Please let him pass this test.
“It’s quite dreary being somebody.” He smiles. “Trust me.”
I melt into my chair, and it’s not from the wine. My God.
“You are quoting Dickinson.”
“They shoved it down our throats at Milton Academy.”
“I wrote my senior honors thesis on her.” I can tell he finds this amusing, and he’s sitting across from me with an impish air, but what he doesn’t understand is how much I am reeling inside. The unspoken connection between us is now, word by word, being spoken. And it has a language of its own that unfolds like that yearning we all hold, cradled in our hands like a fragile, sleeping bird, in the part of ourselves where we protect our truths.
“Does that make you an expert in being nobody?” he asks.
This is too much.
I stand abruptly, shaken to the core. Every muscle inside me tenses, tightening as if needing to express emotions that cannot come out in any other way. The kinesthetic nature of this is like a keening without mourning, a visceral sense that two different layers of life are colliding and in the resulting chaos nothing makes sense.
“Amanda?”
I wander away from our pergola and over near the edge of the rooftop garden, along the perimeter of the building. The ledge rises to my ribcage, a planter three feet wide surrounding the area. A tiny, hand-written sign says Chef’s Herb Garden. The scent of lavender and thyme, oregano and basil, fills the air on the ocean’s sea salt balm.
The wall of Andrew’s body behind me startles me with its warmth, his hands hovering at my shoulders. He’s hesitating. All I have to do is lean one inch back. Take one step backwards. He’s met me more than halfway and now it’s my turn, but there is so much inside me whirling like a cyclone that I stand in place, uncertain.
I’m nobody.
Who are you?
“Who are you, Andrew?” I whisper into the night.
He comes to me, hands breaking that final inch of uncertainty.
“I’m somebody who has finally realized he’s been a nobody for far too long with you, Amanda,” he says, his voice earnest and honest. All banter and jokes are brushed aside like my stray strands of hair that his hand moves, clearing a space on my shoulder for his lips to kiss. He pulls me back against him, arms enveloping me.
We look out into the night.
“That’s the same ocean I sat and watched the other night when you were at the marina,” I marvel.
“Yes.”
“And we’re the same people.”
“Yes.”
“What’s changed?”
He turns me around, fingers on my chin, tipping my face up until our eyes meet.
And with one word he answers me before capturing me with a kiss that makes entropy seem like fate.
The word?
“Everything.”
15
“Did you sleep with him?” Amy asks as we drink our morning coffee and I relive last night’s events.
Well, most of them.
We’re sitting in her living room, Chuckles ignoring everyone as Marie makes us look at pictures of Highlanders in kilt tuxedos.
“I am not going to kiss and tell,” I reply.
“I didn’t ask if you kissed him.”
I pretend to zip my lips.
Amy changes topics and tries to convince me that I should move in with her.
“This place is dirt cheap,” she urges. “You could see Andrew whenever you want without being texted by your mom. You want independence.”
“But I don’t want to sleep on the couch like you used to.” The apartment only has one bedroom. Shannon let Amy live here rent-free but now that she’s gone, Amy’s paying the entire amount.
“You’d be so much closer to your job. Plus, the landlord says he’ll divide the bedroom and turn it into two with a simple wall and a second door.”
Tempting.
“Will the guys really go commando?” Marie calls out. “True Highlanders don’t wear underwear.”
“The wedding is in July, Mom,” Amy calls back. “In Massachusetts. If you’re going to make all those men wear wool kilts and socks, they’ll probably gratefully go without underwear just to prevent heat exhaustion.”
Marie nods. “Good point.”
“But then there’s the issue of ball sweat,” Amy adds.
Marie frowns and jots down notes on a sticky pad. “Ball sweat? That’s a real thing?”
Amy nods. “They make a special product for it.”
“There’s a product to cure ball sweat? Balls have sweat glands? Where do they hide the pores? And how do you know this?”
“Venture capital project at my job. They’re coming out with a new product for breast sweat.”
