Chapter Seven
Emma
I get a cab home and text Megan.
I’m alive. On my way home now. Going to bed for a while.
OOOOH! Did you get no sleep last night? Details!
The only detail I’m going to give you is that I discovered his wedding ring.
So?
I start to type a reply. So? So now I’m that other woman, and Jai’s wife, whoever she is, is me, when I was with Tom and getting cheated on. Clearly, if he has an online dating profile, he’s done this sort of thing before—he’s probably hooking up with someone else this very moment. But I stop typing and delete what I’ve written.
I don’t want to talk about it, I write. I’m just going to try to get a little sleep before the dinner tonight.
Was the sex at least good??
I don’t answer. I don’t want to think about the sex, even though it was mind-blowingly good. I don’t want to think about Jai, but of course I spend the duration of the cab ride wondering how someone who I actually felt I had a connection with could turn out to be no better than the asshole who had broken up with me six months earlier.
No one’s home when I get back to the apartment. I throw my purse down and go get a glass of water. My headache has subsided a little, but I feel disgusting, inside and out. I take my dress off, the bra off, and stuff them both into the trash. Yes, I like them both, but seeing or wearing either article again is just going to remind me of this, and how gross I feel, so I might as well get rid of them.
I go take a shower, turning the heat up as high as it will go, as if I could somehow scald the nastiness off of myself. I shampoo my hair, once, then again, and I squeeze shower gel onto my loofah half a dozen times, letting the water rinse the suds off before I soap myself back up again.
The evidence is still there, though. I step out of the shower, feeling a little better, but then I catch sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. There is a huge, painful-looking hickey on my neck. Take the worst bruise you’ve ever seen, multiply by twenty, and you might be somewhere in the ballpark with how horrid this hickey looks.
There’s also little bite marks on my shoulders, my breasts, and even though my inner thighs look fine from the outside, they are achingly sore. I finish toweling off, put a tank top and some clean underwear on, and crawl into bed. I just need to sleep this off.
“Emma?”
Someone’s calling my name, but I can’t tell if it’s part of my dream or really happening.
“Emma?”
I struggle through layers of consciousness, and as I do, I feel pressure on my shoulder, someone shaking me.
“Emma, your phone is totally blowing up. Someone really needs to get in touch with you. I’ve been home like fifteen minutes and it’s probably gone off thirty times.”
I open my eyes. Megan is standing there, looking a little amused and a little concerned. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” she says. “Here, I brought you your purse. Your shit is totally blowing up.”
I struggle to sit up. I feel completely disoriented, but at least I’m here, in my own room, with my best friend standing next to the bed, not some random guy I met online. Megan puts the purse down and sits on the edge of the bed.
“So . . . can I ask what happened? I’m dying to know.”
I smother a yawn. “I really don’t want to get into the details.”
“Let’s just pretend for a minute he’s not married. (And really, who cares if he is?) But just forget about that part. Tell me about the sex.”
If I don’t at least give her something, she’s never going to leave me alone about it. “Okay,” I say. “If we’re just talking about the sex then . . . it was pretty fucking incredible. I mean, I probably don’t even remember half of it because we ended up getting wasted, but . . .” I shrug. “It was great. And then I find out he’s married.”
“Ah,” Megan says, grinning. “Drunk sex is the best. He was hot. Seriously fucking gorgeous.”
“I don’t care how good the sex was or how gorgeous the man—if you’re married, that basically voids the whole thing.”
“Stop being so Puritanical. Do you know how many married men I’ve slept with?”
“No. And I don’t want to know. How could you do that? Don’t you think about the other person? Don’t you want the guy you’re sleeping with to not be a total fucking sleazeball?”
“If he knows how to work his dick, then I don’t really care. Sex is sex. I don’t go actively looking for someone who’s married, or in a committed relationship, but if they seek me out and we hit it off, why not? It’s not like my refusal of their advances is suddenly going to make them realize that they shouldn’t cheat. And who knows—maybe they’ll realize they actually do love their wife and that’s who they really want to be with.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure. Yeah. So you’re really just doing a public service. I should nominate you for an award. The Nobel Peace Prize, maybe. For all the good you do for humanity.”
“Oh, come on, Emma.” Megan pats my shoulder. “You’re just hungover and feeling cranky. Let’s just be glad that you had a good time, you got laid, and now you’re out of your rut. Dry spell over. Congratulations.”
She gives me a hug, and I turn my head into her shoulder a bit, just enough for me to be able to see the clock on my bedside table.
“Shit!”
It’s five forty-five.
Megan jumps back. “What? What? Are you okay?”
“It’s five-forty-five!” I throw the covers back. “I told my mom I’d be at her hotel at six, and I haven’t even picked my dress up from the fucking dry cleaners! Shit!”
“Oh fuck. Did you take it to the place we usually go to?”
“Yes, of course.” I grab a pair of yoga pants off the floor in front of my dresser. “If I run, I can make it there, get the dress, get a cab, maybe change in the cab? Shit!”
“Sweetie, that place closes at five. You’re not going to be able to get that dress until tomorrow morning.”
