by Dahlia Adler
We. Okay.
“It’s a beautiful name,” says Jillian, sweeping in as if to protect Abigail from an hour’s worth of nasty insults hurled in her direction. She fixes me with a Look, and next to me I can feel Cammie stifling a laugh.
I nod, even though whether I like the name or not is beside the point, and then, mercifully, Judy interrupts. “Have you girls seen the beautiful food Jillian put together? She’s such a wonderful hostess.”
“No, we haven’t!” Cammie says cheerfully. I follow her gaze to see she’s spotted an arrangement of mimosas on the end of the long, pink-covered table. “Wouldn’t want to let that go to waste. Come on, Cait.”
I let her drag me over to the table of food, which does in fact look pretty damn good. After already choking down a bagel for Dad, Cammie skips right to the mimosas, but I pile my plate with crudités, two kinds of salad, a piece of salmon, and, with only a moment’s hesitation, a slice of quiche; it’s not like Coach Brady’s watching. Besides, the busier my mouth is with chewing, the less I have to talk.
It’s a strategy that does me well when everyone takes their seats in a circle around Abigail and starts gushing about how much they’ll miss her when she moves to San Diego, and she replies by extending an open invitation, then jumping into everything she knows she “and Steve” will love about it. As if my dad can’t wait to be surrounded by Padres fans. Please. But it isn’t until she says, “And Matt’s so excited to start at UCSD,” that I almost choke on roasted golden beet.
“You okay, dear?” Judy asks me, her voice dripping with what’s probably genuine concern but fills me with annoyance anyway. The idea that Matt’s “so excited” to be coerced away from his friends for his senior year of college is such bullshit. Maybe he’d be excited to move after he graduated, but there’s no way he’s happy about this.
Of course, while I’m seething with the truth in my head, Cammie takes it upon herself to state it out loud. “Who wouldn’t be excited about having their tuition covered for a year after working like a dog and drowning in debt for the last three? I mean, sure, all he has to do is leave the school he loves and move across the country from his friends, frat house, and the rest of his family, but yeah, that’s definitely genuine excitement about moving for his senior year. No doubt.”
“Cammie!” I force a laugh and squeeze her tight around the shoulders as everyone else gasps in horror. “What have we said about your bad jokes?”
She just shrugs and tosses back the rest of her mimosa.
“Well,” Abigail says weakly, but she doesn’t follow it up with anything. I don’t know whether to feel sad for her or keep being mad. I guess I feel both.
Maybe it’s my turn for a mimosa.
Another woman speaks up, then, suggesting Abigail open a present. “That’s a great idea, Jessica!” Jillian says. “Mom, could you grab the bingo cards?”
Bingo cards? Before I can ask anyone to interpret, Judy places a card in front of me. It says “Baby Bingo” in pink and blue up top, and in the squares are different baby-related items I guess could conceivably be presents. Judging by the way people attack their cards when Abigail opens up the first gift, I’m guessing I can put one of the little pink discs Judy distributed over “bathtub” in the top right corner.
Cammie promptly gets up and gets us both drinks, returning just in time to see Abigail pull the last scrap of baby block-printed wrapping paper off something apparently called a Diaper Genie. Everyone else oohs and ahhs as if it actually grants wishes fueled by baby poop, and Cammie and I toss back our mimosas.
As Abigail continues to open gifts, I stuff another forkful of food in my mouth every time I feel the urge to say something like “What the hell is that?” or “Don’t you worry about the kid suffocating from that many ruffles?” or “How much was I supposed to spend on this??” and before I know it, my plate is empty. As I hop up to get more, I can see Cammie’s lips moving, and I’m sure she’s asking me to get her another drink. But she’s drowned out by a woman frantically asking, “Does that count as layette?” and I pretend I didn’t hear.
The longer I stand at the table, the less time I have to spend in the seventh circle of hell, so I take my sweet time plucking individual baby carrots and spinach leaves. I only turn when I hear a loud groan, followed by Abigail saying, “Oh, God, Steve, give it up.”
