Losing Me, Finding You (13 page)

I wake up on the morning of my cousin's wedding and take a peek under my bed, so I can stare at my duffel bag and know that this is real, that this decision has been made and that one way or another, I am leaving. I have to do that, so I can survive the poking and prodding and primping of my aunt's long, red nails as she pulls and scrapes my hair up into an ugly, messy lump on the top of my head.

“Hold still,” she snaps, yanking me around aggressively. She's mad at me, though I don't see how any of this is my fault. I'm not the one that decided to move the wedding up; that was my father, actually. And my aunt has long since been my father's lackey. Maybe it's because they grew up together. Maybe it's because my aunt is a weak person, someone who follows and never leads. Maybe that's it. “Now get up and get your dress on.” Megan pauses and sniffs rudely. “And take some of that makeup off. You look like a whore.”

I sigh as she walks out of the room and drop my face into my hands.
Not much longer,
I think, trying to find an exact date of departure in my head. After the motorcycle show is over, of course, just in case Austin does come through. I set my sights on the twentieth and rise to my feet before somebody else comes in and yells at me. The whole family is in a state of panic with people running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It's nauseating.

I plan as I walk down my aunt's hall and into my cousin's room where my dress hangs menacingly in the corner. Beneath it sit the horrible fuchsia shoes I purchased yesterday. I start to get dressed while my mind spins.

I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, but I'll figure it out. There is only one thing that could make or break this: my bank account. It's a joint account I have with my parents, meaning if they got wind of my plans, they could ruin everything. I know I don't have time today to take the money out, so I've got to act as normal as possible and make sure I don't give them any reason to suspect that anything is wrong. When I do decide to go for it, I've got to be quick. In and out.
Like Austin.
I shiver as I pull up the zipper on the side of my dress, turning to look at myself in the mirror next to Jodie's dresser.
I look terrible,
I think as my blue eyes stare back at me with horror. My hair is slicked tight against my head and my bun is a twisted, frizzy mess. The color of the dress makes my skin look sallow and my hips enormous, and the shoes … Don't even get me started on the shoes.

I sigh and head downstairs where my mother is waiting, nursing a cup of coffee with one hand and marking something down in a notebook with the other. There are only going to be fifty-seven guests at this wedding (the exact size of our congregation), but the stress on Mama's face suggests that there are multitudes of people waiting desperately for the four of us (who happen to be running late). Again, this is apparently all my fault.

“I told you to be showered and ready,” she snaps without looking at me. I say nothing. Mama slams her notebook closed and pauses to stare at me. “Goodness, Amy,” she says, moving forward and picking at my already sore scalp, rearranging my aunt's handiwork with pursed lips, as if the bad hair do were my fault. “I need you to look presentable today.” The sound of the doorbell ringing brings a quick smile to her face as she licks her thumb and smooths back a stray hair from my forehead.

Uh oh.

“He's here,” she whispers, and I don't ask her to clarify because she won't. I just watch with a sinking feeling in my gut as Mama moves around me and answers the front door. “Well, don't you look handsome,” she coos at our unknown visitor, ushering him into the coolness of the house with the world's fakest smile. I watch as a boy I've never met rounds the corner into the kitchen with a brown sweater on his shoulders and a pimple, right there on the tip of his nose.
Oh dear.
This must be the new guy in town that my mother was referring to. He looks a little young to me, but I can smell a setup from a mile away.

“Amy,” Mama begins, flashing me a quick
look
before she touches her hand to the boy's arm with a smile. “This is Crandle Rogers. Crandle, this is Amy.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Crandle says, and my mind immediately begins to build a chart, so I can start comparing him to Austin. This isn't a new thing for me. I've been setup loads of times – usually with boys from our church. I've always, always, always turned them down. In the past however, when I made my mental charts, I used to compare the boys I was meeting to the men in my romance novels, wondering all the while if I was holding them up to an ideal that couldn't possibly exist.

I now know otherwise.

“Nice to meet you, Crandle,” I say, trying not to grimace when he pulls my hand to his lips for a cold, emotionless kiss. Now, I don't mean to sound frigid or heartless or rude. I wouldn't say that I'm superficial, but when I look at Crandle's skinny shoulders and his blotchy skin, his pasty cheeks and his thin lips, I can't help but think that Austin is better looking. It's not a judgment, just a fact. And maybe (probably) Crandle is a nicer person than Austin Sparks. None of that matters to me, though. I'm not looking for a husband to settle down with and marry. I'm looking for change and freedom and passion and some of that heart-stopping angst that's always in my books.

I close my eyes briefly and think of Glance Serone and Sali Bend.

“
You stupid, stupid bitch,” Glance says as he looks me up and down, a trembling mess in my robe with a wad of tissues in one hand and a butt load of tears making their way from my eyes to my pointy chin, so they can crash down on my unpainted toenails. “You thought you'd be happy with a guy because he was 'nice'?” I stare at him, and I don't know what to say. Mark was nice. Very nice. But he couldn't fuck for shit and he didn't make my toes curl or my stomach ache. “I'll tell you what, Sali. I can't cook a casserole or crochet a fucking blanket.” I glance briefly at the blue and pink monstrosity lying across the back of my couch. Oh, Mark. “But I can promise to fuck you hard and dirty, day in and day out. Come on, Sal. Be mine. What do you say?”

I open my eyes and smile.

“Crandle just finished his senior year over in Dallas and moved here recently with his parents and sister. They'll be at the wedding, of course.”
He enjoys long walks on the beach, Popsicles made of root beer, and can play a mean game of croquet.

