Before I have time to think too much, Zoey is announcing our first patient.
“Guess we better get to it, then,” I say, reminding myself to be professional.
“Can’t wait,” he says, winking at me, practically sending me into a tailspin, and then following me into the room.
And by the room, I mean the room. The room that started it all with Luke. How’s that for a slap in the face from the universe?
Chapter Fourteen
Lila
“You know Maren’s going to kill you, right?” Zoey asks as she sets up the vegetable tray in the Oakwood Fire Hall. There are fall-colored streamers and balloons everywhere, cutesy baby pictures of Maren, and photos of Maren and Will lining the food table. Zoey and I have been working all morning doing the traditional setup—party games and cakes and guess the bride’s favorite whatever stations. We’ve ushered in friends and family and run through the schedule.
I want this to be perfect for Maren.
Although, Zoey’s right. She’s still going to kill me.
“Look, just because Maren said she didn’t want a wedding shower doesn’t mean she actually meant it. Besides, she can’t be too pissed. She’s lucky I took the reins and refused to let Mom lift a finger other than to make potato salad and buy some prizes. She should be kissing my feet. If I hadn’t taken over, she would’ve had a five-hundred-guest affair.”
“I think with Maren, she meant she really didn’t want a shower.”
“Well, what kind of maid of honor would I be if I didn’t embarrass her with a shower? She’ll forgive me.”
“Well, if not, I call dibs on maid of honor. It’s so much easier to get laid at the wedding when you’re wearing those horrid, silky dresses. Drunk men just go crazy for them. Weird fantasy or something.” Zoey winks at me, and I just shake my head.
At this very moment, Will’s mom is leading her mother by us. She gives Zoey a glare. Zoey mouths “sorry” and shrugs. Once they’re seated at their round table out of earshot, we both giggle like teenagers.
The fire hall is pretty sparse. Maren wanted a simple wedding, only about a hundred guests. There are only about thirty women here. Still, even in the small setting, there’s already one woman too many.
Great-aunt Lula.
“Oh my God, these streamers are so tacky,” the eighty-five-year-old woman screams to no one in particular. I shake my head.
Maren hadn’t even wanted to invite Grandma Claire’s sister. The two have violently hated each other their entire lives. Still, with Mom’s side of the family dwindling, she’d insisted that Great-aunt Lula be there to represent the Statelys at the wedding.
Maren had said no.
Mom had sent out an invite anyway.
I hadn’t invited Great-aunt Lula to today’s event. Mom found out and invited her anyway.
Are you seeing a pattern?
“God, give me some of that alcoholic punch,” I demanded, and Zoey hooked me up with a cup.
“Oh, they should be here in a minute,” I state after my phone buzzes with the text from Mom. “Get everyone situated,” I tell Zoey.
“Where does Maren think she’s going?” Zoey asked.
“To lunch with Mom and Grandma Claire.”
“And how did you get out of it?”
“Told her I had a hot date. That shut her up. Other than a million questions, of course.” I take another swig of my punch, getting ready to play hostess for the next two hours.
The door flies open. “Surprise!” the crowd yells.
Mom ushers Grandma Claire, who is wearing her floppy red sunhat, in through the door. She waves excitedly. Maren, who is standing beside Mom and Grandma, smiles and covers her mouth in genuine surprise.
Once the room has quieted down, Maren heads my way.
“Fuck you,” she whispers into my ear as she hugs me and the crowd “awws.”
“You love me,” I say, handing her my punch. “Oh, and it’s alcoholic.”
“I guess you can be forgiven. But so help me God, Aunt Lula better not….”
“Oh, my, jeans at your own bridal shower? Couldn’t someone have had her dress properly for this? Good Lord,” a shaky but loud voice bellows from the crowd. Maren closes her eyes and sighs.
“Sorry. Mom’s fault. Now go sit in your special seat. It’s time for party games.”
Maren shakes her head, tosses back the rest of the punch, and heads to her seat as I prepare to read from my script and organize the room into a wedding shower extravaganza.
