“David’s gonna shit when he hears about this,” I say, as Julio reaches the cowboy, practically dancing on his toes with girlish glee.
“Screw David. Julio’s just having a little fun,” Ella says.
Mary and I both look at each other.
“Ella, maybe you’ve had enough to dri-” Mary starts.
But Ella cuts her off. “Quiet, the next one’s coming.” Ella pulls another twenty out of her pocket in preparation, eyeing the stage.
Mary groans and takes a gulp of her Corona.
“Ladies,” a voice over the loudspeaker calls, “has somebody in here been naughty?” All around us middle-aged women squeal like twelve year olds as a police siren wails through the room. Blue and red lights flash across the stage, and a policeman struts out in a uniform of slick vinyl pants and a form fitting blue shirt, complete with hat and badge.
Ella leans in. “I hope he has handcuffs.”
Mary looks pale.
The voice calls over the loudspeaker again. “Meet the loooong arm of the law. Officer Emilio.”
Ella, Mary and I look at each other for about a half a second before our eyes shoot up to the policeman’s face.
“Ohmigod. It is Emilio!” Mary squeals. We’re all transfixed as he shakes his pelvis, ripping his shirt off and throwing it to the back of the room. I think I hear Julio squeal in delight from somewhere behind us.
“Damn, he is hot.” Ella waves her twenty higher.
“Ohmigod, Kit! You’re dating a stripper!” Mary looks like she’s about to go into shock.
“I’m not-” I begin, but I’m not totally sure how to finish it without admitting he was just a decoy date. Luckily it doesn’t matter. Mary’s too freaked out to listen to me anyway.
“Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Kit’s dating a stripper!” Mary says again, grabbing Ella’s arm.
Emilio rips off the vinyl pants to reveal an itty bitty g-string. Wow. Check out that you-know-what. Maybe dating a bartender wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“He is really hot.” Ella stands up on her chair again, waving the twenty. Emilio sees her and shakes what his mama gave him across the stage in her direction.
But before he can get here, Mary grabs Ella’s arm and pulls her down from the chair, almost toppling it over. “Ella! You can’t stick money down his pants. That’s Kit’s boyfriend!”
Ella gives me a long hard look. I feel my face flaming under the blue and red strobing lights. I know she knows. She knows I’m nothing but a pants-on-fire friend, and that this is as close to Emilio as I’ve gotten. I suddenly feel like I’m ten years old again, and my mother just caught me smuggling sugar filled pop tarts into my room instead of eating the organic flax seed cereal she made for me.
“So,” Ella finally says. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”
Mary looks from Ella to me. “What? Tell who what?”
No, I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to tell either one of them the real truth. I want to crawl under a rock and never come out. I want to bury my whole embarrassing situation deep, deep in the back of my closet where no one will ever have to talk about it again.
But do I do that? No. “Let’s go outside. We have to talk.”
The air outside is cooling off, and it’s a stark contrast to the sweating humidity of the club. The sidewalk is moving with tourists and thrill seekers, and I can still hear the steady thump, thump, thump of Emilio’s mood music from inside the club.
“So, what’s going on, Kit? What’s this all about?” Mary crosses her arms over her chest, looking pissed at being left out of the loop.
Instead of answering her, I pick a spot on the well-traveled pavement, staring a hole into it while I try to find the right words. The ones that make the web of lies I’ve created seem reasonable and sane instead of seedy and pathetic.
“It’s because of Emilio right?” Mary continues, putting an arm around me. “Oh, God, you didn’t know he was a stripper, did you? I’m so sorry you had to find out this way, Kit. Dammit it, I shouldn’t have dragged you out here.”
“No, I… it’s not that.”
I look to Ella, but she’s just staring at me. Almost as if she’s daring me to come up with another lie. Come on, tell me why you’ve smuggled a pop tart this time.
“What is it, Kit?” Mary prompts again. “Did you and Emilio have a fight?”
I shake my head. “No, no, It’s nothing like that. I…” Come on, Kit, just do it. “I…” Jesus, girl, just spit it out. “I slept with Vlad.”
