“Well, I wasn’t expecting to come over here at the last minute,” I replied. “I planned to spend the evening in old sweats in front of the TV.”
“Really? ‘Cause you said you might be going out with your new boyfriend,” Nicki pointed out.
Shit. I scrambled.
“Uh huh. He was
gonna come over and watch TV with me,” I said, smiling sweetly.
“Was he now?”
“Girls . . .” Mom warned.
Here’s something you need to understand about Nicki. First
of all, she looks like a supermodel. I’ve no idea how my parents’ genes translated to
that
. She’s five-foot-eight with long blond hair and alabaster skin. She’s one of those girls who can wear high-waisted shorts and not look like she instantly gained ten pounds. She dresses like a teenager, and she can get away with it. Her closet is filled with Forever 21 finds. She’s vivacious and opinionated (like our mother) and has a superiority complex. Anything she says and does is automatically better than anything I say or do. I was wrong to not consult her about my spray tan before I let Erica do it, and she let me know it with her bullshit snarky comments.
I
ignored Mom and trudged to the dining room.
“How are you, Bailey?” Brad asked as we set the table. I was actually impressed he knew how. And then I was slightly annoyed when he corrected my fork placement.
“Just fine. And you?”
“I’m good. Things are good. Job’s good. Nicki and I are good.”
I nodded.
“I hear you’re dating. Congratulations,” he said, refolding the napkin I just placed on the table.
“Thanks?” Who congratulates someone on dating?
“How’s work?”
he asked.
“Same.”
“How’s the house?”
“Great.”
“How’s . . . ?” And then he realized he had nothing left to ask me. He smiled uneasily instead.
“What’s this news Nicki wants to share?” I asked. “That’s the whole reason we’re here, right?”
Brad blushed, and I suddenly thought Dad might be right.
When we were all gathered around the table, Mom cleared her throat. For the first time, I noticed she was wrapped in one of her loveliest dresses. We called them her “church dresses” even though we seldom went—just Christmas and Easter. This one was also vintage-inspired with a flair skirt like mine. But Mom’s didn’t sport rickrack, so her dress seemed m
ore elegant than fun. I suppose she already learned the news and wanted to look the part of a regal grandmother-to-be.
“I’m pretty sure we’re all here for a reason, right Nicki?” she said. “Why don’t you share before we start eating?”
I thought about all the names Nicki might call her baby boy. She was definitely a Ryder-Storm-Mason kind of girl, and I imagined he’d look just like Brad (which wouldn’t be bad) and have Nicki’s unbearable personality. I also imagined he’d grow up spoiled and pampered by a grandmother who would tell him over and over, “I wish you had cousins to play with, but your auntie can’t raise a child
and
count her steps all day.”
Nicki beamed on the other side of the table. Here it comes . . .
“Brad and I are—”
How often must I visit this kid?
“—getting married!” she squealed.
Huh? I blinked twice to refocus, but my eyes weren’t the problem. It was my ears. Did I hear that right? Marriage? And why on earth had I not considered it?
“Married?” Dad asked.
“Oh,
it’s fine, Samuel. Brad asked me for our blessing,” Mom replied.
My mouth dropped open. Okay, I’m neither a progressive nor conservative thinker. I’m somewhere in the middl
e. But I do tend to lean toward tradition on certain things, and asking the girl’s
father
for permission to marry his daughter is one of those things. Or perhaps I just felt strongly in this case because Mom sat so smug in her seat staring at Dad while he absorbed this information.
Bitch.
“You asked our
mom
?” I directed the question to Brad. And yes, it came out a mixture of accusation and disgust.
Nicki glared at me. “How about a congratulations, sis?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Oh my God, I’m sorry. Congratulations, you two.”
Nicki clicked her tongue. And then she turned to our father, who hadn’t uttered a word. He just stared across the table at Brad who avoided his gaze.
“Daddy, you’re always at the lake!” she laughed. “Brad called to talk to you, but Mom said she didn’t know where you were, and he just couldn’t wait. He had the whole evening planned out for me. And it was such a beautiful proposal.”
So naturally, we had to hear about it. Mom cried. Brad smiled triumphantly, like he just slayed the dragon. Dad listened carefully. And I stared at the salad bowl feeling my stomach rumble beneath my floral dress.
“This calls for a celebration!” Mom cried. She popped up, and so did Dad.
“I’ll get it,” he said gruffly, and Mom sank back into her seat. She smiled and nodded.
“I’ll help!” I said, plastering an I’m-not-jealous-right-now-that-my-younger-sister-is-beating-me-to-the-altar smile.
I followed Dad into the kitchen and searched the cabinets for the champagne flutes.
“That’s what we’re having, right? Champagne?” I asked, holding up a glass.
He grunted.
“Dad!” I hissed.
He peeked his head
around the refrigerator door. “Yes?”
“Be nicer!” I whispered.
“That man didn’t even bother to ask me!” he argued. “I’m her father!”
“Mom did it on purpose, okay? We all know it. Well, except for maybe Brad who’s
oblivious. Who cares? Nicki’s marrying the guy, and we need to be supportive,” I said.
“Supportive? They’ve been da
ting for eight months,” Dad replied.
“That’s long enough to warrant
a proposal,” I explained. “And anyway, Brad’s a nice guy. It’s not like he hasn’t tried with you. Stop being a crotchety old man.”
Dad pulled out two bottles of champagne. “I wondered why these had been chilling in here.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“About a week. Give or take.” And then his eyes went wide. “What the hell, Bailey? Your mother couldn’t tell me Brad had proposed! A week! I looked like a fool in there!”