“Are you serious? Well what the fuck am I supposed to do now? My mom is going to shit a brick if I show up late and without that dress!”
“Really? Who cares if you’re not wearing that exact dress—it’s not like this is the wedding, or even the rehearsal yet. You can borrow one of my dresses. Your mom will get over it.”
Megan runs into the closet and reemerges a second later, an armful of dresses hanging off their hangers. At this point, I don’t even care what the dress looks like, I know I just need to pick one and get to my mother’s hotel room before she has an aneurysm.
“That one, that’s one fine,” I say when Megan holds up a black dress with peacock blue flowers on it. My mother likes flowers. She will like this dress.
I call a cab while I’m looking for a pair of shoes that will go with the dress. I choose a pair of strappy sandals, grab my purse and the dress, and rush outside, just as the cab is pulling up. Right as the cab is pulling away from the curb, my mom calls.
“You’re on your way, I hope,” she says. I can’t read her tone.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I just got in a cab and I should be there in ten minutes, so long as traffic isn’t that bad.”
“Okay, good. I’m sorry if I seem anxious—I’m just really excited for all of us to be together as a family for the first time. I want things to go as smoothly as possible.”
“I’m sure they will, Mom. It’s just dinner, right? I don’t think anything too crazy is going to happen at dinner.”
“I’m sure you’re right. We’ll see you soon, honey. Can’t wait!”
I can hear my sister saying something in the background. Jessica, the perfect older sister, someone I can only aspire to be like in my wildest dreams. She’s only thee years older than me, but she’s got a fiancée, a mortgage, and a career as the director at a women’s nonprofit. In fact, I’m sure it’ll be her wedding that I go to next.
Just one more thing to look forward to.
When I get to the hotel, I realize that my mother didn’t tell me her room number. “Hi,” I say to the hotel clerk. “I’m sorry, but could you tell me what room number Stephanie Oliver is staying in?”
“You’re her daughter?” the clerk asks, looking down at me over the nose of her glasses.
“Yes.”
“She’s in room 647. She’s expecting you—she asked me to keep an eye out.”
“Oh. Um, for what?”
The woman shrugs. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I guess she just wanted to make sure you got here in one piece. But here you are. Where’s your dress?”
I try not to look too taken aback by the question, but it’s weird to have a stranger asking you about something they shouldn’t really have any knowledge about. I hold up the dress, which I’ve folded several times so it’s about the size of a dish towel. “It’s right here.”
The woman nods. “Good. I know your mother was worried about your dress.”
“So . . . did she just tell you all this? To watch out for me and that she’s worried about my dress?”
“She’s just nervous. People get like this sometimes, especially right before a wedding. Wanting everything to go perfectly. It’s only natural, even if it isn’t your first rodeo.”
I shrug. “Well, thanks for telling me the room number.”
“I told your mother not to worry about a thing. The stuff our mind conjures up to worry over is usually far worse than the actual reality of what happens.”
“Uh, yes. That’s very wise of you. Thanks for sharing.”
I turn and hurry off before the woman can offer me any more insights. I can just imagine my mother, talking to anyone and everyone she can about her wedding, about how she’s so certain her youngest daughter is somehow going to ruin her big day. I get in the elevator and slump against the wall. I try not to think about the last elevator I was in.
I can hear my mother and sister talking from the other side of the door. I knock, and the door flies open, almost immediately.
“Whoa,” I say. “Hi, Mom. You must’ve been standing right by the door.”
“Emma,” she says. Her eyes widen. “You forgot your dress.” She frowns. “That was a joke you know. I realize things don’t always translate well via text, but I was joking.”
My sister waves at me from behind our mom and sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes. I bite back a smile. “I didn’t forget my dress, Mom, it’s right here.”
She squints. “That doesn’t look like the dress you said you were going to wear. The one I got for you, remember?”
“It’s . . . it’s not. There was a slight change of plans. I thought this one would be better, because . . . well . . . I thought you’d like it better,” I finish lamely. “And I figured you’d be okay with letting me change here.”
She looks from the dress to me, then back again. “You didn’t make it to the dry cleaners in time, did you?” she says. “And what on earth happened to your neck?!” Her hand darts out, and she’s turning my head to get a better view. “Oh my god, you were attacked. You were assaulted, weren’t you? That’s why you weren’t at the rehearsal and why you weren’t able to get the dress, isn’t it? Are those ligature marks?”
I pull my head away. Jessica is cracking up. “Geez, Mom, no. I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Well, Emma, what happened?”
“It’s a hickey!” Jessica manages to gasp out through her laughter.
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” My mother throws up her hand. “Go into the bathroom and change into that dress, and I’m going to see if I have enough concealer to disguise that monstrosity. What are you thinking, Emma? You’re going to be meeting some people for the very first time tonight, and I’d think that you’d want to make a good first impression. Is it asking too much that you show up in the dress that you said you’d wear, without any hickeys all over your body? That looks positively gruesome.”
She pushes me toward the bathroom.
