Man Cuffed

by Sarina Bowen

  “Surely you can find something to your taste?” The salesman lifts a hand and makes a game-show gesture toward the vast selections on the shelves.

  “Christ,” I grumble. I can’t choose something for Rosie. It’s supposed to work the other way. She chose literally everything in my apartment except my clothes and underwear.

  “Deep breaths, Copper,” Meg says. “I’ll find something.”

  “Would you?” I gasp. “Shopping makes me itch.”

  Meg claps her hands like I’ve just promised her Redwings tickets. “What’s your budget?”

  “Try not to scare me. Bonus points if we’re out of here in ten minutes.”

  “Challenge accepted!” Meg bounces off toward a section marked “vaisselle,” whatever the fuck that is. In fact, the whole store is in French.

  Just take my service revolver and shoot me.

  Luckily, Meg beckons only moments later. “Found it!” she says. “And it’s only two hundred dollars.”

  Considering how badly I want to get out of here, that doesn’t sound so bad. “What is it?”

  “Ooh, mademoiselle has fine taste,” the salesman says. “The cocktail cart is très populaire!”

  “What is a cocktail cart?” I bark. I see some shelves on wheels. And an ice bucket.

  “It’s a shelf on wheels, with an ice bucket,” Meg says. “Perfect for entertaining. The hostess can move around on the patio.”

  “But…” What planet is this? “I wanted to get her something she can use. Like, more than once a year.”

  “Sure,” Meg says, and her tone suggests that’s a weird idea. “You could do that. But weddings aren’t about reality. They’re about being a princess for a little while. The cocktail cart is glamorous, it says: I live to enjoy elegant cocktails with my friends. But if you don’t like it, there’s always the brosse de toilette.”

  Beaten, I just hand over my credit card.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in my sister’s kitchen, shoving big bites of chicken salad in my facehole while a dozen women coo over a cocktail cart. In between bites, I take longing glances at Meg. Specifically her legs. And cleavage. That yellow dress is killing me. Every time she laughs, her chest bounces pleasantly...

  “We have to talk,” Rosie hisses in my ear.

  “About what? I thought you liked the cocktail cart.”

  “J’adore the cocktail cart,” she says. “I fuckin’ love it. But we have to talk about her.”

  Uh-oh. I look quickly out onto the patio. But the woman I’m so eager to avoid is nowhere in evidence.

  “Mac,” my sister says, her voice softening. “I didn’t mean Julie. They’re not here today.”

  “Oh?” I try and fail to sound casual. The “they” she’s referring to are my brother and his wife.

  “They’re not. They’re in Chicago for the weekend. He has a work thing. That’s why I insisted you come today.”

  “Oh.” Now I feel like an idiot. But I always feel a little idiotic around my family.

  “I meant, we have to talk about her,” she whispers, her eyes flickering toward Meg. “You suddenly have a date for my shower? And I haven’t heard her name before? How is that possible?”

  “Well…” I hesitate, wondering what to say to my clever sister. I glance in Meg’s direction to see how she’s holding up. She’s somehow the center of attention, talking and gesturing wildly. The women around her burst into laughter. Seems Meg is just fine.

  “Who is she?” my sister whispers. “How long have you been dating? And when is the wedding?”

  I can’t process any of that. Too much too fast. “Say again?”

  Rosie puts her hands on her hips. “Just who is Meg to you?”

  “She’s my neighbor. Don’t get so excited.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Just a neighbor? I hope not.”

  I don’t get a chance to answer, though. The kitchen door flies open, and a tornado whirls inside. “Rosie! Macklin! Help me with this thing!” There is a swirl of color, like a bunch of colorful scarves caught in a windstorm. Looks like she picked up another Dress Of Many Colors at an art fair or something. She’s also wearing big earrings that she fashioned out of tin cans. Reuse! Recycle! And Redazzle! she likes to say.

  Our mother has arrived.

  And somewhere in the near distance is Dad. Wearing a handknit sweater that mom made for him. My dad’s a fucking saint to wear that thing. First off, the arms are different lengths. Secondly, it’s summertime.

