Always the Bridesmaid

by Whitney Lyles

  “All right,” she said. “Then you have to let me buy you a drink at the Fox.” Even though she had to meet with some of her future students tomorrow, she suddenly had an urge to go out and could feel this turning into a spontaneous party night.

  “I could go for a drink at the Fox,” he said.

  They drove separately to Cate’s apartment, where she parked her car. Although she lived in walking distance from the bar, Ethan offered to drive them in case they decided to go somewhere else. His Ford Explorer smelled like a closet full of old clothes. Except for a couple baseball caps and a few sweatshirts that were strewn across the backseat, Cate couldn’t find a wardrobe. Crumpled gas receipts and CDs were scattered across the center console and floor.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said, before throwing an empty paper cup and several empty bags of potato chips into the backseat. “I would’ve cleaned my car, but I didn’t know you would be riding in it.”

  “No worries. We’re just going around the corner.” Within minutes they were parked across the street from the bar.

  The Silver Fox was unusually quiet when they entered. On weekends the bar provided standing room only, and bouncers with shaved heads and tattoos guarded the entrance like pit bulls. No one was working at the door tonight. There were two guys with mullets playing pool and an old woman wearing ankle socks and flip-flops sitting at the bar. Ethan ordered their drinks as they sat down on cracked and battered brown bar stools.

  “Shall we put some music on?” he said as he pulled some dollar bills out of his wallet.

  “Yes! I’ve never been able to play music here because there are always a zillion songs waiting to play on the jukebox.”

  They scanned through the songs, picking out dozens. Everything from Johnny Cash to Madonna. They played five dollars’ worth of songs. They sang along with Frank Sinatra when “Fly Me to the Moon” played.

  The more they drank, the better the music sounded. “Patience” by Guns n’ Roses came on, and Cate attempted to whistle with Axl but couldn’t seem to produce a note.

  “I went to a Guns n’ Roses concert in high school,” Ethan said. “I still have my shirt that I bought. They played with Soundgarden.”

  Cate laughed. “I remember when you went to that with your brother. Do you remember when we went to The Cure concert? And my mom dropped us off and waited in the parking lot until the concert ended.”

  “Yeah. You wanted to go backstage so you could meet Robert Smith after the show.”

  “Did you know that I was actually planning on moving to London after high school so I could marry Robert Smith? I really thought I had a chance,” she said.

  “You know what I always remember about you?”

  She groaned. “Oh God. What? My braces or my black lipstick?”

  He was serious. “No, really. It’s not bad. But every time I think of you—even now—I think of it.”

  “What?”

  He reached over and lightly touched the top of her cheek, right beneath a corner of her left eye, near her temple. “That freckle,” he said. “I always think of the little freckle next to your eye.”

  “My freckle? I’ve had this since birth.”

  “I know. You have the most flawless skin, and then there is that one little mark. It’s so unique.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. I’m not. Every time I think of you, I think of that little freckle.”

  “No one has ever complimented my freckle. Ever.”

  His brows shot up. “Really?”

  “Never. When I was little I used to call it a birthmark, but my mom said to call it a beauty mark. That’s all anyone has ever said about it.”

  “It’s you.”

  “I think that is the best compliment I have ever received in my entire life.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just the truth.” Then he set his empty glass on the bar.

  He was so sweet she wanted to cry. As a preteen, she’d felt self-conscious about the freckle. Despite the fact that no one had ever mentioned it, the freckle had been the first thing she noticed in pictures. Then when Cindy Crawford had made moles seem in, she felt she had a beauty mark. Still, no one had ever said she reminded them of Cindy. She’d gotten so used to the little detail on her face that she’d practically forgotten its existence.

  Whether it was the alcohol making her sentimental or Ethan’s kind words, she couldn’t help but want to be closer to him. She watched as he tapped his fingers on the bar to the beat of the music, oblivious that she was studying his face. He had the kind of eyes that babies had: innocent, sweet eyes that never told lies. He was so different from anyone she had ever been attracted to. Paul turned heads when he walked into a room. He was tall and lean and had a face that could be in movies. Ethan was smaller, less muscular, and rarely combed his hair. But for a split second she felt like she could be attracted to Ethan. God no. What was she thinking? She could never touch him the way she touched Paul. Ethan wasn’t sexy. He was her friend. Her childhood friend.

