice on him,"

"You practiced punching Zak? What, so that you could hurt me more than you already do?" Her laughter was irrepressible. I had become so used to her feeble little slaps over the years, that a part of me thought this particular hit might have hurt less if I hadn't been so surprised by it. "You find it funny? Great. You find it funny. I'll have a bruise in the morning. What happens if people start questioning, huh? Why's he got a massive bruise all over his bicep? Has she been hitting him? They'll ring the police, report domestic abuse."

"Unless you're planning on wearing a tank top to your cousin's wedding, nobody will be able to see your bicep."

"Ahhh, so you do admit there will be a bruise?"

"Of course. I'm quite proud, actually,"

"I don't want to marry you anymore." I grinned.

"But who'll cook for you if you don't?"

"I have a mother."

"My cooking ability is the only thing keeping you with me?"

"Of course. It's not like you have any other positive traits."

"I can tell our marriage is going to long and fruitful,"

"Unlike Julie's,"

"Harry!"

"What?"

"You can't say that,"

"Why not? It's true – how long was it, 8 months?" I did the maths in my head; Nikki and I had just had our 2 year anniversary, and Julie had been dating this new guy for about a year. "A year tops. And now she's moved on to the next bloke – that marriage was a total sham,"

"You have a point," I loved it when she had to admit that I was right. "But you can't go around talking like that this weekend, ok?"

"Really? I was planning on reminding everyone that her first wedding was only a couple of years ago at every given opportunity, just to reassure them she was the type of girl who would stick around,"

"Prat." I knew she hated my sarcasm – maybe that was why I used it so often.

"Perfect, romantic and tender; sweetheart, you do flatter me far too much."

The End.

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