  My sister and I both set down our plates without argument and troop outside. Because nobody crosses mom. She’s not a monster, but she is a force of nature. Arguing with her is like arguing with a grizzly bear. She doesn’t bother arguing back, she just mauls you.

  She opens the back of her monstrous, gas-guzzling car to reveal… I don’t even know what. I see a bunch of flowers. Some kind of white board. And pictures of a bunch of strangers grinning at me. It’s like they’ve been plucked from a freakish catalogue of healthy living or something.

  “This is your shower gift!” Mom bellows. “It’s a collage of your future happiness.”

  Huh. Sounds like I was right on the money.

  I take a closer look. “Collage, huh?” I ask mom. “I thought you were into crochet these days.”

  My mother sniffs. “I am crocheting a shower curtain for the wedding gift.”

  “Oh, boy,” Rosie says under her breath.

  “But the shower gift is a collage. It’s a room divider.”

  “Oh,” Rosie says carefully. “What room am I meant to divide?”

  “Pick one!” Mom says. “Macklin, help me.”

  I reach into the car and carefully grab a set of three boards. The room divider folds accordion style. I open it to reveal the three-paneled work of art. It’s covered in hundreds—maybe thousands—of photos. “Jesus, Mom.” This thing must have taken months. It’s a true photo collage, whereby each little photo snippet is combined to make a larger picture.

  “Wow,” my sister says in a hushed tone. “That’s seriously impressive.”

  Mom beams.

  “Who are…” my sister breaks off. The main image shows six people. Two of them are easy to identify—Rosie and her fiancé are depicted with eerie perfection. Rosie’s face is made from snips of hundreds of bathing photos (to get that skin color just right.) I think I recognize my bare four-year-old ass among other photos.

  That’s an interesting choice.

  But it’s the subject matter that’s really breathtaking. Rosie and Kwan are accompanied in this artwork by four children of various ages. The youngest one is a baby in Rosie’s arms.

  “Four grandchildren!” my mother bellows. “It took me seven gallons of Mod Podge to make this sucker. And seventy-six trips to CVS for photo printing. And as many months to make as it will take you to gestate an actual grandchild.”

  “Wow,” Rosie says, but her tone is glum. “Four, though? You only had three kids. And you started younger.”

  “That is not my fault,” she says. “I think you’ve got it in you. Now.” She turns to me. “Now let’s address your situation.”

  “My situation?” I echo, as a feeling of doom settles over me. It’s the way she said “situation.” Like she was saying “tumor.”

  “He brought a girlfriend to the party!” Rosie squawks. “Her name is Meg and she’s adorable.”

  Mom gasps.

  Dad tugs on the short sweater sleeve.

  Shit. Now I’m going to have to murder my sister. I give Rosie a glare, but she only smiles back at me with a crazed gleam in her eye. Maybe the poor girl couldn’t help herself. My mother basically demanded that she bear four grandchildren, starting today. I guess I’d change the topic, too.

  “Let’s eat chicken salad,” I suggest, hoping Mom will forget all about Meg. I’m not ready for this discussion. I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with this lie until the actual wedding. I thought I’d have some time to warm up to the idea and at least talk to Meg beforehand.
How am I going to pull off convincing them that we’re in love when I don’t even know Meg’s last name?

  But Mom isn’t listening anymore. She’s marching toward the patio, determination etched into her features.

  “I’m a little afraid for Meg,” I grunt. “How could you throw me under the bus like this?”

  “You never show up with a date! This is newsworthy. Also, Meg is lovely. So maybe you’d better tell me everything.” She scrunches her eyes at me, like she’s making it clear she can see through my bullshit.

  Damn sister. How am I supposed to play Meg off as my adoring girlfriend now? In the span of two minutes, that whole idea seems crazy. I never could tell a lie to Rosie. It’s her big eyes and their ability to see right through me.

  “She’s just a neighbor. Today I borrowed...some sugar...and she needed...a tire,” I say slowly.

  “Is that a euphemism for something?”

  “No!”