“Now that I know about first-hand,” Marie says with a knowing nod. “Breasts do more work than people appreciate. The Girls work up a sweat on a regular basis.”
Considering the fact that Marie hasn’t been pregnant or breastfed in well over two decades, I don’t really want to know what kind of ‘work’ her chest girls have been up to.
Shannon walks in. Chuckles runs to cuddle with her ankles, then rubs his butthole all over her calf.
“Hi to you too, Chuckles. That’s exactly how Declan greets me most nights.”
“Ewwwww,” Amy says, plugging her ears. “I hear enough about Mom’s sex life. Don’t need to know more about yours.”
“Honey, does Declan have a problem with ball sweat?”
“Huh?” Shannon gives Amy an evil look. “What have you been telling her?”
“Amy says the groom and groomsmen will need testicle powder if I ask them to go commando for the wedding.”
“Testicle powder? Is that going to be a wedding favor?”
“Do they make such a thing?” Marie asks, interest piqued.
“Sure,” Amy says. “Personalized bottles and everything. Think of the possibilities. Shannon and Declan, Dry Forever, with the date stamped on there and a logo of a dove. People will always associate your wedding with smooth sacs.”
Shannon throws Chuckles at Amy’s head. He lands perfectly in Amy’s lap, his butthole sliding down the length of her forearm as he settles into a liquid ball of fur in her lap.
“Don’t do that to the flower girl!” Marie barks.
“The what? Amy’s a bridesmaid, not a flower girl.”
“Chuckles is the flower girl.” Marie says this as if she were saying, Chicken is the main course.
Chuckles looks as shocked as Shannon, which is pretty hard to do when you don’t have eyebrows, but he pulls it off.
“You’re making my cat be my flower girl?”
“The McCormicks don’t have any little girls in their family. We only have Jeffrey and Tyler as ring bearers. I saw this adorable idea on Pinterest for how to use family pets as flower girls, and—”
Pinterest is a tool of Satan.
“My cat is going to be my flower girl because of a Pinterest board.”
“At least the men will have dry balls,” Amy says, um...dryly.
“What about Chuckles?” Marie asks.
“What about him?”
“Will he sweat under his kilt, too?” Marie scribbles on yet another sticky note. “Check to see if they make cat ball sweat powder,” she says to herself as she writes.
“Under his what? You’re making Chuckles wear a kilt tuxedo?” Does Chuckles even have balls? I don’t want to look.
I can’t help it. I look.
No balls.
“No, silly. Just a kilt. Cats can’t wear tuxedos!” Marie says in a voice filled with scoffing that we would even entertain the thought.
“Cats can’t be flower girls, either.”
“Of course they can! You’re a trendsetter now, Shannon. You’re marrying one of the most famous billionaires in the U.S.”
“Declan’s not a billionaire, Mom.”
“Not yet. Soon. Someday James will die and—”
“Mom!”
&n
bsp; “What?”
“Don’t talk about James dying!”
“Why not? We all die one day.”
“But you make it sound so...gauche. Like we’re all just waiting around for James to die so Declan can get his money.”
Chuckles looks at Marie like he’s waiting for her to die so he can get out of being the flower girl at Shannon’s wedding. In fact, he looks like he has specific plans to kill Marie in her sleep by smothering her with a—
You guessed it.
Kilt tuxedo.
“Mom, Chuckles doesn’t look like he wants to be in the wedding,” Amy says out of the blue.
“How do you know what Chuckles wants?” Marie challenges. “Are you the Cat Whisperer?”
“Because I’m the only one who loves him anymore, and because he lives with me. Chuckles is my soul mate. My best friend. He’s the only one who loooooves me now that Shannon moved out and Amanda won’t move in.”
Chuckles is frowning at Amy like she’s gone off the deep end.
“He’s just a cat,” Marie says.
“That’s right, Mom,” Shannon argues. “And cats can’t be flower girls.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Marie says in a voice that really means, I’ve made up my mind and will do whatever I want and act like your opinion doesn’t matter.