“You what?” Mary’s eyes instantly go big and round.
“I slept with my boss.”
Mary blinks at me. Ella looks only mildly surprised.
“Oh my God, you slept with a married man?” Mary asks.
“His wife filed for divorce,” I say in my defense. “But, yes, technically I did.”
“What about Emilio? My God, did you see his abs? How could you freaking cheat on Emilio?”
“I didn’t cheat. There is no Emilio. I mean, there’s no me and Emilio anyway. I never went out with him.”
“Ooooh.” I can see the light bulb switching on in Mary’s eyes.
I turn my attention to Ella, steeling myself for the nose scrunching of a lifetime. But to my utter surprise, Ella doesn’t do it. She doesn’t even have that superior, why-didn’t-you-listen-to-me-and-use-recycled-paper-and-eat-flax-seed look on her face. Instead she reaches over and grabs my hand. “Tell us,” she prompts, her eyes full of sympathy.
I feel a lump form in my throat and blink back tears. I have no idea how they got there, a minute ago I wasn’t even sad. Just scared to come clean. But now I’m blinking back tears as Ella pats my hand. Lectures I was prepared for, but the sympathy takes me by surprise. I take a deep breath, willing my mascara not to run.
“His wife filed for divorce. He was distraught, I comforted him, and well, one thing led to another. And I slept with him.”
“Oh come on, Kit,” Mary says, “We’re your friends. Don’t give us the freaking cliff notes version. Let’s hear the whole story.”
The tears spill onto my cheeks even as I laugh. God, I’ve missed my friends. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys earlier,” I say.
“Tell us now,” Ella insists, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Was it that awful?”
“No. It was… magnificent. Only now I don’t know what to do.”
“Come on,” Ella says, steering me back into the club, “We’ll figure it out.”
And as It’s Raining Men begins to pound through the walls of the club, I proceed to tell my friends the whole story.
Chapter Nineteen:
Mary, the Queen of Hearts
As if seeing Emilio go full monty (and I may love men, but honestly there is nothing pretty about their you-know-whats all dangling out there) wasn’t enough proof that I love my little sister, I am now on my way to endure the most awful experience any woman can go through. A fitting at Helga’s Heavenly Brides.
Bad enough that my mother expects me to show up to Sam’s wedding with a doctor on my arm, bad enough I freaked out so badly last night over the prospect of her tsk-tsk-tsking that I actually ate seven Dingdongs (Seven!), but on top of all that, I now have to endure Sam and her squadron of sorority sisters squealing with bridesmaid giddiness as I try on the dreaded dress. Add to this the fact that my ancient Mr. Coffee decided to pick this morning to finally quick perking and I’m not in the best of moods. I mean, frills before caffeine? Isn’t there a law against that?
I pull my Jetta into the parking lot of Helga’s Hell and see my mother’s placid face through the lace trimmed windows of the salon. There’s no turning back now. I haul myself out of my car and walk the length of the sidewalk toward my fate – sequins, lace, and miles of organza in shades of pink only meant to be worn by newborn babies and Marie Osmond.
“Mary, you’re late,” my mother says by way of greeting as I enter the store. Through no small effort, I elect to ignore her.
“Ma
ry!” Sam squeals, tackling me with a hug worthy of a linebacker. I stagger backwards a little. Easy, sis, I’m without coffee, and I can only stand moderate to minimal perkiness without developing a twitch. Behind Sam come her Delta Delta Dolce clones, three bubbly blondes all in Abercrombie and size 0 designer jeans. I swear I can feel those seven Dingdongs mocking me from my thighs.
“Mary, this is Helga.” Sam indicates a mousy woman in tweeds with a tape measure strung around her neck.
Helga nods my direction. “Dis is the sister, ja?”
I nod, fearing the worst.
“Helga’s, like, totally going to be fitting your dress today!” Sam does a little “eek” shoulder shrug as if she’s just told me I won the lottery.
Eek is right.
“Let’s go see your dress,” Sam squeals at a pitch just slightly below dog whistle.
