by Amiee Smith
“Where’s my ring?!”
Her brown eyes dart over the living room littered with empty wine bottles, jars of weed labeled by strain in purple ink, three different kinds of hot sauce, empty bags of kale chips (surprisingly delicious with hot sauce), a box of saltine crackers (again, very delicious with hot sauce), a pile of makeup wipes we used to remove our rehearsal dinner faces, deflated Volcano bags, an Ally debit card, a Wells Fargo debit card, random clothes we used to dress up for our Pop Divas station sing-along, half-filled wine glasses, Lynn’s laptop we used to google flights for our post-break-up trip to London (a trip we almost booked until we realized Lynn’s passport is under lock and key at her parents’ house), and random kitchen utensils we pulled out to break into her parents’ safe to retrieve her passport... a plan we abandoned because we couldn’t request an Uber to get there without our phones!
I scurry through the untidy space, searching for my phone. The room stinks of old wine, buds of weed, and heartache.
“This place is a wreck! I sometimes forget you’re as messy as me,” I say.
“Totally! I just hide it better. Where’s my ring?!” she yells.
“Honey, you gave it back to him last night!”
“Why would I do that?! We’re getting married today!”
She gets up, pacing the room and twisting the hem of her T-shirt. Clearly, Lynn is being visited by Lady Denial.
“No. You’re not getting married today, sister-friend.”
“Oh, Goddess! I need to call him!” She reaches for her bright pink purse. “Why are our phones not in here?!”
“Because you hid them again,” I say, crouched over a pile of clothes.
“Why?! Why would I do that?” Her bare, petite legs zigzag all over the living room.
“Because you didn’t want to accidently send Nick a tit pic in the middle of the night.”
Lynn drops to her knees and crawls throughout the room, peering under the sofa.
“It is totally appropriate to send my husband a tit pic!”
“I’m not judging you! But it’s probably not appropriate when you’re in the middle of a war!”
I frantically open the drawers of the TV stand.
“What war?!”
Lady Denial is a more wicked bitch than Lady Rage.
“Honey, last night you said we’re at war with the Willinghams. Remember?”
“But we’re Willinghams!”
“Yes! Yes, we are. That’s why I need to yell at Alex. Think, Lynn! Where would you have put our phones?!”
The TV still plays the Pop Divas station, and Mariah Carey sings for her dream lover to come rescue her.
The doorbell rings.
We both mad-dash to the door, swinging it open. My heart drops in disappointment.
“OMG! I’m glad you’re up. I don’t have the door code,” Emma says, barreling past us.
“I’m so jealous you get to do the walk of shame this morning,” Lynn mutters.
Wearing the bright pink cocktail dress she wore to the dinner last night, she holds her clutch and shoes in one hand and her phone in the other.
“Can I use your phone?!” I ask, desperately.
“It’s dead. That’s why I don’t have the door code. I’m so exhausted. Do you think I can get six hours of sleep before we have to leave for the ceremony?” Emma asks, walking in the direction of her bedroom.
Ceremony. The word comforts my aching heart and quiets the harrowing winds of Lady Rage.
“Yeah, totally. Get some sleep. Lynn and I are going to walk to Old Town. We’ll clean up the living room when we get back,” I call to her just as the door of her bedroom shuts.
“Brit, now is not a time for physical fitness! We need to contact Nick and Alex!”
“Everything is going to be okay. You need to relax before your big day,” I say, gazing down at her anxious face.
“Do you not remember? I gave the ring back!”
“Yes, but if your wedding was really cancelled the Willinghams would have notified everyone by now. Emma still thinks you’re getting married. All the girls would have been here if they thought you were in the middle of a break-up. Your dream man will come for you.”
“You really think so, sister-friend?” she asks in the sweetest, most hopeful voice.
“Yes. I bet he’ll be here by the time we get back. Let’s go for a walk to calm down. Your prince will come.”
“What about your prince?” she asks, grasping my hand.
