The Happily Never After

Why choosing streetlights over a gazebo was the first of many mistakes I made in a cult wedding.

“Do you want to join the young people at the Legislature grounds?” he asked, turning left toward the elders’ house.

Little did I know he was about to propose… matrimony.

“Uh, I’ll have to call and ask for permission.”

Because obviously, at eighteen, three months shy of nineteen, practically ancient, I couldn’t possibly make my own decisions. The elder and his wife were in the Acura ahead of us. We weren’t allowed to drive anywhere alone, unless we were directly behind them, and only when the planets aligned perfectly. Lucky us.

It was 10:30 p.m. on a Wednesday. Cult service? Done. Post-cult grocery shopping? Check. Time to head home. The night was young, but I sure wasn’t. Living the dream: me, my chaperones, and a fiancé I didn’t know I had yet.

I had no idea I was about to sign up for a decade plus tour through the ninth circle of hell. Eighteen years old, self-proclaimed “adult,” deep in a cult, terrified of becoming a washed-up spinster by 21. My judgment? About as clear as a snowstorm. But hey, he had a full head of dark brown hair. Priorities, right?

I remember “rocking out” to southern gospel like the sheltered little rebel I was while he chauffeured us. I may or may not have given a scandalous little shoulder shimmy, fully covered, hold your sanctimonious panic, but honestly, who can not shimmy when “It’s Shouting Time in Heaven” comes on? It’s practically a reflex. Don’t Spotify it. Not worth your time.

We got there and… crickets. Not a single “young person” in sight.

“Uh, where the hell is everyone?” I asked.

Then he hits me with, “If you could be proposed to in a gazebo or under the street lights, which would you choose?” His voice was shaky, like he already knew this was a terrible idea.

I should’ve picked the gazebo. The happily-ever-after always comes from the gazebo.

Fuck. My bad.

Still blissfully shimmying through life, I laughed, “Street lights. Obviously.”

We walked the path, six inches apart, because God forbid we get closer than the holy handbook allowed, despite already having had sex in the passenger seat of his car. The “sex glands” are apparently in the lips, not my pussy, so clearly we were still safe from divine retribution.

I, the certified chatterbox, was rambling about nachos when I noticed he wasn’t beside me. I turned and there he was, on one knee, ring in hand, no box. Why bother with presentation?

“You’ve pulled me out of my darkest days, you’re the perfect girl for me, I can’t imagine life without you, will you marry me?”

Ah yes. A poetic way to say, “Please sign up to be my emotional punching bag.” Honestly, he should have been a screenwriter.

Before the vibrato of my shaky little “yes” even faded, he added, “Just because we’re engaged now, don’t expect me to always hold your hand.”

A walking, talking red flag, waving itself in my face like a deranged cheerleader. But what did I know about red flags? I barely knew what an emotion was, let alone a flashing neon run, girl sign.

“Oh, of course not,” I croaked, heart sinking to my stomach, tears performing their best internal Olympic routine.

But sure, JOYOUS GODLY NEWS, let’s spread it around.

First stop: his parents. They already hated me. Now their precious son was “locked down” by me? I was their villain origin story.

Their response?

“Oh wow.”

…followed by an awkward silence thick enough to spread on toast.

Next up, the elder and his wife, my actual landlords.

“CONGRATULATIONS, WELCOME TO THE FAMILY P! WE’RE WAITING UP FOR YOU BOTH AT HOME!!”

Finally, some enthusiasm.

I didn’t hold his hand on the drive home, obviously. But priorities: I updated my BlackBerry Messenger status.

“BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE,” I typed, slapping on a photo of the ring. Cue the flood of messages.

We were the poster children for cult romance. I was the elder’s “daughter.” Every eye in the room was on me, now on us.

At the next service, everyone hugged me and shook his hand like we were royalty. He had swooped up the most eligible bachelorette and suddenly achieved elite cult status, so shiny, so blinding, everyone tiptoed around us, unsure whether acknowledging our existence was sacrilege or honor.

More power, more problems, am I right? Inside, I was in the deepest, darkest pits of hell; outside, strutting down streets of gold like I owned the place.

So what did we do? We kept fucking. Somehow, nobody found out. I had the Angel-and-Devil act down to a science. Sex? Me? Never. 6:00 a.m. sessions on dirt roads? Totally doable if you’re motivated, and oh, we were. It was my escape from the prissy poster-child act. Honestly, hasn’t changed a bit. My life? Always a rebellion.

Four months later, I strutted down the cult aisle, the elder’s elbow digging into my hip: behave. Yes, he “gave me away.” No, my biological parents weren’t there; they had been kicked out the year before.

And me? Poster-child, godly princess me said no thanks. Couldn’t have worldly filth on my big day. Who needs mom and dad when you are about to hand over your rights to an abuser? Not me.

And with my “your needs will never be denied” and his “’til death bullshit,” I walked straight into 10.5 years of domestic violence and sexual assault, trapped, silenced, stripped of escape.

God doesn’t allow divorce, you know. But slapping women with a 2x4? Totally fine. Charming. Prince Charming, of course.

I drive by those street lights often, flashbacks hitting like a damn movie. I should have picked the gazebo. The happily-ever-after always comes from the gazebo.

Fuck. My bad.