  “I think I’m ready for a shot. You?” he asked.

  She had forgotten that she was staring at him and snapped out of her alcohol-induced trance. “Yes! I’d love one!” She didn’t know what had gotten into her. Tomorrow began the first day of her home visits, and she was getting crocked with Ethan at the Fox.

  “Two buttery nipples,” Ethan said to the bartender.

  She was nearly stumbling when they left the bar. “Ethan, I just want you to know that you’re such a good friend. You’re practically family. Really, I mean it. You are. You are just the greatest.” She squeezed his cheeks. “Les go get another drink.”

  Ethan had resorted to water over an hour earlier. “It’s two, Cate,” he said between his cheeks that Cate held together like a sandwich. “I think the bars are closing.”

  “Les get a burrito then.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive.”

  She tried not to step on the pile of CDs near her feet and grabbed a few of them.

  “Pick out whatever you want,” he said. “Sorry about the mess. I need to organize my car.”

  She rifled through some of the CDs. They’d already listened to a lot of them at the Silver Fox. She picked an Elton John CD, then sang at the top of her lungs to “Daniel.”

  The restaurant was brightly lit and painted. Its red and yellow decor was outdated by a few decades, but festive.

  “Thank God for twenty-four-hour Mexican food!” Cate said as they entered.

  Although Ramone’s had some serious shady qualities, it was her favorite place to eat. It was the kind of dive that a tourist would never set foot in. However, all the locals overlooked its outdated, rundown facade and appreciated the mouthwatering authentic Mexican food. At the counter she ordered a carne asada burrito with sour cream, and Ethan ordered five rolled tacos with guacomole.

  While they waited for their food, Cate challenged him to a game of Destroyer. She played the video game with an aggressive assault and determination. It was a close match, but Ethan ended up beating her. She challenged him to five more games, ignoring her burrito and finally beating him on the fifth.

  She grabbed the paper bag that held their food, and more hot sauce containers than she could carry. She left a trail of hot sauce behind her as she headed to the Explorer.

  Somewhere between Ramone’s and her apartment, her head began to spin.

  17 • The Obvious

  When daylight hit, Cate’s mouth felt like a bowl of Cream of Wheat that had been left on the kitchen table all day. She tried to rub her tongue over her lips to create moisture, but it was no use. Her first thought was that she had suffered a blow to the head because she’d never felt such severe pain. Her stomach threatened to erupt in her throat, and she was in the same outfit from the night before. She even had one sandal still strapped to her left foot.

  Grease sat no more than a hair away from her face, as still as a statue, watching her. He was purring and wore the look that cats sometimes get when they co
nfuse themselves with royalty.

  She limped to the bathroom in one shoe. A glance in the mirror revealed the most severe bed-head in the history of mankind and splotches of mascara that had dried down her cheeks. She caught a glimpse of the clock in the mirror and nearly jumped out of her sandal. Ten-twenty. She was due at her first home visit at eleven. With force she kicked off the shoe, turned the shower all the way to hot, and stripped naked. She washed her hair, face, and body all with shampoo but failed to shave her legs or condition her hair. She still felt drunk. A lack of clean clothes created a major dilemma when it was time to find an outfit. Pants were her only option, because her legs resembled creatures from Wild Kingdom. However, all her pants were dirty. She tore through the pile of stuff on her wicker chair, looking for something to wear, tossing her bridesmaid’s dresses from Sarah’s and Val’s weddings on the floor. Both gowns were horribly wrinkled and now resembled fur coats because of all the white cat hair they had collected.

  She ended up in wrinkled black pants, a blouse she hadn’t worn in two years, and a pair of blue suede loafers that were probably inappropriate for the occasion. She was bolting into the kitchen to feed Grease when Ethan rose like a blow-up doll from the couch. His bed-head was worse than hers.

