by Howe, Violet
She leaned her chest toward me, and I took a couple of steps backward. “Nope, that’s okay. I’ll take your word for it!”
“No, seriously,” said Vixen. “You have to touch those things. Mine are hard as glass.” With no warning at all, Vixen grabbed my hand and mashed it against her breast. Yep. Hard as glass. I tried to jerk my hand away, but she quickly switched it over to Diamond’s breast. Which I must admit by comparison felt soft and squishy.
“See?” Diamond said. “Aren’t they amazing? Don’t they feel natural?”
I pulled my hand back and blinked several times, nodding. I had no idea whether or not they felt “natural”. In all honesty, mine are the only breasts I’ve ever touched. I pretty much have to squeeze my elbows together to get enough cleavage to even justify a monthly self-exam. But if I had to imagine what every teenage boy thinks a breast would feel like, it’s probably exactly like what I had just felt.
“She got them in Brazil. Best on the market,” said Carla, as though we were discussing a new set of tires Diamond bought for her car.
“I bet,” I answered with a nervous sigh. Between this and the pantyhose incident with Barney the Bride, I’ve started thinking maybe I need to work somewhere in a cubicle away from people. I’ve never considered myself a prude or anything, but I don’t think it’s normal to keep ending up in situations where I’m touching other people’s bodies against my will. It’s just plain weird.
“Uh-oh, we got you all freaked out,” Diamond said, seeming genuinely concerned at my discomfort. “I’m so sorry. We forget how shy people can be about their bodies.”
I suddenly felt as though I’d done something wrong or outside the norm. Maybe I am a bit reserved, but am I supposed to be perfectly comfortable feeling up some woman’s breasts I only just met? Or any woman? In the circles I travel in, breast groping is not a socially acceptable greeting. No one I know goes around grabbing each other’s tatas for comparison.
I made my way to the door, willing my eyes not to look at Diamond’s prized possessions. “No, no, you’re fine. I need to go check on a few things. I’ll be back. When you’re dressed.”
Later, when we were finished with the post-ceremony pictures, I watched Billy escort Diamond to the limo as I walked behind them carrying her train and her bouquet. His right hand caressed the small of her back as they walked. His left caressed a glass of champagne.
He was a good-looking guy, tall and broad-shouldered, with soft green eyes. Probably mid-forties, I would guess. His shaved head highlighted the large crescent-shaped scar above his left ear, the smaller jagged scar over his right eye, and the large hole in the center of the back of his head, like a bullet wound. I was torn between wanting to know bad enough to ask and wanting to be professional enough to remain silent. As my granny would say, he’d seen some scrapping in his day.
I wondered if Diamond would still be dancing in his clubs after the wedding and how all that would work. The boss’s wife up on stage. I mean, how is that a “Honey, I’m headed to work” kind of job, especially when he is right there in the club watching it all? Does he walk people over to her pole and introduce his wife? And if he’s already watched her make all her moves for every patron who comes in, then what constitutes a sexy night at home? Baking cookies and watching television? I don’t get it.
Diamond stopped short as we reached the limo. “Oh, no! My dancing shoes. I left them at the hotel. Is there any way I can go get them?”
“Are you kidding me, Di? We’re already missing the party,” Billy said. “Just dance in what you’re wearing.”
“Honey, I can’t dance in these things!”
She lifted the lace hem of her exquisite gown and revealed a stunning pair of gorgeous strappy stilettos with distinctive red soles. Clearly, I was quite distracted earlier in the dressing room if I did not notice Louboutins. Maybe I should have been looking at the floor instead of the ceiling.
They were from this year’s wedding collection, at least three inches high with a sharply-pointed toe. I wouldn’t have been able to walk in those things, much less dance in them. Heck, I probably couldn’t have stood still in them.
Billy was clearly not as impressed as I was. “I paid fifteen-hundred dollars for a pair of shoes you can’t dance in? You gotta be kidding me,” he said.
