With my eyes now adjusted to the sunlight, I strolled over to the window. I studied the gorgeous, manicured lawn of the 24-acre compound, home to a legit castle big enough to host both families for the weekend. (I was sure our side could have easily made the hour drive, but Mom insisted everyone be together: “What if somebody gets in a car accident and dies on the way up here? It’ll ruin the wedding!”) For once, I didn’t find fault with her paranoia—I felt like royalty staying there. The building was over 100 years old, with big fireplaces in every room, stained glass windows, and intricate wood detailing (not to mention cloud mattresses).
I took a quick shower and put on the snug, white cashmere robe Gwen gave as bridesmaid gifts. As I casually hummed an original off-key tune, I neatly laid the pale yellow bridesmaid dress and silver accessories on my bed. Before I headed over to Gwen’s bridal suite for hair and makeup, I checked my phone and—UM, WHAT?
Miguel Martinez Cell: Hey! Long time no talk, how is everything?
I tightly clenched the phone and frantically searched the room—in closets, outside my window, and under my bed. Were there hidden cameras in here? Was I being Punk’d? There was no way in hell this was real.
Once I verified I was alone, I knelt on the bed and looked at my phone again. There it was, an actual text message, sent by “Miguel Martinez Cell” at 11:39 p.m.:
Miguel Martinez Cell: Hey! Long time no talk, how is everything?
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said to no one. In the weeks after our hook-up, being with him again was the only thing on my mind. The fantasy of our reunion is what woke me up every morning, carried me through each day, and when the call never came, tortured me to sleep every night. But the cruel disaster of New Years’ Eve snapped me back to reality, and Miguel was banished from my heart forever. Even the breaking news of his divorce weeks ago (while on the air with Dante; wasn’t that an interesting day!) didn’t stir my emotions.
Or so I thought.
As I walked down the opulent hallway towards Gwen’s room, I started to question every aspect of the text. He didn’t address it to “Carla,” so maybe he meant to send it to someone else? And if he actually did mean to send it to me…then why? Why today, and not yesterday, or last week, or last month? What are his intentions? What did he expect me to respond with? How should I respond? Should I play dumb and pretend to not know who it is?
My head was throbbing by the time I knocked on Gwen’s door.
“Howdy, Carla!” Dalila, one of Gwen’s Southern Belle older sisters, warmly welcomed me. “Come on in!”
I dragged my feet inside. “Do you have any Advil?” I pleaded, not caring that I was asking a favor from a relative stranger.
“Let me fetch some for ya,” Dalila replied, dashing away.
Gwen’s fancy bridal suite was converted into a full-service salon. A couple of the girls were getting their hair curled while a few more were getting makeup applied. Normally, I’d be very excited about the prospect of getting made over by a team of beauty professionals, but right then I was extremely distracted…
He texted me at 11:39…was that a booty call? Or was he just bored? How could he be bored, though, he’s in the middle of the baseball season? He was just finishing up his game; did he notice someone in the stands who looked like me?
Then, I puffed out my chest. Maybe he recently came across the mid-day show and decided to reach out.
“Um, hello? Earth to bridesmaid!” A rude, smoky woman’s voice yelled. I turned to my right and saw one of the hairdressers snapping her fingers in my direction. “Come on, sit in the chair,” the older women ordered, cracking her gum. “There’s a lot of yous, and we’re already behind schedule!”
I nodded and quietly followed her to a stool.
“I’m Dolores,” she introduced, draping a black salon cape over my shoulders. “What do you want today? The bride said yous are free to pick whatever.”
I exited out of Miguel’s text to pull up a photo of Carrie Underwood sporting the hairstyle I wanted—a romantic, side-swept, half-updo.
“Oh, so pretty,” Dolores cracked her gum. “That girl is such a doll.”
As Dolores got to work curling my hair, Dalila appeared with two Advil and glass of water.
“Thank you!” I exclaimed, shoving the pills in my mouth.
“The wine got ya last night at the rehearsal dinner, huh?” Dalila commented sympathetically.
“Something like that,” I muttered. “But I’ll be okay.”
“Your tiny body can’t handle the alcohol!”