The other women in the circle laugh. “I thought you told him sports weren’t happening this time,” one says.
“It’s sort of cute, how desperately he holds on, like a little boy,” says another.
“He does realize you’re having a girl, right?” another jokes.
While they all joke around about my dad’s sad attachment to the Red Sox and the Patriots, Cammie turns around and gives me a questioning look. I nod as much as the lump in my throat will allow. The pair of sports-themed onesies aren’t from my dad—they’re from me (and, technically, Cammie, who had no interest in helping select the present). I happen not to have known it was a girl, thank you very much, but what the fuck does it matter? Do these people seriously think girls can’t like or play sports? I swear, I have half a mind to challenge them all to a scrimmage right the fuck now.
But of course, I can’t do that—can’t do anything to rock the boat before I’ve had my conversation with Abigail about the wedding date. Then again, I can’t really not say anything here, either—if I let her think they’re from my dad, it’ll look like I didn’t bring a gift at all. Plus they’ll both probably figure out what happened as soon as she mentions it to him, anyway.
“Uh, those aren’t from Dad,” I say, extra awkward, since I’m still standing at the food table. “Those are, um—I sent those. Me and Cammie. I guess the card is buried in there.”
Aaaaand silence.
“Oh, Cait!” Abigail flushes as pink as the ribbons around her throne of honor, and I wish it made me feel better. But so far everything about being here feels like dirt. It’s all proof that my father wants a very different life with a very different child than the ones he’s got—that both of them do. And I don’t know if that’d be any different if I’d agreed to move out to San Diego or not, but I do know that’s never felt less like a possibility than it does right at this moment. “That’s so sweet, thank you. I know your dad will love them.”
Probably, but you don’t, so Esme will never wear them. She’ll probably never watch football with him on Sunday afternoons, and we’ll never have matching jerseys and watch games together via video chat when she’s a little older…I hadn’t even realized the ways I’d been imagining bonding with my baby sis-to-be until it became clear they’d never be happening.
I smile weakly in response, wishing I could think of some way—any way—to turn this afternoon around.
And then, like magic, Abigail gives it to me.
“Actually, Cait, I’d love to hear more about the plus-one you’re bringing to the wedding,” Abigail chirps as she plucks a baby carrot between her pink talons. “Your dad didn’t know you’d been dating anyone! So, now that it’s just us girls, dish!”
Cammie gives me a “seriously?” look. I feel like shooting the very same look at Abigail for bringing up my dating life in this group of strangers.
But fuck it. If she wants to hear about my plus-one, I will talk alllll about my plus-one.
“His name is Jake,” I gush as I take another mimosa from the table and sit back down next to Cammie. “He’s on the basketball team at Radleigh—point guard—and he’s also in my Econ class.”
“A jock with brains!” Jillian lifts her champagne flute in the air.
“Mmhmm. Brains and a whole lot more,” I add, because why the fuck not. “He’s sooooo hot. And such a great boyfriend.” I touch one of the pearl studs I borrowed from Lizzie—inherited from her mother. “Look what he got me for one month together.”
Cammie’s eyebrows shoot up, but I pretend not to notice. “I’m so excited for everyone to see how good he looks in his tux. He has a serious basketball player�
��s body, if you know what I mean. Six-five, killer biceps...”
“Suddenly I am very excited for this wedding!” one of the three Jessicas present declares with a giggle, and the rest of the circle cracks up.
“Do you have any pictures of this Golden God?” Abigail asks.
I pull out my phone, find a cute selfie we took for show after a game, and pass it around. I may have lied about my relationship with Jake, but I wasn’t lying about the fact that he’s hot, and it’s gratifying to hear everyone’s exclamations of admiration and envy. Even Cammie takes a peek and whistles.
Which, unfortunately, draws Abigail’s attention right to her. “What about you, Cammie? Haven’t gotten your response card yet.”
Apparently, Abigail also hasn’t gotten the memo that Cammie has zero intention of going to her wedding, and wouldn’t have a date even if she did—something we discussed at great length the day before. The last thing anyone needs is Cammie’s three-mimosa response, so I do the only thing I can think of and tip mine over on to her skirt.