***
“Yes, that’s correct, Maren’s favorite restaurant is Olive Garden,” I say animatedly as Zoey hands out another prize—probably another air freshener, judging by the wrapping paper.
I’m getting ready to read the next question, the room alight with murmurings and laughter, when the door flies open. We all turn to see three unknown women strut in, very scandalously dressed. They look like they’ve just come from a very, very skanky runway. I’m pretty sure their dresses, which are a satiny red, are about eight inches long total.
“Can I help you?” I ask as the room goes quiet.
“Where’s the bride-to-be?” one asks, practically licking her bright red lips as she says it. She’s eyeing me in a way that feels oddly sensual, her blonde hair curled perfectly and her makeup magazine-worthy. She’s got huge breasts bulging out of her halter-top dress. Are these Maren’s friends? Are they Will’s family? What the hell?
“Um, right there,” I say, deflecting them toward Maren, who looks just as confused as me.
“Perfect,” the tall blonde says, heading over to Maren.
The three actually gather around her. The last one in line, a tall brunette, hits a few buttons on her phone.
Some crazy, swanky music starts playing, and the three start gyrating around Maren, who is looking at me.
Horrified, I shake my head, eyes wide, as they do a lap dance for Maren. The blonde reaches behind and starts unzipping her dress.
“Oh my God, what the hell?” Maren screams, and I rush over to stop the music, grabbing the phone from the brunette. There are gasps and questions all around. The girls look at me, also confused.
We all stand in shocked silence for a moment before Grandma Claire speaks up.
“What the hell is right! I ordered three male strippers for Maren. What are you three doing here?”
We all turn to Grandma Claire. “Grandma, are you kidding?” I ask. “You ordered strippers?”
“Well, yeah, of course I did. Girl’s got to get her kicks in before she’s tied down.”
“Grandma, first, you order strippers at a bachelorette party, not a wedding shower, for Christ’s sake,” Maren says, shaking her head and staring at the ceiling as the three strippers awkwardly step to the side.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Mom yells.
I turn to her, standing in her pink skirt suit. “Are you kidding?” I ask. “We’ve got three female strippers at the shower, and you’re worried because she said Christ?”
“Lila, I mean it.”
I throw my hands up. “Oh my God. Grandma, this was wildly inappropriate.”
“Well, of course it is. They were supposed to be men, I swear. I know Maren’s not a lesbian, I wasn’t suggesting she was.…”
I groan audibly, wondering what I’m going to do with this one. Pretty sure no maid of honor book on the planet tells you how to deal with your grandma ordering female strippers for your sister’s wedding shower.
I look over to Will’s family’s table. They look horrified, confused, and like they need counseling.
Join the club, I suppose.
“Well, I mean, when life hands you lemons, or in this case, lots of melons, you might as well make the best of it,” Grandma Claire says.
Maren, who hasn’t moved, just exhales.
“What? I mean, I paid good money with my son’s credit card for this. We might as well get our money’s worth, am I right?” Grandma Claire looks around the shower,
hoping to strum up some support for her cause.
“No, Grandma. Just… no. Thank you, ladies. You’re, um, lovely, thank you. Your services are finished,” I say, placing a hand on the shoulder of the closest lady and then awkwardly pulling it back.
The three look at me, shrug, and strut out. Grandma’s right, though. They’ve already been paid, so I’m sure they don’t care. One actually has the nerve to steal a cookie off a tray on the way out. I’ve got bigger worries at this point.
“Mom, how did Grandma have access to Dad’s credit card?” Maren asks. The rest of the women at the shower are either fiddling with their wedding favor pretending they’re not hearing our family conversation, or staring at us, mouths agape, taking it all in so they can report back to their friends at work on Monday about the Stately/Morrow wedding shower debacle.
“Maren, I don’t know. Your father’s an idiot sometimes.”
Still standing up front, I realize all the women are looking at me, including Maren, like I’m going to make this better somehow.
I do what I do best—I turn to Zoey.
She looks at me, looks at the crowd, and says, “Time for cake?”