“I guess not,” I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. What tiny body? My blood, sweat and tears in the gym only yielded a four pound weight loss thus far, much to the chagrin of Xander (“You want results? THEN EAT LIKE IT!”) But Dalila wasn’t the only person to blindingly compliment my so-called slimness; friends, family (not Mom) and people at work all remarked about my “new look”. What they didn’t know was that their positive reinforcement actually set me back, because whenever the Fat Girl trapped inside me heard these compliments, she overruled all my other senses and urged me to eat more since “I’d earned it.” If these praises continued throughout the day, I’ll be up a stone or two by tomorrow morning.
However, what the Fat Girl didn’t understand was that the compliments were less about my phantom weight loss and more about the confidence I’d inherited with the mid-day show being a smashing success. My “glow” wasn’t because I was staying away from complex carbohydrates (plus, I was not) or grinding through 7 a.m. personal training sessions, six days a week; it was because I was finally getting to do something I genuinely loved, and that went a long way. I could feel the joy oozing from my pores, and maybe that was why I hadn’t put such a premium on my weight loss as I had in the past…I didn’t need anything else. I was perfectly content, right here.
Or at least I was up until a half hour ago when Miguel flipped my zen thinking on its head.
Dalila was still standing over me. I peered at her through the top of my eyes, silently begging her to leave me alone. But instead, she pulled up a folding chair and sat right in front of me. C’mon, man!
“I hate to admit this, but since I turned 30, it’s gotten much harder to keep my figure. I’ve gained five pounds since Christmas, and I’m still unable to lose the weight! How did you do it?”
I sighed. Since she wasn’t picking up on my nonverbal cues, I had no choice but to humor her. But what do you say to someone who never had to worry about her weight until her third decade…“Karma’s a bitch”? (And let’s be honest, she still didn’t have to worry. I mean, it was five pounds; there was no need to ring the alarm and open a Lane Bryant credit card account.)
“Lots of sacrifice, discipline, and patience,” I lied.
“I think that’s my problem; I’ve never had to diet or work out before, and now that I have to start, I’m finding that I have zero willpower.”
If my hair wasn’t currently entangled with a 300 degree piece of metal, I would have excused myself out of his conversation. Instead, I diverted myself by pulling up Miguel’s text message, and reading it for the umpteenth time.
Dalila finally got it and rose from her chair. “Well, I’ll see you later. Your hair is looking fantastic!”
“Thanks!” I replied distractedly, my eyes glued to the screen.
As soon as Dalila’s shadow disappeared, another one, unfortunately, took its place. I looked up to see my mother’s panic-stricken face looming over me. And was she…crying?
“Already you’re starting with the waterworks? The wedding isn’t for another four hours, get a grip.”
Mom ignored me and leaned close to my ear. “We have a problem, and you need to keep calm when I tell you what I’m about to tell you.”
“Sure, I’ll just follow your lead,” I quipped.
“Gwen wants to back out of the wedding.”
“SHE WANTS TO BACK OUT OF THE WEDDING?!”
“SHHHHHHHH!” Mom exclaimed.
&nb
sp; “Honey, don’t move otherwise you are going to burn the both of us,” Dolores scolded.
I ignored her. “What happened? What are we going to do?”
“When you’re done, come to my room. And please, don’t tell anyone.” And with that, she darted away.
“Close your eyes, I’m going to spray you,” Dolores ordered.
As the pungent hairspray whizzed around me, my thoughts switched from Miguel to Jimmy. What the hell changed from last night until now? They looked so in love at the rehearsal dinner…Hell, they ALWAYS look so in love. What caused her to get cold feet? How could she do this to my little brother?
“Oh honey, you look so beautiful,” Dolores swooned. She handed me a jumbo hand mirror to show me her work.
“It’s gorgeous,” I remarked. But who knew if I was going to be able to show the masterpiece off?
I thanked Dolores, and casually exited the room. Once I hit the hallway, I bolted towards my mother’s hotel room. As I waited for Mom to open the door, I heard her voice piercing through the walls. “HOW STUPID COULD YOU BE? LIFE ISN’T THE HANGOVER, YOU KNOW!”
So much for flying under the radar; bodies buried six feet under in Australia could have heard her voice. “SOMEONE LET ME IN!” I pounded the door.
