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Bittersweet

Stella

“It’s over, I’m married,” I thought to myself. I never imagined that I would see this day. Don’t get me wrong, I love Landon, but never, did I think that I, myself would ever be a wife.
My mother got married young and has preached to me the importance of waiting and being positive you want to spend the rest of your life with that person before you elope. After all, she and my father were divorced by time I was two years old. When Landon and I told her we were getting married she was beside herself, she begged us to wait, but, we already had our minds made up. We were madly and passionately in love, and nothing could stop us from doing what we sought to do. We would be wed, and we had planned the date for two weeks from Saturday.
The most important people were there. We didn’t want a big wedding, just a small intimate setting with our closest confidents. Only about, twenty people in all. I was dressed in an elegant white gown, strapless and down to my feet in length. Ally had asked to do my hair, without conflict I agreed. She had done a wonderful job. All in curls, framing my face, she had added some sparkles for décor. Landon was dressed handsomely in a slick, black and white tux, and together we looked like a picture out of a catalogue.
As I walked down the aisle, heads turned, everyone with exaggerated expressions. Landon couldn’t help but stare as I came closer to reaching my point of destination. As I was walking I started to feel more and more nervous. I don’t know why, this is what I wanted after all. I had finally reached the altar, and as I looked into his amber-colored eyes all my nerves had calmed.

The ceremony was a blur to me. Though the one thing I do remember is the moment I said, “I do.” It was monumental. Like a weight lifted off my shoulders. I no longer had any worries; Landon would take care of me for the rest of our lives.
Landon
POV switch

She looks beautiful as she walks down the aisle, but as her distance grows nearer, I begin to sweat. If you love someone aren’t you supposed to be honest? You’re supposed to share your deepest, darkest secrets. Maybe I should have told her. Will she leave me when I tell her? Should I tell her? These questions haunt me in the back of my mind as my bride is standing in front of me. “Too late now,” I say to myself. I should’ve confronted this before our wedding day. I just can’t seem to bring myself to tell her the reality of my life.

Every morning I leave for work, I work in the city, which is true. I cater to people’s needs, I run narcotics. I am in some way, a “traveling salesman.” Just not in the way that my now wife, believes. I drive an hour and a half to my pick-up site, and deliver “the goods” to the allotted destination. I myself don’t use them, but if I were to get picked up, I’d be locked up for life.
I just can’t stop. Not only is it great money, but the job works around my schedule. I just don’t know how to get out. I feel like I need to, in a sense, grow up and move on with my life, but this is what I have done since I was eighteen-years-old. I want to provide a good life for my new bride, but if I were to get locked up I wouldn’t be able to provide for her.
I decide to tell my main boss that I want out. In this business you can’t just leave. It follows you. I won’t know until I try, whether this attempt to leave will be successful, or not. I’ve also made the decision to tell my wife. She will not be happy, and she might leave me, but she needs to know. Maybe, she will be understanding, and be gracious since I have decided to get out. I will tell her when we get back from our honeymoon.
The whole week was wonderful, just my wife and I. In the tropical islands, of the Bahamas. The water was like a crystal, and the sun like a warm oven, the sand almost white as snow. I soaked up the happiness in the last happy week with my wife. Anything she wanted, her wish, was my command.
The day we were to depart, to head back home, I was miserable. As we got on our plane, I realized that within hours I would have to face the facts and let my wife in on my secret. Getting closer and closer, I started to sweat, frantic with fear. Walking off the plane, my stomach started to turn. Whistling loudly, we caught a cab, and headed home.
I waited until that evening. We were eating dinner, Stella had cooked. She looked amazing, hair down in curls, with her skin glowing from the sun-kissed tan. As I got up the courage, I nearly yelled it at her, “Stella, I run drugs for a living.”





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