Before I can get out one last desperate plea of, “simple, understated,” Helga whisks me away to a private fitting room, Sam’s entourage following in a crush of “ohmigods” and “this totally rocks.”
In a whirlwind of organza, beads and about a thousand little sticky pins, I’m transformed from a normal person into something slightly less fluffy than a French pastry (but only slightly). Helga looks frighteningly pleased with her work as she spins me around to face the mirror.
“What do you tink?” she asks.
I realize I’ve had my eyes closed and open them to face my reflection. The moment of truth.
Oh. My. God.
Helga’s attired me in an eighties prom dress on steroids. I know all bridesmaids dresses are by definition ugly, but this borders on cruel and unusual punishment. The sleeves are two basketball sized puffs of pink organza, the bodice is all but squashing my boobs, and, God help me, the puffed-like-a-marshmallow skirt is covered in about a million tiny pink ruffles that give it the illusion of a 1950’s shower curtain. It’s all I can do not to cry as I watch the mousy fitter flit around me adjusting and tucking.
“Oh, it looks totally cute, don’t you think, mother?” Sam asks, her big blue eyes shining with that bridezilla look.
My mother raises an eyebrow but declines comment, instead sipping at her espresso in a dainty china cup. (Hey, where did she get that?)
I turn back to the mirror, too traumatized by my reflection to say anything.
“Hmmm… the skirt isn’t supposed to look this wide,” Helga says uncharitably as she tries to smooth down the ruffles around my hips. “And is too tight around middle. You have no waist.”
I think I hate Helga.
“It’s just a little small,” I say. That’s it, she must have pulled the wrong size. Surely once I get the right sized dress it won’t look so bad. “Are you sure this is a ten?” I ask.
“It’s a twelve,” Mother says dryly.
Twelve?! I’m not fitting in a twelve? I feel myself starting to hyperventilate as the Delta sisters giggle behind their dainty hands at Sam’s gargantu-sister.
Mother sighs, shaking her head and turning to Helga. “You might as well bring out a bigger size.”
“There is no bigger size,” Helga informs the room at large. “This is biggest one.”
I suddenly feel like Shamu.
“Well, we’ll just have to add some panels in the back to enlarge it, I suppose,” Mother says with a sigh. “ We can’t have you popping a seam during the ceremony.”
I think I hear one of the Delta girls stifle a snort.
“It’s fine, Mother,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Maybe,” Mother concedes. “If you can manage to lose five pounds by the wedding.”
My cheeks turn red as Helga stifles a laugh. Then sticks me with another pin in the rear. (Okay, is she doing that on purpose?) “I’m fine. I don’t need to lose five pounds.” Truth? I’d be ecstatic to lose five pounds. Ten would be even better. But it’s one thing for me to wish the fat fairy to come take a withdrawal from my thighs and quite another for my mother to dictate my weight in front of God and the Dolce clones.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mary. This is an important wedding. Trevor’s parents are friends with the senator. This is not some white-trash quickie at your little Elvis chapel. You cannot show up looking like an overstuffed sausage.”
Okay, even the Delta girls can tell Mom crossed a line there, the three of them avert their eyes from the car wreck this conversation has become as they quietly excuse themselves to go powder their flawless new noses. Even Sam turns red with embarrassment, whispering, “Mother,” before leaving the room, mumbling something about checking on the veils.
I wish I could do the same. I wish I could be anywhere but here, wish I could run from the room and hide until this pink ruffled wedding is over and I can stop being seen as the “other sister”, the one who can’t seem to hold onto a guy because she’s wearing too many late night binges on her super-sized thighs. But I’m pinned in about a million different places, and if I move I’m going to get some really painful acupuncture. So instead I stand there, faced with my own reflection in the mirror, trying like anything to ignore my mother’s cool stare searing into my back.
“What?” My mother shrugs her bony shoulders in the mirror. “I’m only trying to be helpful. The last thing I want is for you to embarrass yourself at your sister’s wedding.”