Everyone stands at once, rushing to the dessert table, insisting it’s a fabulous idea and they can’t wait to try the vanilla bean cupcakes and the chocolate lava cakes we’ve had made.
The room erupts into nervous energy.
Finally able to get attention off me, I shake my head before laughing hysterically.
What the hell else can I do?
***
The shower is mercifully winding down.
“I told you I didn’t want a shower. You should’ve listened.”
“Okay, well, it will be quite a great story for your kids someday,” I say, shoving another cupcake into my mouth, nervous eating one of my bad habits.
“I don’t think I’ll be telling anyone about this. I’m not a prude, but Jesus.”
“Maren, watch your mouth,” Mom says, sneaking up on us. That woman has sonic hearing, I swear.
Maren rolls her eyes, and Grandma Claire stumbles up toward us. She nudges me in the ribs with her elbow. “Okay, be honest. Those three were pretty gorgeous. I mean, the men I ordered were way better, don’t get me wrong, but they were knockouts. I really got my money’s worth.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Grandma, please. Let’s just not.”
“I’ll say. Mom is probably rolling over in her grave,” a grating voice announces. It’s Lula, who is now about a foot from Grandma Claire. “How could you?”
“Sorry, some of us aren’t prudes. You’re just jealous, you ugly cow.”
“Grandma,” I scold. “Stop.”
Aunt Lula scowls, turning to me now and shaking her head. “Oh, it’s fine. I might be an ugly cow, but at least I was married. You, on the other hand, should be mortified. Your younger sister’s getting married before you? Embarrassing. In my day, we had a word for that: spinster.”
Now it’s my turn to be angry.
I don’t have time to defend myself, though. Because before I can react, Grandma Claire is doing what she does best.
Acting crazy.
The vegetable tray is on the table beside her. With lightning speed for an eightysomething, she grabs the entire tray and flings it at Aunt Lula.
More gasps ensue as we look to see Aunt Lula covered in glopping ranch dressing after being pelted with celery, carrots, and a variety of garden vegetables. There’s even a baby carrot stuck in her overly hair sprayed perm.
Grandma Claire lets out a loud cackle. Maren and I freeze, clueless yet again about what to do.
“Take that, you wench,” Grandma yells as Aunt Lula, horrified, flings ranch off her hands.
At this very moment, the door opens again. At this point, it’s like shell shock. I’m terrified about what else could possibly go wrong.
Will walks through the door, a huge bouquet of roses in his hands. “Am I on time?” he asks, referring to the time I told him to come.
“Oh, right on time,” Maren says, rushing over to him and leaping into his arms. “Right on time to take me away.”
Will, hugging Maren, looks over at us. Grandma Claire, ignoring the fact her sister is still standing coated in ranch dressing, smiles and waves.
Will eyes Aunt Lula and me. I shrug. “Can’t wait for the wedding,” I say as Mom rushes over with a towel to wipe off Aunt Lula.
“I think I’m eloping,” Maren yells as she leads Will to a table to fill him in on the stripper escapade, the Aunt Lula drama, and the realities of life in the Stately/Morrow family.
***
“What are you going to do with five toasters?” Zoey asks as she carries a carefully stacked tower of presents into Maren and Will’s apartment. She’s graciously offered to help with cleanup since Mom thought it might be best to get Grandma Claire home and settled down.
“Make a lot of toast, I guess,” Will says as he holds the door open for us. I am carrying a comforter set and a tea set, hoping not to drop either.
“Thanks for everything, guys,” Maren says as we stack our individual piles of presents in the living room. Figuring Will can get the last stack, the three of us plop down on the tan sofa, sweat beading on our foreheads from the trips back and forth to the loaded-down Suburban.
“Do you mean that?” I ask, smiling.
“I do. It was good to feel loved, despite Aunt Lula and everything. I appreciate it.” Maren squeezes me in a side hug, and I relish the moment, happy to see my sister so happy. She deserves it. “But now, on to more important items. Who are you bringing as your date?”
I pull back from our hug. “Zoey.”
“Come on. I know Zoey’s coming. But who is your date?”