“I have to get my dance shoes. I’m not going to my own wedding without being able to dance.” Diamond stood her ground outside the limo. Billy shrugged and got in the car, already pouring more champagne. He didn’t even bother to help his new bride get in.
“Can we go to the room? It won’t take but a minute for me to change shoes,” she asked.
“Um, sure,” I answered.
I stepped to the back of the car to call Chaz as the limo driver helped Diamond get in.
“But we’re already late!” Chaz whined. I rolled my eyes and sighed. I could only deal with one diva at a time.
I offered to go to the room with Diamond to keep it quick and prevent a huge delay, which appeased Chaz enough to get him off the phone.
Just when my feet thought we were done for the night.
Billy was chomping to bits to get to the party, so he stayed in the limo while I escorted Diamond up to the Gardenia Suite to get her dancing shoes.
“I can’t believe he thought I could dance in these damned things,” she said as we entered the suite. She kicked off the Louboutins and flung them across the foyer with her toes. I cringed to see them bounce across the floor.
“I know, right?” I felt like finally I could commiserate with Diamond on something. There was no way humanly possible to dance in those stilettos.
But then I saw what she was strapping on. Her “dancing shoes” were at least five inches high, much higher than the Louboutins. They were clear Lucite with a huge platform under the ball of her foot, and a thick, clear Lucite heel with sparkling crystals floating in some gel-like substance. She stood and stomped each foot lightly on the floor, activating lights in the heel that morphed from red to green then blue, purple and pink.
Ohhhhhhhhhhh. It slowly dawned on me. Her DANCING SHOES. Yeah. So much for commiseration and bonding with this bride. I had nothing.
I ended up staying for most of the reception just to watch this party happen. I saw things I’ve never seen before and probably will never see again.
Man, that girl sure knew how to use those shoes.
Sunday, November 3rd
My head is killing me. The throbbing and aching have not gotten better, but my vision is no longer blurry, so I guess that’s a good sign.
After this morning’s ceremony, the wedding party boarded a pontoon boat for a brief cruise before joining the rest of the guests at the cocktail brunch.
The boat driver wasn’t too keen on pouring champagne and navigating a boat, so Laura suggested I stay with them. Floating around the lake with a light breeze in my hair and the sun shining on my shoulders? Sign me up! I mean, what could be so hard about serving champagne and strawberries to a group of happy, fun people?
For one, it would have helped if I knew how to open a champagne bottle. As the boat sailed away with the wedding party posing and waving for the photographer on the dock, I realized that even though I’ve attended plenty of New Year’s Eves, weddings, parties, etc., I’ve never needed to open a bottle. Someone else always did it. I’ve been in the back hallway of hundreds of receptions as champagne popped and poured, but always in the capable hands of servers and banquet captains.
I knew, of course, that I had to place my thumb beneath the cork and push it off, but the wire contraption underneath the foil wrapper threw me. I twisted it, lifted it, pulled it, tugged it. Nothing worked.
It didn’t take long for the wedding party to tire of making faces at the photographer and turn to watch me struggle with the bottle. Panic set in at the thought of looking like a complete idiot when my whole purpose on the boat was to open the champagne, and I couldn’t do it. What kind of wedding planner doesn’t know how to open cha
mpagne? Why didn’t I pay attention to this as an important skill to learn for my career?
I peered closely at the bottle, as if it were the problem instead of me.
“Wow, this is a tough one,” I said as I tilted it. I’m not sure why it never occurred to me that pointing the cork directly at my face could be a bad idea. I think maybe embarrassment at my lack of prowess had dulled my thinking, but I was also sure my thumb needed to push the cork for it pop.
Turns out I knew even less about champagne than I thought. The cork actually can come flying out without your thumb pushing it. Forcefully, in fact. If you’re twisting the wire while turning the bottle in all different directions, the pressure build-up inside can pop a cork with a velocity that is quite impressive.