I plaster the biggest smile I can muster on my face and shrug my shoulders.
“Today is not about me. It’s your wedding day.”
Lynn squeals and grabs her Asics sneakers, yoga pants, and a light blue tee that says “I write happy endings” from her bag. I return to my bedroom and change into black leggings, my white Dior “We Should All Be Feminist” tee, and bright green Nike sneakers.
After washing our faces and brushing our teeth at the vanity together like we did every morning before school during the year that I lived with her family, we leave the little blue Craftsman house with sunglasses on our faces, change purses on our wrists, and the sincerest hope in happily-ever-after.
The late-spring sun kisses our skin as we weave through the streets of Pasadena, past the Paseo shopping center to Colorado Boulevard. We parade through Old Town, stopping to get a green juice.
“I can’t believe there’s a juice bar in Pasadena,” Lynn says while we wait in line.
“Maybe Pasadena is not as conservative as it used to be? I haven’t lived here... gosh, since we were in high school,” I respond.
“It’s definitely not as liberal as San Francisco and Oakland.”
“I love living in Oakland, Lynn. I truly look forward to going home.”
“I look forward to going back to San Francisco. Or wherever home ends up being.”
“You know you’re going to live with your perfect husband, in your perfect home, with a perfect view of the San Francisco skyline.”
“His family is not perfect. I don’t know if I can be a Willingham without you, Brit.”
“Sure you can. His family lives here. You’ll see them during the holidays, and you’ll grin and drink your way through it,” I say with a chuckle.
She doesn’t smile, instead she clinches my hand. “And what about you? Can you do life without Alex?”
“Absolutely.”
And for the first time ever, I actually believe I can.
Once I return to Oakland, there will be no more hiding out in my apartment. No more oversharing on dates. No more comparing every hipster guy to my conservative husband.
I am a model-pretty weirdo with a bionic brain, and if I try, I can land the right man for me.
CHAPTER 29
ALEX WILLINGHAM
I awake to the smell of bacon and... pissed off!
Pissed off at myself. Pissed off at Brit for not returning the ten messages I left her last night. One being my version of a dick pic: a shirtless selfie of me holding Pep. Sure, I was wasted and probably slurring in both English and Italian, but nobody is perfect. She could have called me back!
Getting out of bed and ignoring the dull pounding at my temples, I slide on my glasses and pull on black USC basketball shorts before heading to the kitchen.
Warm sunlight streams into my two-bedroom, two-bathroom luxury condo from the living room windows with panoramic views of L.A. On a clear day, you can see all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
I find my brother at the cooktop, preparing breakfast, in my rarely used chef’s kitchen with premium Gaggenau appliances.
He’s in black warm-ups and a white undershirt, his usually styled-up hair is flat, and he reeks of chlorine. Before we crashed last night, I gave him my passcode to the rooftop pool.
Pep trots around his bare feet.
“I took her out after my swim. I couldn’t find a leash, so I carried her. And why does your hall closet look like a couture explosion?”
“Those are clothes and shoes Bri
t has left here over the last few years.”
“Damn, dude. You really were married.”
“I am married. Speaking of which, have you heard from Lynn? Brit didn’t call me back.”
“No. I bet she’s on a run. They opened a juice bar in Old Town, so she probably stopped to get a green juice. Then she’ll do her hair for the wedding. She’ll call me when she gets a free moment,” he rambles.
Like last night, my brother is in full-on d-e-n-i-a-l. (I’m kind of shocked I can spell that word.)
After leaving my parents’ home, Nick stopped at his Airbnb to get weed and clothes, discovering his wife had packed all her things and the Volcano and several bottles of wine. He shrugged it off, stating “she just needs a cooling off period.”
We arrived at my condo. Took Pep to the doggy den. And like a bunch of sad sacks, sat on my modern black leather sofa, sharing a six-pack of Karl Strauss IPA, passing a joint, and staring at our phones. “The Tattooed Bride,” by Duke Ellington played on the turntable.