“I'm thinking of becoming a minister,” Crandle blurts, running a hand through his perfectly manicured brown hair. It's about the same color as mine, similar in tone to the wood trim of the mantle above our fireplace. I force myself to keep smiling. Maybe he thinks he's being interesting, capturing my attention, showing me how like my father he is. I couldn't be anymore repulsed.

“That's lovely,” I say.

“Crandle was the chess champion at his high school.”

“Oh?”

My eyes drift towards the window as several more marks go onto my mental chart. Austin is taller, his jaw is more square, his muscles well-defined, his tattoos bright; he's got a small scar on his lip that gives him a sultry, tough guy look and his accent could burn the panties off a nun. Crandle … wants to be a minister and was a high school chess champion. He has pale, brown eyes, brown hair, skin the color of my mother's nude tights and exactly four pimples on his face. Also, he's three years younger than I am and can't drink. I wonder briefly how old Austin Sparks is.

Somewhere upstairs, voices echo and my mother frowns.

“If you'll excuse me,” she says, patting me gently on the shoulder as she moves away from Crandle and me and up the stairs to assist my dreadful cousin with her nuptial wear. “Crandle, would you mind driving Amy to the church? She'll show you the way.” I stifle a groan and force myself to keep smiling.

“So,” Crandle begins, hooking his arm around mine and staring pointedly at my tits. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Goddamn it, Jodie,” I hear my aunt snap as I peek in the back door of the church, terrified to enter my cousin's domain but desperate to get away from Crandle Rogers, the world's dullest (and possibly most perverted) man on earth. He's been following me around the church for the past hour or so, pestering me about my favorite things – color, book, movie, food, blah, blah. I'm quite sick of discussing humdrum bores and end up here, right at the edge of the dragon's den. Then again, it's either deal with this or sit next to Crandle and have him continuously ogle my breasts and try to put his hand up my skirt.

My mother cringes at her sister-in-law's language and looks up as a crack of sunshine penetrates the dark room.

“Don't dawdle, just get in here,” she sighs as she motions at me with her hand. I slide into the room and lean against the wall in the back. Jodie glares at me with tiny, slitted eyes that make her look an awful lot like a lizard. Despite my aunt's earlier protestations against my makeup, my cousin's is ten times worse, caked onto her face like she's one of the clowns at the state fair. Her lips are too red and her foundation is too pale. I hate to say it, but I've never seen her look worse.

My aunt jabs a bobby pin into Jodie's hair and she winces.

“Hold still.”

“How did you like Crandle?” my mother asks, forcing a small smile onto her tired face. Apparently, the idea of me settling down with a
boy
as plain and pervy as Crandle Rogers makes her happy. I try to imagine Crandle taking charge in the bedroom, ravishing me with white, hot passion, and I just can't do it.
Absolutely not.
I smile back and don't say what I really wish I could say.
I'm not interested. I doubt Crandle Rogers could fuck me silly over a pool table in the back of a bar. What do you think? I'd like a real man, please, not some silly, little boy in a brown cardigan.

“He was nice.” My mother's smile grows wider.

“Wonderful. I've invited him over for dinner after church tomorrow.”
Splendid.
I keep my fake smile in place and fold my hands politely in front of myself.

“I don't see why we had to move the wedding to today,” my cousin moans as my mother gently pushes Megan aside and takes over hair duties. “This isn't the way I imagined it.”

“Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you spread your legs?” Jodie gasps, and my mother goes white as a sheet. “Four weeks along, hmm? More like sixteen. What if you'd started showing, Jodie? What would people think?”
Aha. So this isn't exactly my fault.
I let my faux smile turn real.

“You know what,” my mom begins as Jodie starts to tear up. “Let's try to move past this, shall we?”

“I have a headache,” my cousin moans as my aunt sniffs rudely and turns away, letting her eyes cut me as they slide past. It must be nice to have a scapegoat to blame your problems on. I try not to let her gaze bother me and start to fantasize.
I could move somewhere that snows year round. I think I'd like that. It's so much more fun to read when there's snow outside.
My daydream slowly morphs from me sitting on the couch to lying on my back, on a sheepskin rug in front of my pretend fireplace and above me, I see a man slick with sweat, belly muscles contracting as he thrusts into me. The longer I look, the more the man shifts, changes, the more he starts to look like Austin Sparks. I shake my head and try to ignore the goose bumps springing up on my arms and legs.

“Amy!” my mother snaps, obviously frustrated with me. I blink my eyes and try to focus on her in her cream gown. She looks awfully pretty in it, very romantic with her hair swept up artfully atop her head. Her brown eyes seem almost purple, bathed in the beautiful colors from the stained glass window high above. I stare at her, and I can't help but wonder what she'd be like if she wasn't so stuck on a certain ideal, if she were more adept at losing herself in the beauty of life instead of trying to morph it to fit her rules. There must be some of that in there. After all, her latest read is called
Sexed by a Pirate.
“I swear, half the time I can't even tell what dimension it is that you're residing in. Pay attention. I need you to run to the store.”

“The store?” I ask. Jodie sniffles and glares up at me with a slight smirk hovering around her lips.
I'd love to slap her one day, just once.
I make myself a note to try before I leave town. The girl could use a bit of humbling.

“
Yes,
” my mother hisses, slamming a brush down on the vanity next to her. “Go. To. The. Store. And get your cousin a bottle of ibuprofen for her headache.”

“And a vanilla milk,” Jodie says, pouting her lips and pointing to her belly. “For the cravings.”

“And some new tights,” my aunt says with a mouth almost as pursed as my mother's. “I've got a run in these ones.”
Not much longer now, Amy,
I tell myself as I step forward and take a wad of cash and a set of keys from my mother's outstretched hand.
Not much longer at all.