“Oh, shit!” she yelps, jumping up.
I gasp, covering my mouth so no one can see me laughing behind it at Cammie’s very real dramatics. “I’m so sorry, Cam! Jillian, can you point us to the bathroom? I’ll help Cammie clean up.”
She’s a little fuzzy on her alcohol-filled stomach, but even Cammie finally realizes I was saving her from Abigail’s line of questioning. We let Jillian shuffle us along to a little powder room, into which we both squeeze as I close the door behind us.
“Jake, huh?” she says as soon as we can no longer hear Jillian’s footsteps. “That’s funny—I don’t seem to recall any mention of a Jake during our conversation yesterday.”
Actually, I’d avoided talking about my love life with Cammie altogether, because it was so nice to have a conversation that wasn’t obsessing about it. But now that it’s on the table, I feel the urge to spill.
Everything.
“He’s just a friend,” I tell her, keeping my voice just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water she’s running onto a washcloth. “A gay friend. With whom I have an arrangement of sorts.”
She throws back her head and laughs, flicking water everywhere. I squeeze the spigot shut, and she dabs at her skirt, her teeth still bared in a smile. “Cait Johannssen, in an arrangement of convenience. I thought you were the queen of drama-free living.”
“I know, I know,” I groan. “Shut up. Trust me, it wasn’t my first choice. But he needed a cover when he was hooking up with this guy, and with Mase at school, it was just really convenient for both of us.”
“I thought you said Mase is dating your roommate.” She examines the stain, then looks up at me. “Am I remembering wrong? I know it was a while ago.”
“You’re remembering right, but they’re not dating anymore,” I say. “Or maybe they are. I’m actually not a hundred percent sure. There was definitely a breakup in there somewhere, but I’m still fuzzy on whether there was a reconciliation.”
“Okay, so where do you fit in to that? I thought you guys were sweeping your entire history under the rug. Wasn’t that the plan? I mean, not that I thought it was a particularly realistic one, especially since I remember when you guys were head-over-ass about each other, but—” She purses her lips, clearly trying to stem another round of laughter. “You still are, aren’t you?”
“You don’t have to sound so damn smug about it,” I mutter, wishing I’d poured my drink on her hair instead of her skirt, which already looks clean. “And I’m not saying we like each other, just that…attraction is still there. But that’s it.”
“Oh really. That’s it? The attraction is still there between you and a super-hot ex—the same super-hot ex, who, if I recall correctly, held your hand through a ton of Mom and Dad’s divorce shit? The one you talked to on the phone through an entire Thanksgiving dinner the time Mom shipped us to Grandma’s? The one who used to handcraft you birthday cards every year?”
Little by little, blurry memories from the past come back in hi-def, reminding me of all the ways Mase had been there for me through the worst of the worst. It's no wonder I miss him now more than ever; he’d been instrumental for me surviving my family’s issues in the past, and now that new ones are surfacing—the worst I’d had since we were together—it's only natural to miss his reassuring hand on my back, his patented distraction tactics of having me name the starting lineup of the ’86 Celtics or the stats of every midfielder on every girls’ lacrosse team that played Stone Creek.
Even the stars…the stars were a distraction too, once upon a time.
“How do you remember all that?” I ask Cammie.
“Because I remember thanking him,” she replies quietly. “Your last visiting day. I thanked him for helping you in all the ways none of the rest of us could. There were times I thought you were seriously gonna lose it, Cait. You’d call home so angry at Mom, I was afraid she was gonna send you to live at Dad’s. Then I’d text you later that night and you’d be okay, filled with some story of how Mase had done this or that to cheer you up.
“I couldn’t believe it when you guys stopped talking. You actually seemed to have something special between you. And you never told me what happened.”
“I never knew.” I sigh heavily, sliding down to the floor with my back against the wall. “I still don’t.”