  “Ethan!” she gasped. “I didn’t know you were here!”

  He scratched his head. “I’m sorry. I crashed on the couch. You were pretty faded last night. You puked in front of the building, and I was worried about you.”

  “I’m still drunk, Ethan. And I have to meet with two students’ families this morning.”

  “Come here.”

  She moved closer to him.

  “Say something,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as she leaned in closer.

  He shook his head. “You don’t have alcohol on your breath.”

  She grabbed her purse and car keys. “Will you feed Grease for me?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  Timothy Sickle was first on her visit list. His mansion was situated in the hills of Huntington Gate. Rumor had it that a player from the Padres lived on his block. She wondered what his parents did for a living.

  Getting into houses such as these was always a pain in the ass. There was usually some variety of a gate with an elaborate code or intercom system. In the Sickles’ driveway, she couldn’t reach the button on the gate. She put her car in park, opened the door, and leaned closer to the intercom, her left leg grounded on the asphalt. When she pressed the button, an awkward buzz burped from the intercom. A moment passed before a childlike giggle came crackling from the speaker.

  “Hi there!” Cate said in her Miss Padgett voice.

  “Who is it?” the child asked.

  “It’s Miss Padgett. Is this Timothy?”

  The child squealed and said, “Go away, Miss Pis—”

  The intercom burped again and went dead. Did he just call her Miss Piss? The intercom had been scratchy, and she must’ve misunderstood him. She pressed the button again and waited while the sun pounded into every pore of her body.

  Sweat beads trickled down her neck and back. She didn’t know which was worse, her pants stuck like wet lettuce to the back of her thighs or her sweaty feet, dying for air inside her suffocating loafers. A few minutes passed before the intercom burped again, and the gate opened.

  She noticed that her car was making its usual rattling noise as she pulled in next to a Mercedes. She’d look into it later.

  Timothy’s mother answered the door with a golden retriever at her side and a baby on her hip. “Hi, I’m Karen Sickle, Timothy’s mom.” She looked fortyish and was sunburned. “And this is Marla.” A stream of bubbly drool ran down the baby’s chin and onto the collar of Mrs. Sickle’s shirt.

  Cate extended a hand to Mrs. Sickle. “I’m Miss Padgett. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Mrs. Sickle’s hand felt limp. “Come in. We were just finishing lunch. Timothy is in the kitchen.”

  Cate noticed a full glass of apple juice on the counter and wanted to suck it down in one gulp. She would’ve paid a king’s ransom for a glass of water. A large bowl filled with pasta salad and two serving spoons also sat on the countertop. She could see black olives and rotini dripping with olive oil and seasoning. Greasy, salty. Perfect hangover food. Her stomach growled, and she thought of how nice it would be if Mrs. Sickle offered her some of that salad.

  “Why don’t we go into the living room?” Mrs. Sickle suggested. Then her voice suddenly became high-pitched. “Timothy, this is your teacher. ’Member when we talked about kindergarten?”

  His eyes darted to Cate. “I don’t want to go to kinnergarter. I just want to make pancakes with my mom.”

  His mother let out a screech of a laugh. “Timothy! When was the last time you made pancakes?”

  He crawled beneath the table.

  Mrs. Sickle released a tired sigh and set the baby in a high chair.

  “Timothy, I have a lot of things planned for kindergarten,” Cate said. “We’re going to do things that are even better than making pancakes.” She looked under the table. “Why don’t you come out from under there so I can tell you all about it.”

  He shook his head.

  Cate crouched down on her knees. He was a cute kid with a blond bowl haircut and blue eyes. “Do you like play dough?” she asked.

  He ignored her.

  “We’re going to make play dough and alphabet cookies that you can spell your name with.”

  He looked at her with skepticism.

  “I can start showing you how to spell your name if you come out. I’d love to—”

  He started to lean forward when Mrs. Sickle’s hand shot beneath the table. She waved a Fudgsicle at him. “Here! You can have this if you come out from under there.”