“Hey, sis,” Jess says. “Nice to see you!”
I give her a little wave and then go into the bathroom. My mother’s make up and jewelry is all over the counter, so I put my stuff down on the floor. I look at myself in the mirror. The hickey does look pretty bad.
I take my clothes off, realizing too late that I don’t have any underwear on, nor did I remember to pack any. Oh well. At least the dress isn’t see through.
What the dress is, though, is way too small. This is probably form fitting on Megan; on me, it’s . . . well, it’s not what you would describe as tasteful fashion. It’s so tight, in fact, it’s actually uncomfortable, and should I inadvertently lift my arm even an inch too high, both my tits are going to come spilling out the top.
“Are you almost done in there?” My mother taps on the bathroom door. “I’m coming in.”
The door opens before I can say anything.
“Are you kidding me, Emma,” she says, hands on hips. “Did you borrow this dress from a five-year-old? Because that’s who it looks like it was made for. Someone who’s five, a person who is very small and very thin. Who doesn’t need a lot of fabric. Who doesn’t have . . . this.” She makes a vague sweeping gesture toward my chest. “You’re deliberately doing this, aren’t you?”
She’s got a bottle of concealer in her hand, a blob of it on her forefinger, and she comes at me, jabbing at the side of my neck.
“Ouch!” I try to jump back but the bathroom counter’s right there, so I’m trapped. “Geez, Mom, do you have to be that rough?”
“Just hold still,” she snaps, rubbing it in. “Clearly you like it rough.”
“Mom!”
“Just shush. Hold still.” She takes a step back and squints at me, then shakes her head. “Nope. Not going to work. Jessica, do you see that scarf I showed you earlier? Can you bring it in here?”
My sister appears a moment later with a square of silk that I suppose is supposed to be one of those designer scarves. I don’t even want to know how much money my mother paid for it.
“Here,” she says. “You’ll have to wear this. It doesn’t exactly match the dress, but it’s the best we can do. And then we have to go. I thought that I’d be able to share a glass of champagne with you two before we went to the restaurant, but I’m sure the car’s been out there waiting for a while now, so we just have to go.” She knots the scarf around my neck. “There.” She gives me another look. “No more surprises, okay Emma? Let’s just have this night go smoothly. Do you think that could happen?”
“Yeah, of course.” I feel like I’m wearing a corset. I can barely extend my legs enough to take a normal step. Jessica and I follow Mom out of the hotel room.
“Well,” I whisper to my sister. “At least this night can’t get any worse, right?”
Chapter Eight
Jai
Between golf, drinks, and then waiting to go the family dinner, I find myself with a few spare moments, so I ring Mum.
“I went golfing today,” I tell her.
“You went golfing?”
“I did. I was more like a glorified caddy. But Dad was happy as a pig in shit, so I suppose that’s all that matters. I’m not really looking forward to the dinner tonight, but that just puts me one day closer to coming home. Why did I let him talk me into spending two weeks out here? That’s half a month.”
“Oh, honey.” Mum sighs. “I think it’ll be good. I know your father has a lot of guilt about being absent from so much of your childhood, so you two getting to spend this time together will be a good thing. And that’s nice you’ll get to see the lake house. I do miss that place.”
“I know. There is a part of me that won’t mind going back there for a bit, honestly.”
I do actually have some fond childhood memories of my dad’s house on Toluca Lake—swimming, lying on the dock, going out in my father’s boat.
“Well, I don’t blame you for wanting a little relaxation. You’ll have a good time out there. Thank you for calling. Do
tell your father I send him my best, will you, darling? I’m sure I’ll talk to you before the wedding . . . And good luck at the dinner tonight. I’m sure your new family will be very nice.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
I am actually looking forward to this dinner, because aside from a few cups of tea and the blueberry muffin that Emma didn’t eat, I haven’t had anything to eat today.
Despite this, when we get to the restaurant, I find myself making a beeline for the bar. I’m still no lightweight when it comes to drinking, but it hits me a little harder when my stomach is completely empty the way it is now. I get an IPA. I drink it slowly, hearing the hum of conversation behind me. I figure I need to drink at least one beer now, to get me through the litany of questions from people I don’t even know, most centering around my accent and what part of England I’m from, and who it is I’m related to here, and how did it come to be that an American like my dad has a British son?
I’ve almost finished my beer when I hear my stepmother-to-be calling my name. She really doesn’t seem that bad, to be honest, though she does have this nervous sort of high energy that one might associate with a Chihuahua, or other small dog. Perhaps it’s just the pre-wedding jitters.
“I want you to meet someone,” she’s saying, and I don’t know if she’s talking to me or the person she wants to introduce to me. Doesn’t matter—I just need to finish this beer and it’ll be fine. I tilt the last of the liquid down my throat, set the bottle on the bar, and turn.
“Hello,” I start to say, but stop dead, because standing in front of me, looking shocked and sexy as hell in a dress that’s about three sizes too small—yet somehow she is managing to pull off—is Emma.
Chapter Nine
Emma
Side Swiped By My Step Brother Page 5