“Elope,” Shannon whispers.
Marie stiffens.
Chuckles smiles.
“Shannon, you and Declan need to have a rehearsal dinner for the bridesmaids and the groomsmen. We all need to be there to begin to talk strategy.” Marie’s change of topic only serves to confirm the fact that Chuckles the Highlander is a done deal.
“Why would we host it? Isn’t that traditionally done by the groom’s parents?”
“You know James will just have one of his preschoolers...I mean, assistants, do it for him. A more intimate affair is in order.”
Shannon’s shoulders slump with defeat.
“What Mom means is that we need to get everyone together. And by ‘everyone,’ she means James McCormick. And save a seat for his wallet. It’s big enough. In fact, it should be the guest of honor,” Amy snarks.
“Huh?” Shannon looks like someone hit her with a rolled-up newspaper.
“Dad doesn’t have enough money saved to pay for the kind of wedding Mom’s planning, so James will cough up the rest,” Amy declares bluntly.
Shannon recoils in resigned horror and turns to me. “Traditionally, it’s the bride’s family who pays for everything except the rehearsal dinner and the honeymoon. Plus, Daddy’s pride is going to take a beating. But James said it’s all a business write-off under the perfect circumstances, so...” She looks around the apartment. “Do you have an extra spray bottle of water? If Daddy and James get into another fight...”
“That’s old-fashioned tradition, honey. When you’re marrying into high society like this, it has to be different.” Marie sniffs, half-paying attention to the conversation as she rearranges eighty sticky notes. It’s like watching someone play Wedding Tetris.
“Right,” I say to Shannon. “It’s like groom and bride gifts.”
Shannon reddens.
“I see.” She goes uncharacteristically quiet.
All three of us—make that four, if you include Chuckles—look at her.
“What do you mean, you see?” I ask.
“When you put it that way...”
“What way?”
“The bride and groom gifts that they give to each other.” She mumbles something I can’t quite catch.
“What’s that?” Marie asks, cupping an ear.
I’m pretty sure I heard enough, though. Is she kidding? Declan’s giving her that?
“He’s giving you what as a wedding present?” I gasp.
“He’s paying off all my student loans,” Shannon says with a sheepish look, like she’s embarrassed to admit it.
“Hmph,” Marie grunts. “All Jason gave me was a hardcover copy of The Joy of Sex and a sweater.” She smiles like a Cheshire cat. “Guess which one I got more use out of?”
“What are you giving him?” I ask.
Amy opens her mouth to say something. Shannon cuts her off with a karate chop motion.
“If you say ‘anal,’ I will turn you into the flower girl, cat tuxedo kilt and all,” Shannon says to her.
Amy closes her mouth and bites her lips.
“Speaking of weddings, let’s talk about your date with Andrew last night!” Marie chirps.
“What does that have to do with—”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No.”
“Boo.” She closes her hand as if she wishes she could take back the high five. “What’s wrong with you girls? Enjoy your youth. Spread your wild oats. YOLO!”
Amy and Shannon look at her with twin expressions that say ugh. “That’s not what you’ve been saying to us for years!”
“Plus, it’s sow your wild oats,” I mutter.
Marie pats Amy on the cheek. “Amanda’s not my daughter. I can encourage her to be a wanton floozy and it doesn’t reflect on me.”
“I’m not a wanton floozy!” I protest.
“Of course you’re not. You didn’t sleep with him on the first date.”
“I slept with Declan on the second date,” Shannon declares.
“And see where it got you?” Marie’s arms spread out over the tiny kitchen table in the apartment, which suddenly looks like a portable version of NORAD. Wherever she goes, folders and sticky notes and brochures and samples follow. How does she do that? It’s like Mary Poppins and her magic bag, except instead of pulling out entire lamps Marie extracts caterer plans and photography estimates.
And, oddly enough, cat kilt samples.