Great. Not only am I the single sister, I’m also the family embarrassment. I take a deep breath, willing myself not to say something stupid like, “I hate you, Mother.” Or, “How embarrassing do you think being the daughter of the Black Widow is?” Or even, “Bring me a damn espresso!”
“Mary, you know I only say these things for your own good,” my mother continues. “You’re never going to find someone if you don’t take better care of yourself.”
“I’ve been to the gym four times this month,” I fire back, spinning around to face her. Which catches Helga off guard as she lunges with another sticky pin.
Mom purses her lips together and shakes her head. “Oh please. Men don’t want muscles, they want a woman who fits in a size two cocktail dress. You don’t need to go to the gym. Just skip a meal or two now and then. And for God’s sakes, stop with the chocolate. You can eat sweets when you’re old and wrinkled and no one wants you anyway. Don’t ruin my chances of seeing my daughters married now. Besides,” she adds, hammering in the final nail on the coffin, “what would your doctor think if you couldn’t fit into your dress.”
“My doctor happens to like me just the way I am.” Hey, if I’m going to have a fake boyfriend, I might as well have a good one, right?
“Oh he does, does he?” Mother raises one slim eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say defiantly. “He likes a curvy woman.”
The Black Widow sits back in her seat, her cool eyes scrutinizing me. “And you believe that?”
“Of course I do.”
The corner of her mouth quirks up in what would be a smile if she hadn’t gone in for that last facelift. “Mary, I thought you learned your lesson with the Asherton boy. Curvy doesn’t cut it against the skinny cocktail waitresses of the world.”
I freeze. Damn her, she knows just where to strike.
Hearing those words slams me with every scale-induced insecurity I’ve ever had. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to scrounge up some crumb of dignity. “I’m better off without Brandon. I’m liberated,” I say, quoting Ella even though I’m still not really sure what that means.
“Right. Sure you are.”
“I am. There’s nothing wrong with being single.” So not true. I can think of one hundred and one things wrong with being single, starting with having your mother hound you to lose weight so you can catch a man. I mean, what if she’s right? Could it be that Dr. Damien wasn’t really put off by my winning personality, but by the fact I was stuffed into those lime Capri’s like a sausage roll? Maybe it wasn’t really Mr. Showboy’s IQ that made me send him home, but a secret fear of letting someone with abs that tight see my Jell-o stomach. Maybe the reason it’s been such a lo
ng, long time since any man’s seen the inside of my bedroom is as simple as ten extra little pounds.
However, I continue my performance as the Queen of Denial. “My weight has nothing to do with my being single. I could date any man I want to.”
Mom smirks. “I thought you were dating someone. The doctor?”
I bite my lip. Dammit she’s good.
Luckily I’m saved from crawling out of that hole by my cell phone, chirping insistently from my purse.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Mary?” asks a male voice on the other end.
“Yes?”
“Hi. It’s Jacob.”
“Jacob?” I pause, thinking: Jacob who?
He must have picked up on my hesitation as he adds, “You know, Chewbacca.”
Right. The wookiee. Because of course my day wasn’t bad enough already.
“I hope it’s okay to call you on this number,” he says, “I’ve been trying your other one, but all I ever get is your machine, so I went into your chapel today, and that Elvis guy gave me this number.”
I’ve seriously got to start looking for a new job.
“Mary,” my mother prompts in a sing-song voice that signals I’ve broken her etiquette rule number three gazillion by answering a cell in a bridal boutique. She gestures to Helga, still furiously pinning panels onto my backside. “Whoever it is can’t be that important,” she sings.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I cover the mouthpiece and hear myself telling my mother, “It’s the doctor.”
Mom raises an eyebrow, looking like she might halfway believe me this time.
“Oh, I’m so glad you called, sweetie,” I croon into the phone.
The wookiee laughs. “Well, that’s certainly a switch. I think you hung up on me last time I called. Twice in fact.”
I ignore him, instead focusing on the look of doubt on my mother’s face. Only this time she’s starting to doubt herself. Maybe Mary really does have a doctor boyfriend, maybe he is fabulous, maybe she isn’t the embarrassing daughter after all.
What Happens in Vegas Page 17