One minute I was twisting the wire in puzzlement. The next minute I was coming to as I lay flat on my back on the bottom of the boat with the entire wedding party and the boat driver bent over me in a circle looking concerned. I vaguely remember hearing the pop, and I sort of remember feeling the cork slamming into my face. They said I went right over backward like I’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Thank God I didn’t fall off the boat. Or lose an eye.
It definitely cut the cruise short and killed the festivities. I went to first aid while Laura finished the wedding on her own. Luckily, it was a small event with virtually no set-up.
Deep black and blue circles formed pretty much immediately under my eyes, and now my forehead appears to be sprouting a small unicorn horn. All week, I’ve been so excited to have a Saturday night off so Cabe and I could go dancing. But with my head throbbing and my mythical creature appendage looking like it will break through my skin at any moment, we ended up sitting this one out on the couch with a big bowl of ice cream and a bunch of leftover strawberries. Cabe, of course, had a marvelous time with the whole situation. His jokes and comments were never-ending. I probably would have throttled him if my head hadn’t hurt so badly.
Thursday, November 7th
Mr. Hotel Man called today to confirm for this weekend’s Festival. I considered telling him something came up and I needed to cancel. I’m not sure I want to spend an evening with this guy. I don’t know much about him at all. I wish we’d talked on the phone a little more. What if we don’t even remotely have anything in common besides knowing each other from work?
What if he’s boring? Or rude? What if he’s a sex fiend? Or a serial killer? I should have asked if anyone in the office knows him. Outside of work, I mean.
Why did I agree to go? More importantly, why am I now freaking out?
I sort of hoped he was calling today to back out. Then I’d be off the hook. But no. He jumped right in with “Hey beautiful! Just calling to make sure we’re on for Saturday. I can’t wait to see you again.”
I hope he’s not a creeper or stalker. I hope he’s a nice guy. An interesting guy. I hope I’m overreacting. He didn’t say anything out of the ordinary. He just showed polite interest. I’m sure it’ll be okay. He can’t possibly be as bad as Mr. Bubble and his non-waterproof Porsche, right?
I guess I should try to be at least a little excited about this. I mean, I did start out interested in him. He looked pretty good in a suit, and he’s been nothing but nice to me. But I feel like every time I get excited about a guy and look forward to going out with him, he ends up being a royal jerk or totally weird or something. Call me gun-shy. I’m wary, especially of the ones who seem too good to be true.
How sad it must be for the nice guys to put their best out there, trying to be polite and courteous as they navigate treacherous dating waters. Meanwhile, girls like me who have been burned by the jerks rarely give the nice guys a chance. We’re looking for how they’re going to disappoint us. How they’re not what they seem. Our vision becomes blurry and the good traits aren’t clear. I do want to find a good guy amidst all the bad apples, but I guiltily admit I’m not very open-minded in giving people the benefit of the doubt. I need to work on that. I’m going to be receptive to Mr. Hotel Man. I’m going to focus on his positives!
Saturday, November 9th
I don’t even know where to start. What to say. What to write.
Tonight was quite possibly the worst date I ever had.
Quite possibly the worst date anyone ever had. In the entire history of dating.
Oh. My. God.
Did this really happen?
It started with an issue with Mr. Hotel Man’s car. He needed to get dropped off at the reception hall and ride with me. It was an omen for the evening to come. I should have canceled right then.
He came screeching up as the passenger in a dirty Honda Accord driven by a pretty blond woman in a pink suit. As he opened the door to get out, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I won’t be home late. I’ll try not to wake you.”
“It’s fine,” she replied. “I’m going in late tomorrow, but you’ll need to drive me so you have the car.”
I probably should have said hello or acknowledged her in some way, but I was a little confused as to what was going on. I’m sure my face showed it.
Who the hell was she? A sister? Roommate? Friend? Who was this random, beautiful person he kisses on the cheek and tries not wake up late at night? I waved a hesitant goodbye in the general direction of the car, which had already pulled away.
“Hello, Beautiful!” he said, completely oblivious to my confusion. “You’re even prettier than I remembered. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Was that your sister?” I asked.