The door flew open, and there stood my annoyed father. Close behind him was my hyperventilating mother, and sitting dejectedly on their bed was Jimmy. “Your mother’s nuts,” Dad announced by way of greeting.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I replied, pushing past him. “Mom, it sounds like somebody’s getting murdered in here. Keep it down.”
“WELL SOMEONE IS ABOUT TO BE…YOUR FATHER!”
“Why?”
“IT’S HIS FAULT THAT MY SON WON’T BE ABLE TO GET MARRIED TODAY!”
“Why?”
“BECAUSE YOUR FATHER WANTED TO BE COOL AND TOOK ALL THE GUYS TO A STRIP CLUB AFTER THE REHEARSAL DINNER LAST NIGHT!”
“Don’t make it sound like it was just me,” Dad countered. “All the other men, including Gwen’s father, went too.”
“WELL, YOU WERE THE RINGLEADER! I DON’T CARE WHAT ANYONE ELSE DOES; YOU PIGS SHOULD HAVE LEFT MY SON OUT OF IT!”
“Okay, so Gwen found out the guys went out, and she’s a little upset? She’ll get over it; it’s not a big deal.”
“OH, YOU THINK IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL, HUH? IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL? IT’S…NOT…A…BIG…DEAL!?” Mom repeated, growing louder with each line (if that’s humanly possible). “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT THE BIG DEAL IS! SOMEONE WAS STUPID ENOUGH TO TAKE A PICTURE OF JIMMY GETTING A LAP DANCE AND TEXTED IT TO GWEN’S BEST FRIEND. NOW SHE WANTS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY SON!”
“Yea, that’s a pretty big deal,” I agreed.
“Carla, tell her to stop screaming, please,” Dad sighed.
“Well, you are an idiot,” I shot back. “All you men are idiots. Besides, Jimmy doesn’t even like those places. And a strip club, up here? We’re in the friggin’ woods! Who was dancing on him, Mama June?”
“I DON’T CARE WHO WAS DANCING. ALL I KNOW IS THAT YOUR FATHER IS GOING TO DIE!”
“How was I supposed to know this was going to happen? It’s not my fault Jimmy and Gwen have dumb friends!”
“AND HE’S GOT AN EVEN DUMBER FATHER!”
I sighed. “And I think we can all agree Jimmy is the dumbest, and the person who sent the picture is 1A.”
“HE NEVER WOULD HAVE BEEN IN THIS SITUATION IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOUR FATHER!”
“Would you stop? This is nobody’s fault!” Dad exclaimed. “If anything, it’s Gwen’s fault; she’s the one that’s overreacting. This is just what guys do.”
Maybe I was in the predicament I was with men because I’d been raised in part by this “Boy’s Club” bravado. What was even more annoying was even in the throes of the biggest self-inflicted blunder in Jimmy’s history, my parents still refused to let him be accountable for his actions.
Mom, not taking lightly to my father’s last comment either, took off her high heel shoes and heaved one at him. “THIS IS WHAT GUYS DO? WE’LL SEE HOW THAT ARGUMENT HOLDS UP IN DIVORCE COURT!”
Dad ducked as another shoe flew over his head.
“IF THIS WEDDING DOES NOT HAPPEN, I AM CALLING MY LAWYER FIRST THING MONDAY MORNING!”
“Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” I snapped. “Where is Gwen? I know she’ll listen to me, I’ll talk to her.”
“Her mother is the only one who knows what’s going on, and she can’t find her,” Jimmy replied glumly.
“WHAT DIFFERENCE ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE?” You-know-who added.
“Let me handle this,” I raced out of the room, to the tune of my mother’s continuous, blood-curdling screams.
■ ■ ■
I checked the entire compound twice (still wearing my slippers and bathrobe, mind you) before I found the runaway bride, wearing an identical outfit, hidden in a rose garden.
Gwen was lying face-down on a granite bench, and her body violently shook as she audibly sobbed into her arms. I took a seat at the base of her head and, in her hysteria, she didn’t even notice that she had company. It was only after I started to stroke her thick, blonde hair that she flinched to attention.