  Rosie is studying me. She could’ve been a cop too if she wanted, but instead she became a middle-school teacher. Come to think of it, the two jobs have a lot in common.

  “I’m also bringing her to the wedding,” I offer, thinking this might shut her up.

  “Reallllly?” Rosie gives me an evil smile. “Because you’re interested in her? Or because you are trying to shut down any family pity.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. She’s my neighbor, and a friend, and I’m bringing her to the wedding, and she’s going to play like she’s madly in love with me so Mom and Dad will get off my back about having a girlfriend, and maybe Morris and Julie will realize I’m totally fine and over the whole ordeal. I’m better than fine. I’m with Meg who is gorgeous and smart and funny and…” It occurs to me I’m rambling.

  So I stop.

  And I just wait.

  Rosie busts out a big old grin. “My wedding is going to be awesome! Can I say I introduced you two?”

  “No,” I say. “That would be a lie.”

  “You hypocrite! I want to be in on it. I already like her. She can be a bridesmaid if you want. You can have her on your arm. Make everyone swoon. She’ll make you look even more studly than you usually do.”

  Whoa. “No! Don’t put either of us in the ceremony. Just let me handle this. I don’t want to actively lie. I’ll tell everyone the truth on how we really met.”

  “And how was that?”

  Now I’m really committed to this charade. “I was on shift, working a gas leak. She was waitressing for a bachelorette party. She, uh, thought I was the talent. So she tried to tear my clothes off. Literally.”

  And damn if I wasn’t tempted to let her.

  Rosie howls. Full out. From the belly. “I can’t wait! And I’m so glad you’re coming to the wedding. I know you don’t want to, but it means the world to me.”

  She jumps up and gives me a quick hug. I lift her off the ground for a second because that’s what we do.

  Then she slugs me in the arm. Hard. “But maybe you should loan her some sugar,” she says. “And that is a euphemism.”

  “Not gonna happen,” I say immediately. “We’re not like that.”

  “Then why are you staring at her right now?”

  “I’m not.” But I am, of course. And I’m so busted, because Meg picks that exact moment to catch my gaze, too. She takes a piece of lemon cake, pops it into her mouth, and then closes her eyes with delight. Then she licks her goddamn lips.

  “Are you really trying to tell me that you two aren’t a couple?” My sister sounds incredulous. “There’s more spark between the two of you than a match and some kindling. All you need to get lit is a little rubbing.”

  “We’re not a couple,” I grumble. “We don’t need to be lit. In the first place, I don’t do relationships. And she’s my neighbor.”

  “So?” My sister’s eyes twinkle. “That sounds very convenient.”

  “Sure,” I grunt. “Until I’ve had my fill. And then it’s just awkward.”

  Rosie groans. “You are the most cynical man ever born.”

  I give her a smile, even though she’s got it wrong. Cynical men are made, not born.

  8 All those Training Bras

  Meg

  I don’t know how I ended up at this bridal shower, eating a piece of Maguire’s excellent lemon cake, surrounded by smiling women who are hanging on my every word, but it’s not a bad place to be. In the first place, Maguire’s sister is all kinds of adorable. She’s the bubbly kind of unicorn person. I’m usually more drawn to dark and twisted individuals, but she sort of makes it impossible not to like her.

  The other women are just as nice, though. When I arrived with Maguire, a hundred female eyes turned in our direction. I expected to feel the white-hot heat of women judging me. But that’s not how things played out. First there was a collective gasp and sigh as they took in the sight of Maguire standing at the edge of the patio. It’s hard not to gasp and sigh at him. His T-shirt barely contains him and he’s wearing tight slacks that cradle his ass.

  If I can’t have an acting job, I might settle for being his slacks. I could just hold his muscular buns all day, professionally. And it would still be a good life.

  I’d expected those women to give me the collective stink eye, but that’s not what happened. We were both embraced and ushered further onto the patio. Someone whisked the lemon bundt right out Maguire’s hands. Before I knew it, Rosie was hugging me, then she and Maguire slipped into the kitchen, and I found myself plunked onto an outdoor glider, telling them the story of how we met.