“Debbie? Um, no. She’s my wife.”
It is highly possible a weird noise somewhere between a gasp and a snort escaped me.
“Your wife?” I tried to ask, but although I mouthed the right words, all that came out was this weird gurgle.
“My ex-wife. Well, soon-to-be ex-wife. We’re going to file the paperwork soon. Just a formality, really.”
“Your wife.” This time I found my voice and made the right noise. I even got my mouth to close after I said it. I think it had been open since he first spoke. “Your wife.” I repeated it one more time, more of a statement to myself to confirm what was sinking in.
“Yeah. Oh man, you’re weirded out, aren’t you? I guess I should have said something, but I didn’t want you to be, well, weirded out like you are now. It’s all good. I mean, you saw her. You met her. She knows where I am, that we’re going out tonight.”
“Your . . . wife . . . knows we are going out tonight. Is this a date?”
“Yes. I mean, I hope so. I thought it was. Don’t freak out. Really. She’s been dating someone for the past couple of months. We’re both moving on, I promise.”
“So why didn’t you tell me? And why did you kiss her goodbye and tell her you won’t wake her up tonight?”
He shook his head and laughed, reaching for my hand, which I quickly pulled away.
“Come on. Seriously, it’s not a big deal. I kissed her on the cheek because it’s a habit. We’ve been married for ten years. She’s my best friend. I’ll always care about her, but we fell out of love a long time ago. We’re okay with it. It’s not like I kissed her on the mouth or anything.”
He crossed his arms, like he was aggravated with me for this. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as I remembered from the lobby. He’d been wearing a suit then. He looked different now. Less suave. More pig. A pig wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans.
“Why are you still living together?” I asked.
“Money. It costs a lot to get a divorce, even when we both agree to it. We figured there’s no reason for us to pay for separate places. Our lease isn’t up until the end of the year. We’re fine with living together. I mean, we’re not sleeping together or anything!”
He said that last part with an eye roll and a laugh that gave me serious doubts about the truth and validity of the statement.
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable with this.” The little voice inside my head was screaming at me to walk away. To simply say no and
walk away. Unfortunately, I’ve been raised to always be nice. Polite. It makes it hard to be honest when it may hurt or bother the other person.
“Oh, Tyler. Don’t be that way. It’s not a big deal,” he cocked his head to the side and made a silly-looking pouty face. I bet Debbie has seen that look often in the last ten years.
“You keep saying that, but it’s a big deal to me. You. Are. Married.”
“Technically, yes, but . . . you know what? Why don’t you talk to Debbie? Here, I’ll call her and you can . . .” He took his phone out of his pocket.
“No!” I stepped back again. “I’m not going to ask your wife’s permission to go out with you.”
“Oh, good Lord. I was supposed to have the car. But then she got called into work and she needed it. If she hadn’t needed the car, we’d already be at the festival having a good time.” He shrugged and rolled his eyes as though the car was the problem.
“So if she hadn’t needed the car—wait, you share a car? This keeps getting better and better—would you have even told me you were married?” I crossed my arms in irritation. I don’t know if I would have gone out with him had I known he was still married and in the process of getting a divorce. That’s some messy stuff I probably wouldn’t have stepped in. But either way, it would have been nice to have the information from the get-go. I was pissed.
“I would’ve told you. It wouldn’t have been the first thing I mentioned, though. Not because I’m trying to be dishonest or hide anything. If I wanted to hide it, I wouldn’t have had Deb bring me and introduce the two of you. Look, I met you. I liked you. I haven’t been out with anyone since we decided to divorce. Haven’t even asked anyone out. It took me how many phone calls to get around to actually asking you? I didn’t want to start the first date I’ve had in over a decade by announcing I’m technically still married. So I’m sorry. It’s definitely not how I meant for this evening to go. To upset you or piss you off or whatever you’re feeling. I just wanted to spend time with you. Talk to you and get to know you better.”