  Timothy shot from beneath the table like a cat after a bird. Cate wished she hadn’t bribed him. It only reinforced his fiendish behavior.

  Mrs. Sickle picked up the baby and led Cate and Timothy to the living room. They were about to sit down on the couch when the shocking sound of an atomic fart filled the room. For a second it wasn’t clear who was responsible. Cate didn’t think such a small child would be capable. Mrs. Sickle?

  Timothy giggled then yelled, “I tooted!” taking full ownership for the gaseous blast. He began to sing, “Beans, beans, the musical fruit” at the top of his lungs.

  His mother laughed even louder than the fart. “Timothy!” she hooted. He did it again, this time sticking his butt out as if he were about to take a seat. Cate tried to laugh with them, but it smelled, and she didn’t want him doing that in her class.

  The baby began to cry. “Timothy, that’s enough,” Mrs. Sickle said, still smiling. She looked at Cate. “I’m so exhausted. Our nanny went back to Mexico, and I haven’t been able to find a replacement yet.”

  Cate was dying of thirst and felt salt-deprived from her hangover.

  The baby was cranky and began to wail even louder. Cate’s head pounded.

  “She hasn’t had her nap yet,” Mrs. Sickle said.

  “You can go put her down,” Cate said, hoping she didn’t sound eager to get rid of her. “I’ll just spend a few minutes getting to know Timothy, then I really have to get going to my next appointment.”

  “All right.”

  “Juice!” Timothy yelled as his mother left them. “Bring my juice.”

  “You’ve had enough juice today. You can have water.”

  “Juuuuice!” He threw himself to the floor. “Joo-hoo-hoo-ce!” he wailed as he flung his limbs in all directions. He sounded as if he was crying, yet Cate didn’t notice any tears. “Give me joo-hoo—”

  “All right! Fine,” Mrs. Sickle snapped.

  Cate waited for Mrs. Sickle to offer her a drink, but she had already disappeared to the kitchen. She returned with a plastic cup for Timothy. He sat up as if the mini-tantrum had never occurred and began to suck down the sugary drink like a starving piglet.

>   “Happy now?” Mrs. Sickle said.

  His blond head bobbed up and down.

  Then Mrs. Sickle was gone again, the dog following her.

  She hadn’t been gone for thirty seconds when Timothy turned to Cate and stuck his tongue out. Then he grabbed his juice and took a giant chug.

  “So, Timothy, what do you like to do for fun?”

  He ignored her.

  “I bet you have a favorite toy. Why don’t you show me your favorite toy?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, do you like finger painting?”

  He stuck a little forefinger up his nose. He twirled his finger around, digging into the depths of his nostril, shamelessly prodding away for something disgusting.

  “You really shouldn’t do that,” Cate said. “You’re going to get a bloody nose.”

  He plucked his finger from his nose and produced a juicy booger. He suspended his finger in the air, pointing it at Cate. She sensed he meant trouble. Her heart pounded as she tried to reason with Timothy, praying that he wouldn’t come any closer with his loaded finger.

  “Timothy, if you go get a Kleenex, I’ll tell you a secret. I’ll tell you something that none of the other kids will know before the first day of school.” She had no idea where she was going with this. “It’s a very special secret, and you’ll be the only one—”

  He moved closer, holding his forefinger up to her temple. “Timothy, please,” she whispered, scared to death of his green booger.

  “Timothy! What are you doing, for heaven’s sake? What’s on your finger?” Mrs. Sickle yelled.

  “Nothing,” he said as he moved away from Cate and hid his hand behind his back.

  Cate stood. “I should really get going. I have a full schedule today.”

  Although she wanted to flee from the Sickle residence, she was still dying of thirst. She used the bathroom and drank straight from the faucet before bidding a quick farewell to the spawn of Satan. As she drove away, she swore she saw Timothy flipping her off from a window.

  After her visit with the Sickles she debated darting over to El Ranchito for a burrito and a water before her next visit. However, she didn’t have time. She was due at Ariana Gomez’s house in three minutes.