“If Shannon slept with Declan on the second date and it got her a wedding, what will I get if I sleep with Andrew on the second date?”
“Hopefully an orgasm,” Marie mumbles.
“MOM!” Amy and Shannon shout in unison.
“That was kind of a given in my mind,” I say quietly.
“Maybe he’ll give you a job,” Marie says brightly. “And an orgasm.”
I glower at her. “I don’t need to sleep my way into a job.” And I don’t need a man to give me an orgasm, I want to add, but I’ve been on too many sex toy shops with Marie to know that this conversation is veering into dangerous territory. Once she starts talking about sex, she’ll describe intimate details about her and Jason, and I won’t be able to make eye contact with the poor man or look at a dog leash in quite the same way again.
Ever.
Marie studies me, pursing her lips slightly. Her lipstick matches her earrings, a pale peach color that makes her look like a Southern belle, coiffed and blessed with a genteel air.
Until she opens her mouth.
“Sleeping your way into a job is nothing to be ashamed of. But sleeping your way out of a job is something to be proud of.”
“What?” This time, all four of us say the same thing. Even Chuckles has gained the ability to talk, Marie’s statement so ridiculous that it instantly catapults his frontal lobe into forming a speech center.
“Shannon’s working for Declan right now because he’s humoring her,” she says with a sigh, as if we’re her ignorant little minions and she’s extending her wisdom to us. “Once they’re married and having babies—”
Shannon pales.
“—she won’t be working. She’ll become a society wife and manage the children and host lovely weekend dinners with my grandbabies and we’ll be all over Boston Magazine and—”
“I’m not quitting my job to become a baby factory!” Shannon argues.
“Not yet,” Marie says casually, as if she didn’t just spin a tale of wish fulfillment that makes it clear she’s already planning Shannon and Declan’s kids’ birthday parties to look like Royal Family affairs and arranging playdates with Princess Charlotte for 2020.
“Never.”
“Everyone says never. I quit m
y job after we had Carol.”
Shannon goes quiet.
“And your father barely made anything. Those were lean years. You’ll never have to go through what we went through, honey. I know way too many recipes for Ramen noodles, potatoes and government cheese.”
This conversation, like so many with Marie, has taken a U-turn, two corkscrews, a sudden reversal and included a surprise sinkhole, along with nothing but one-way roads.
“I’m, um...right,” Shannon whispers, the wind definitely taken out of her outraged sails.
“And that’s how it should be. Now, about that rehearsal dinner party. Two weeks before the wedding should do it. We’ll invite all the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Parents. Siblings. I think it will be fun. Why don’t I just call Grace and get her to arrange everything?” Marie has Grace on speed dial now.
But Grace has Marie’s number set to dump directly into voice mail. Marie doesn’t know that yet.
“Um, no, Mom. I can make the arrangements.”
“You need to learn to let other people do these things for you. It’s one of the secrets of the rich.”
A chill runs through me. That’s exactly what I was thinking about last night with Andrew.
“Plus, I’m sure Grace will do a better job. You aren’t exactly polished, dear.”
“Huh?”
“When you have your friends over, Thai food and ice cream is fine. But an elegant dinner for twelve people means hiring caterers and taking this to a whole new level.”
“Twelve?”
“Me. Daddy. James. Terry. Andrew. Carol. Amanda. You. Declan. Amy.”
“That’s ten.”
“Declan mentioned his delicious Scottish football-playing cousin as a groomsman. He’ll be in New York in two weeks for a photo shoot for Sports Illustrated’s naked athlete edition.”
The drool factor in the room just jumped by three thousand percent.
“That’s eleven.”
Marie looks at me and says, “And your mother.”
“My mother? Mom’s not in the wedding.”
An uncomfortable silence follows. “Actually, she kind of is, Amanda. I owe her a debt.” Marie’s uncomfortable. “So I’d like her there.”
“A debt?” I’m perplexed. “What did she do?”
“Bagpipes.”
“Bagpipes?”
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 180