But cooling off periods have an expiration date. And considering neither he nor I have spoken to our strong-willed, often impulsive wives, we need to act fast.
“How are we going to get our girls back?” I ask, scooping dry food into Pep’s stainless steel bowl and placing it on the floor.
She ignores her organic kibble and watches my brother place bacon on a plate to cool.
“I don’t know, man,” he says, his voice grave.
I don’t know?! That is not the response we need right now. But my brother has a way of getting eerily chill under pressure. I, on the other hand, panic.
He hands me a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon.
“I can’t eat right now. I gotta get Brit back.”
“Suit yourself.”
Nick takes my plate and sits at my modern glass and Acacia wood dining table. Clearly, he’s in no position to work out a plan. I need to think, and music always helps me focus.
“Alexa, play KJAZZ,” I say.
The room fills with the voice of the host of the Saturday morning show, Swing Time, from L.A.’s only public jazz radio station. He introduces “Good Morning Heartache,” by Billie Holiday. Her melancholy voice causes my chest to tighten and my stomach to clinch. Gripping the white quartz countertop, I let the waves of anxiety encompass me. I haven’t felt this way since before the FBI investigation.
Nick knows what’s up.
“Dude, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack. You’re no good to Brit if you’re dead. Get a plate. Sit. Eat. We’ll figure it out.”
“I... I... I... can’t do life without her.”
“I know. I feel the same way about Lynn, but you’re going to mess up the day if I have to take you to the hospital. Alex, find a way to relax.”
I do a round of deep breathing, before getting a plate of food and sitting at the table.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod my head, slowly. I eat several bites of delicious food, willing myself to relax. After a few minutes, I speak.
“Aren’t you afraid Lynn will leave town?”
“Nope. I remembered this morning that her parents have her passport. Since Jen hasn’t rolled in here guns blazing, I figure we still have a chance to make things right, but we need mom and dad to do their part.”
“Do you think they will?”
“If they ever want to speak to me again, they better apologize to my wife and Brit.”
“But you work with Dad.”
“I’m a full partner. Not his employee.”
The certainty in my brother’s voice nurtures my weary soul. I always thought because he was so good at everything, he had earned their approval. But now, I realize, he never needed it. He just did his own thing without guilt or shame.
I built a multi-million-dollar company from scratch. Yes, Brit helped me a lot, but it was my investment advice that kept my clients paying my fees year after year. I’ve done my own thing, successfully, without any input from my parents. And while I will always love them, I have never needed their approval to thrive.
It’s time for me to let go of the guilt and shame. It’s time for me to let go of the title of the family fuck-up. It’s time for me to claim my own family.
“Excuse me,” I say, leaving the table.
I go to my bedroom and make a call to the jeweler I’ve been working with for years. I had him design a ring for Brit, but I never picked it up.
The phone rings twice, before an Armenian-laced voice comes on the line.
“Rocco... Alex Willingham. How are you? And your family? Good. Good. Listen, I know it’s the weekend, but would you be able to bring the ring to my condo? I’ll pay whatever... I’m in the Doheny Building on Olympic... And at one point, you showed me some others... Yes, bring those as well. I’ll decide once you get here. Tell the doorman you’re here to see me and he’ll let you up. Yes. Thank you, Rocco.”
I return to my open-concept living and dining room to find my parents sitting at the table. Both well-put together and conservatively dressed, my mom wears a cream-colored Sophia-style structured wrap dress and matching toe loop flat sandals and my dad is dressed in khaki slacks and a tucked-in blue dress shirt.
I consider returning to my bedroom to put on a T-shirt, but I remember this is my house. I’m the only Mr. Willingham that matters here.
My mom speaks to me in flawless English. “Good morning, Alexander. Your doorman so kindly let us up. He said he could see the resemblance. This is a lovely home. I hate this is our first visit. I see you’ve doubled Mia’s record collection.”