“I don’t have one. I don’t need one.”
“Shut up. Of course you do. What about Christopher?”
I sigh. “He’s not really my type. He’s called a few more times, but I don’t know. There’s just something off.”
“Honey, you don’t have to marry the guy you bring. He’s just got to be a fun date and maybe even a fun romp.”
“Maren, you’re starting to sound like Aunt Lula. I don’t have to have a date to have fun.”
“Besides,” Zoey says. “She doesn’t have to go with Christopher when there’s a new, sexy man in her life.”
I flash my glare to Zoey, who shrugs.
“What? You’ve been holding out on me? I need details,” Maren says, squeezing my hand so hard I jump.
“I’m not holding out. There are no details. We have a new intern who Zoey thinks is hot.”
Zoey laughs. “Come on? Just me? You’ve been ogling him all week.”
“What’s his name?” Maren asks, leaning forward from her seat as her interest is piqued.
“Oliver Waynesboro. And he’s gorgeous and he hasn’t taken his eyes off your sister,” Zoey pipes in before I can get a word in.
“Perfect. And he’s a vet in training? Match made in heaven. Yep, he’s the date.”
“Hi, hello, I’m Lila, and I’m still here. I’d appreciate being a part of the conversation about my date to the wedding.”
“It’s settled. You’re bringing Oliver. I’m the bride. I get what I want.”
“That’s ridiculous. I barely know him.” I flop backward, sinking deeper into the sofa and staring at the ceiling.
“So what a perfect way to get to know him. Bring him to my wedding or else.”
“I’m not asking him. That’s weird. Unprofessional,” I argue, exasperated.
“Then I’ll ask for you,” Zoey says. “It’s settled.”
“You two are unbelievable.”
“You love us,” Maren says, and Zoey nods.
“What are you three girls giggling about?” Will asks, walking into the living room from the kitchen.
“Just Lila’s supersexy date,” Maren says.
“Not as sexy as the groom, of course,” Will adds, and we all smile. Maren shrugs, and he grabs her aro
und the waist, tickling her until she screams.
“And that’s our cue to get out of here,” I say to Zoey, who is already standing up from the sofa.
“What, and leave me with all this unpacking?” Maren says, batting Will’s hands away.
“You two can manage,” I say. “Love you, sis. Talk to you soon.”
“Make sure she doesn’t weasel her way out of asking Oliver,” Maren shouts at Zoey as we head out the door.
“Oh, she won’t,” Zoey replies, nudging me.
It’s bad enough when you have a plotting, stubborn sister. But when she ropes your best friend in, too? It’s impossible.
Chapter Fifteen
Luke
“Get in,” Dean shouts through the open window in his pickup truck, honking the horn over and over. I’m sitting in my regular spot, working out a new song that I’m actually liking.
“For what?” I ask. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen Dean in person.
“You’re getting the hell out of here and going out. It’s Friday.”
“Have you forgotten?” I ask, pointing to my leg. “Not much hardcore partying you can do with a bum leg.” In truth, the trip to the club with Evan didn’t go so well last time. Open mic night got overtaken by some soulful singer with his guitar, someone I couldn’t compete with. I ended up drinking way too many beers and wallowing alone at the bar while Evan flirted with about five different girls. I guess a guy in a cast isn’t all that appealing.
“Are you kidding? That’s the lamest-ass excuse I’ve ever heard. Now throw your guitar in the back and get in. We’re going out. It’s karaoke night at the Renegade, so you can even try out your new song, see if it goes over well with the ladies.”
I sigh. I don’t feel like going out, in truth, or even singing, at least on a stage. The old Luke, the one from years ago, would’ve been jumping in the back of the truck in a millisecond, broken leg or not. He’d have been doing a shot on the way to do shots.
I get to my feet, though. No use sitting here all night. I am turning into a creepy recluse. Wouldn’t hurt to get out.
“Thatta boy,” Dean says as I hobble to his truck. He gets out to help me load the guitar. “Now let’s get you back out there, see what Friday nights are really supposed to look like.”
Still Us Page 11