Cammie cocks her head. “It wasn’t mutual? I always assumed…”
“I kind of let you assume,” I admit. “Because it was embarrassing and confusing and it hurt like hell. I wanted to think it was for the best, because we were gonna be so far apart anyway. But it sucked. And yeah, it sucked less over time, but now that he’s at Radleigh…it sucks over and over again every damn time I see him.”
To my horror, I realize there’s a tear rolling down my cheek. I can’t even remember the last time I cried; the mimosas must be making me extra emotional. Thankfully, Cammie doesn’t give me shit; she just slides down next to me on the floor and wraps her arms around my shoulders. Neither of us realizes her heels kick the door open until a shadow casts over us both, and we look up.
“You girls okay in here?” Judy asks.
Cammie and I look at each other, splayed out on the bathroom floor, tears and undoubtedly mascara running down my cheeks, a washcloth draped over her lap, and what else can we possibly do?
We laugh.
• • •
By the time we clean up and return to The Circle, all the presents are open and someone’s collected all the bingo cards and pieces. Jillian, Judy, and a couple of other women are carrying platters into the kitchen, dusting off the tablecloth, and setting down doilies. Cammie and I try to help, but they shoo us out, and Abigail calls us over to come sit in the seats vacated by her nearest and dearest.
“I feel like we’ve barely gotten to talk today,” she says as I slide into Jillian’s chair. “I’m just so happy you both came.”
“Me too,” I lie, wondering whether she’s going to address any of the many pink elephants in the room, only one of which is literal. But she doesn’t do anything other than smile and rest her hand on mine, and I realize it’s probably now or never. “Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Is this about the bridesmaid manicure color? I know it’s hard to find, but I booked appointments for all of us at a salon I made sure has plenty in stock. Don’t worry about that!”
“I…what? No, not that.” I didn’t even know there was a bridesmaid manicure color. “No, I was wondering about the date. I’m sure my dad’s told you about my lacrosse championships being the same day as the wedding.”
Her jaw tightens and she swallows, and I realize all at once that this was a very, very stupid idea. The woman’s already booked manicure appointments for the days before the wedding, and I think she’s gonna have any flexibility about the date? Especially after showing me and the rest of the room exactly what her attitude is toward sports, and particularly girls playing them.
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br /> “He has told me,” she says slowly, “and frankly, I’m a little sick of hearing about it. I thought you were here because you’d finally let it go. Your father and I would both appreciate if you’d stop harassing him—”
“Harrassing?” Cammie snaps, and I blink; I’d actually forgotten she was there.
“Yes, harassing,” Abigail hisses. “How many times does the man have to tell you the wedding date is not negotiable for a game? You think telling him every single time you score a goal is going to make him suddenly drop the biggest day of his life?”
I’m struck completely dumb, but Cammie is decidedly not. “You think the biggest day of our father’s life is his second wedding, forced by the impending birth of his fourth child? I realize you’re basically a child yourself, Abigail, but even you have to realize—”
“Cammie, stop,” I say quietly, my throat raw with tears I absolutely refuse to shed again today. I turn to Abigail. “Are you really speaking for both yourself and my father? Or are you just putting his name on your words? And before you answer that, remember how shitty it would be to lie about this.”
“Your father and I are a team,” she says firmly, jutting her chin out. “I realize you haven’t grown up with a good example of that, but you’re seeing it now. Your father and I are getting married on May 26th in San Diego whether the two of you are there are not, and frankly, I don’t care which you choose at this point.”
Somehow, I get myself to standing on two shaky legs, and Cammie immediately rushes to my side. “Not,” she spits at Abigail. “You and your friends will just have to eye-fuck someone else’s date who’s actually your age while you marry a man who’s twice it.” And then she escorts me out, both of us unwilling and unable to thank Jillian for hosting us so graciously.
Just as we reach her car, though, she says, “I’ll be right back,” and dashes into the house. When she emerges a minute later, she’s dangling a onesie in each hand, and I crack up laughing when I see she’s rescued my gift. “Fuck Esme,” she says as we get into the car. “You and Mase will make much better use of these someday. Now come on—let's go see a crappy movie until I sober up and then I’ll drive you back to school.”