She points at the massive wall of vinyl in my living room. My brother sits plates of food in front of them.
“Thank you, son. Is there coffee?” my dad asks.
“Yeah. In the pot. Help yourself.”
I would have poured my dad coffee in a heartbeat, but my brother seems unphased by his demands. On the way to get a cup, my dad eyes Pep.
“Well, aren’t you a cute little thing,” he says, patting her head.
Never one to shy away from affection, Pep rolls on to her back so he can pet her belly. I watch my 6’3, 65-year-old dad, crouch to stroke her gray fur. He soon tires, and instead of moving on, he picks her up, cradling her in his arms.
“That’s why your dog doesn’t walk. You and Brit are so tall, it’s easier to carry her,” my brother says.
“Yeah, probably. And she’s the most perfect dog on the planet,” I say, grinning.
“What’s her name?” my mom asks before eating a bite of toast.
“Brit named her Miz Pepper, but I call her Pep.”
Forgetting about his coffee, my dad returns to the table and sits next my mom.
“Ha! She has a drag queen name. How precious,” she says, stroking her belly.
“Yeah, Brit loves drag queens. I’m impressed you know that, Mother.”
“I’ve been around. In my early designing days, I took a lot of inspiration from the queens I knew.”
“Lynn and I go to a drag queen brunch in the City. We always have a good time,” Nick says.
“Hopefully, Brit and I will be able to join you soon.”
“I really hope so, man.”
My mom hands me pieces of embossed Sophia Willingham stationary.
“Your father and I were up most of the night and we feel we devised the perfect scheme to get our daughters back.”
I take my time, slowly reading over each line of their plan written in my mom’s cursive. After several minutes, I glance up at my brother.
“Have you seen this?” I ask.
“Yeah. Lynn would approve.”
“Then let’s make it happen,” I say.
***
After lots of phone calls, a shower and shave, and a few errands which included dropping Pep off at daycare, we arrive at Brit’s Airbnb.
Both my brother and I wear true-blue jeans. I paired mine with a white Ralph Lauren polo and my all-black leather Converse. My brother borrowed my white Brit
Palmer seahorse concert tee which he paired with all-white Adidas.
Nick parks his silver Mercedes G-Class SUV in the driveway next to my dad’s black Lincoln MKC Black Label. We all get out and walk to the door of the small blue Craftsman.
I press the doorbell button, readily awaiting the sight of my wife’s light brown skin, cognac eyes, and long dark hair. Will she have the diamond stud in her nose or the silver hoop? More so, will she welcome me in like she has done so many times in the past?
“Son, do you remember doing the remodel on this house?”
“Yes. The owner wanted it to feel like a true Pasadena home for their guests, so we had to restore all the original trim instead of ripping it out,” Nick says.
I ring the bell again. Both Brit and Lynn are notorious late sleepers.
“Is there a home in this neighborhood you two haven’t remodeled?” my mom asks, jokingly.
“Alex did his fair share of work back in the day. He was my original team before I could afford to hire help,” my dad says proudly.
“I have no intentions of ever doing construction again, but I would like to speak with you about renovating the house I just bought.”
“Oakland. That’s your brother’s territory. They’re working on... what is it... four historic homes and two apartment buildings in Oakland?”
Nick corrects him. “Three luxury apartment buildings. Alex, when we get back from our honeymoons, let’s set up a meeting.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say.
“Did Brit design the silkscreen for her shirts?” my mom asks, pointing a red polished nail at the design on the shirt Nick has on.
“No. Our friend, Alisha did. She’s married to Brit’s college friend and sound engineer, Malachi. He’s one of the people I spoke to this morning.”
“Please be sure to introduce them to me later. Maybe she can do a design for Sophia, like the Dior feminist T-shirt.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still have to convince Brit to take me back.”
My brother grows impatient and presses the doorbell repeatedly. “Lynn’s parents said she came here last night,” he says.
I hear footsteps on the hardwood before the door swings open. My heart plummets with disappointment.