  Everyone thinks we’re an item. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I suppose it’s good practice for the wedding. I did plan to help him out there, so why not get a little rehearsal in?

  So I weave the tale. I fill them in on my old waitressing job, and the bridezilla who wanted to steal all the turkey legs, and then how I mistook Maguire for a stripper and tried to rip his clothes off.

  There are howls and some genuine guffaws. Those are probably due to the mimosas.

  The redhead sitting next to me puts her hand on my wrist. “That is such an amazing story. I met my last boyfriend in the dog food aisle at the grocery store, but your story is way better.”

  “Well, I mean dog food...is...kinda hot?” I offer.

  “It isn’t at all,” she says. Then she leans in and whispers, “But do you see Leslie over there? She met her husband at a funeral.”

  “Yikes. I hope it wasn’t anyone important.”

  The woman shrugs. “I’m Aubrey, by the way,” she says. “Friend of Rosie and wedding planner extraordinaire.”

  “It’s nice to have confidence,” I say.

  She smiles. “Oh, no. That’s actually what my business card says. Wedding Planner Extraordinaire. I’m a better planner than I am a marketer.”

  She reaches into her Kate Spade bag, rummages around, and hands me a pink card. She’s right. Her card says it all.

  “Well, I’m Meg,” I say. “I don’t have a business card, but I’m a waitress extraordinaire. And sometimes an actor. But just a regular actor. Not extraordinaire.”

  “You are kidding me!” she says, delighted sounding.

  “About which part? The waitress part? I’m totally serious.”

  She laughs and I like her. Why is everyone so friendly here? I forget sometimes that Michigan is weird.

  “No! The actress part! That’s amazing! Although, I can totally tell now that you mention it. You have the gift of storytelling. Is there...are you…” She seems like she’s struggling to find the words. “I have a crazy question. Do you ever do freelance work?”

  “Freelance? What, like stripping? It hasn’t come to that.” Yet.

  “No!” Aubrey gasps. “Although I’m sure you could rock that. But I meant freelance acting. I’m in a serious bind with a client. He wants a flash mob to ask his girlfriend to marry him. And I told him I’d do it, because I hate to turn down work. But then I realized I have no idea how to pull it off. Directing people isn’t the same as a
rranging flowers and…” She heaves a sigh. “Do you have actor friends? Could you help me pull this off?”

  “Probably. Where is it supposed to take place?”

  “At the farmers’ market. She has a stall selling flowers. And he’s the cheesemonger. That’s where they met. Now he wants to propose while she’s serenaded about... I don’t know what. Love and birds and cheeses or something? He wants a big production. It should just unfold like…” Aubrey does jazz hands to indicate a big deal. But then her hands drop to her lap. “I don’t know if I can pull this off. What if it turns out like a middle-school musical?”

  Everyone within earshot looks suddenly uncomfortable. “There’s nothing more cringeworthy than a middle-school musical,” one woman says. “All those squeaky boy voices right as they’re dropping.”

  “All those training bras,” someone else says with a sigh.

  “I can help you,” I say with more vehemence than necessary. Because I have middle-school flashbacks, too. That shit is terrifying.

  “Can you really?” Aubrey squeaks. “That’s amazing. And he’s paying five thousand dollars so…”

  “Five—!” I yelp. “There must be a lot of money in mongering cheese!”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” Aubrey shrugs. “I should peddle cheese if this wedding thing doesn’t work out.”

  “Same,” I agree. “If both the acting and the ass-holding fail.”

  “The...what-holding?” My new friend looks confused.

  “Never mind,” I say quickly because Maguire and Rosie are just joining us. There’s also a woman with them who is round and soft and smiling, and a bald man behind her wearing the worst sweater I’ve ever seen. This dude has made some interesting fashion choices.

  Rosie sits right next to me on the love seat, and then motions for Maguire to join us. “Come on, brother,” she says. “Sit next to your girlfriend. There’s plenty of space if you don’t mind being cozy. Which you don’t because you loooooooove each other and all.”

  Rosie’s eyes are glittering. And Maguire has turned a peculiar shade of red.