“What do you want?” she mumbled miserably, the whites of her eyes matching the color of the roses.
I skipped the pleasantries and got right to the point. “I know what he did was stupid, but you are not walking out on my little brother on his wedding day. Besides, my hair looks too good to have it go to waste.”
“You’re not funny,” Gwen retorted, burying her head back into her hands.
“C’mon Gwen, he didn’t mean it. For whatever reason, this is what guys like to do before they get married. I’d prefer a deep tissue massage and a good night’s sleep, but to each their own.”
Gwen shot back up and adjusted her body to sit Indian-style next to me. “I explicitly told him, NO STRIPPERS for his bachelor party! And the night before our wedding, he’s not only at a go-go bar, he’s gettin’ intimate with the dancers!”
“Intimate? He didn’t have sex with them, Gwen. He just got a lap dance. It’s harmless,” I lied. The more I talked, the angrier I got with the men in my family. How could they have done this to this sweet girl, on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life?
I took a deep breath to stop myself from spiraling out of control. I couldn’t let her see me upset; the sole purpose of the conversation was to get her ass down that aisle. We could commiserate on men being horny buffoons another day.
Gwen stuffed her hand into her pocket, pulled out her cell phone, and stuck the device in my face. “You consider THIS harmless?”
I gasped at the image before me. Jimmy was sitting on a velvet sofa while a G-string clad brunette sat on his lap. My little brother’s hands held her Size Z boobs in place as he buried his face between them. Worst of all, there was a very noticeable bulge coming out of his pants.
“GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!” I shrieked, covering my eyes.
“Now do you see what I’m talkin’ about!” Gwen cried. “I know he’s your brother, but you can’t defend that!”
“I can’t,” I agreed.
“So how do you expect me to marry him?”
I had to think quickly, something I’ve become markedly better at since I started spending more time on the air. “Jimmy was petrified to propose to you. He had no idea what to say, when to ask. But I told him to just go with the moment, and everything would be okay. And I’m telling you the same thing—despite this little bump in the road, everything is going to be fine.”
“But what if Jimmy is going to make a habit out of going to these places? What if we get married and he turns around and sleeps with someone else?”
I was out of things to say—I would have these same fears, thanks to years of being lied to and cheated on, strippers or no strippers. Then again, I never had a guy put a ring on my finger and promise to spend the rest of his life with me. That had to stand for something, right
? “Jimmy’s not really a partier. You know that. I can guarantee you that he will never step foot in another place like that again,” I finally said.
Gwen looked at me with a blank stare, and I continued grasping at straws.
“And…there are 250 people that spent a lot of money to come up here for the weekend, and you don’t want them all pissed at you for wasting their time.”
“Like I care about anyone else right now,” Gwen snipped. “If they saw this photo, they’d understand.”
“True…” I trailed off. “But then you wouldn’t get to open all of your amazing gifts, or go on your honeymoon to Turks and Caicos, or wear your custom Vera Wang dress!”
“I don’t care about that stuff,” Gwen repeated.
“Well…if you don’t get married today, then you won’t be able to live in the dream home Jimmy built for you! And think of all the bullshit you had to deal with while decorating with Mom; that’s time you’re never going to get back!”
“So? They could sell the house,” Gwen sobbed. “I don’t want to live with a man who behaves like this.”
Okay, now she was really starting to make my blood boil. Doesn’t this stupid, idiotic girl know how lucky she is? I flew off the bench and stood over her. “Are you even mad that he went out, or is this an excuse so you can back out of the wedding?”
She rose up to meet me, nose-to-nose. “Have you lost your mind? Of course, that’s not the case!”
“Then why are you so willing to start over from scratch?” I challenged. “You honestly think there’s better out there? You think you’re going to find someone that’s never going to make a mistake, or get you angry?”
“No…” Gwen sniffled.
“Believe me, Gwen; I’ve searched high and low, and that “perfect man” doesn’t exist! But hey, if you want to trade the closest thing to “perfect” for a string of bad dates, awkward kisses, crazy quirks and a lifetime of misery and loneliness, then be my guest. But I’m warning you, it’s not fun.”
Gwen chewed on that for a bit. I crossed my arms and searched her face for an answer.
Ten Years Later Page 24