I sighed. “Well, if you’d have known, then the whole dinner and announcement would have been exclusively for me, and I suppose that’s no fun.”
Dad popped the cork and poured himself a glass.
“Shouldn’t we do that in the dining room?” I asked.
He gulped down the drink and poured himself another. “Give me a second.”
I smirked and waited.
“This night is nothing but wedding plans. I need a few in me to make it through,” he explained.
I giggled, thinking how furious Mom would be to know Dad was sneaking drinks. Sure, it was a special occasion, but I’m sure she only allotted him one. And then I had a thought and strode quickly to the fridge. I opened the door and searched the shelves until I found it. I grabbed the bottle and turned to Dad.
“Umm, Dad? I think this is fo
r you,” I said, holding up the sparkling grape juice.
He stared at the bottle, then me, then
at the bottle once more. I put it back in the fridge without a word, and we walked together to the dining room.
Mom was perturbed that Dad already opened one bottle, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment by chastising him in front of the happy couple. After all, tonight was about them, and after the initial shock of
who Brad asked permission waned, we settled into a fabulous dinner and decent conversation.
“B?” Nicki said halfway through her roast.
“Hmm?”
“I want you to be my maid of honor,” she replied.
Remember me telling you that I basically have no relationship with my sister? Yeah. So this was weird.
I looked at her and frowned “Me?”
She nodded and smiled.
“Why?”
“Bailey, for heaven’s sake!” Mom snapped. “What is wrong with you? It’s your sister we’re talking about! Your sister’s wedding!”
“I know that,” I said patiently. I didn’t take my eyes off of Nicki. “But what about Tess? I mean, she’s your best friend. Wouldn’t you rather have Tess as your maid of honor?”
Nicki continued to force a smile. “Why would I choose my best friend over my own sister?”
I’d had three glasses of champagne, so my mind was a little hazy. I couldn’t think quickly enough. I knew something was up. I knew Mom and Nicki were passing each other conspiratorial glances. But I couldn’t piece it together. Why me?
“So will you?” Nicki asked. “I’d be honored.”
“You would?”
“Jesus Christ, Bailey! Will you be my maid of honor or not?!” Nicki barked.
I thought for a moment. “Yes?”
“I don’t know what that means,” she said.
I repeated the word, making sure it didn’t sound like a question this time, and Mom and Nicki seemed relieved.
“You won’t pick out ugly bridesmaids dresses, will you?” I asked Nicki.
“Baile
y, look who you’re talking to.”
I fell face first onto my bed that night. I told Dad I couldn’t stay to help him with his model boat, and you’d have thought I told h
im we needed to put down his favorite dog. I promised I’d spend a weekend with him very soon, but he told me the wedding planning would eat up all my time. And right there, in that moment, with my face smashed into my comforter, realization finally dawned. I shot up from my bed and addressed the far wall.
“You little bitch!”
It all made sense. Nicki didn’t want me to be her maid of honor because she loved me so much more than Tess. Nicki and Tess were inseparable. Hell, it crossed my mind at the dinner table that it may be the
two
of them marrying Brad. No, this wasn’t about familial devotion. This was about my fucking OCD! She wanted me maid of honor because she knew I’d pull off the most picture-perfect, clean lines wedding she could ever have! My mother and sister planned to use me—to take advantage of my condition by encouraging my tics! All so Nicki could have the perfect day.
I was livid
and called Erica. I roared into the phone for half an hour before she talked me out of the kitchen. I was in there reorganizing my cupboards. Yes, I did say that anxiety encourages my tics. So do any other heightened emotions. This time it was anger, and it drove me to the cabinet where I keep all my Tupperware.
“Put the Tupperware bowl down, Bailey,” Erica demanded. “You’re in control.”
“How could they do this to me?” I asked, gripping the bowl tighter.
“You don’t know
they’re doing that. Maybe Nicki wants to get closer to you, and she sees her wedding as the perfect opportunity,” Erica said.
“Bullshit,” I spat. “She just wants her flowers delivered on time.”
Erica sighed. “Bailey, I don’t know what to say except put that bowl down. I know you haven’t.”
I dropped the bowl and sank to the kitchen floor.
“She’s getting married, Erica. Married before me,” I whispered.
“Who cares who gets married first?”
“I do.”
“Honey, it doesn’t mean anything that she’s getting married first, okay? You just focus on trying to be happy for her and living your life.”
“What life?”
“Stop it. Your life is amazing, Bailey. You have a great, stable job. You own your own house. You’re creative and always sew me the cutest things for my kids. I don’t need
Etsy. I’ve got you.”
I smiled through my tears
, watching the drops dot my dress.
“You have this great new guy, and I just have a feeling that he’s the one.”
“You can’t know that,” I cried.
“Yes, I can
.”
“We just kissed,” I said.
“And that’s where it all starts.”
I thought about what Marjorie said when I asked her what made
her have sex so soon with Rob: “Three martinis and a kiss.” We didn’t have martinis, but we did share one hell of a kiss. Maybe that kiss was just the beginning of something extraordinary. Maybe I needed to start trusting what Erica told me. She was pretty smart, after all.
I knew I could count on her encouragement and good sense to squash my sour mood. My heart started to feel better. I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and watched a huge palmetto bug scurry across my kitchen floor.
“Motherfucker!” I screamed into the phone. I jumped up, ripped off my shoe, and beat the shit out of it.
“You don’t have to be a bitch about it!” Erica shouted back.
“A bug, Erica! Gaw!”
“Did you just say ‘
Gaw,’ like a hillbilly?”