by Julia Kent
“Something’s changed,” she says, pursing her lips in contemplation. Her eyes narrow. “You’re dating again?”
“What?”
“You’re — I don’t know what to call it. If you were a woman I’d say you’re glowing. What do you say when a man is glowing?”
“Is Uncle Ryan radiactic?” Elias asks, unraveling from my foot. “Cause that’s what happens on Fantastic Four. The men glow because they got radiactic.”
“What does radioactive mean?” I quiz him.
He shrugs. “I think it’s when you fart and get superpowers.”
“Nice,” Tessa says, giving me the hairy eyeball. “Carlos must be letting them watch Cartoon Network again.”
“Only South Park,” Carlos calls out from the kitchen. “Nothing too risqué.”
“That’s not funny!” Tessa calls back as I laugh.
“You’re all dressed up. Where are you going?”
“To a hotel,” she says. “I told you.”
“Yeah, but why get dressed up if you’re just going to a hotel to get undressed?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I have zero desire to hear my sister answer that.
She frowns. “Wait. Where’s Carrie?”
“Nice topic change, sis,” I tease, secretly relieved not to have to suffer through her answer, but on edge about Carrie.
“She always comes with you when you babysit.”
“That’s because you have the best selection of ice cream in town.”
“We do,” Tessa agrees. “We really do.”
The twins start chanting, “ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM!” Tessa’s eyes widen as Elias, fingernails coal black, runs his hands up and down her leg.
“Mommy!” he says as Darien continues the chant, “what happened to the caterpillar?”
“Caterpillar?”
“The one who lives on your legs. The one that’s so hairy all over from your knees to your toes.”
“I shaved, honey.”
“You shaved a caterpillar?” The corners of his mouth turn down. “Why?”
“CARLOS!” Tessa screams. “WE NEED TO GO NOW!”
He ignores her. She shrugs. “So… Carrie?”
I shrug. We’re a shrugging family.
“When are you finally going to make a move?”
“Did you change your name to Zeke today?”
“You make no sense sometimes, Ryan. Make that most of the time. And you’re stalling. Didn’t work when we were kids, won’t work now.”
“I’m going to a wedding with Carrie.” It’s a lie. A big one. Zeke’s suggestion apparently took over my subconscious.
“As her date?”
“Yes.”
“So you two are dating?”
“Kind of. We’re going on a date.”
“Which is the very definition of ‘dating.’”
“If you say so.”
“You two are practically married, anyhow. She’s perfect for you. Anyone who willingly watches those stupid prepper and naked-in-the-jungle shows is a saint.”
“Is that a compliment to Carrie, or an insult to me?”
“I have twin preschoolers, Ryan. I’m the ultimate multitasker. It’s both.” My phone makes a powering-down sound.
“You let your phone battery die again?” Tessa groans. “Mr. Electrical Engineer lets his phone get to four percent charge.”
“I never claimed to be Dad,” I shoot back, searching the room for her charger.
“I don’t have one that works with your phone, Smartass,” she says, clearly figuring out my need. “And you’ll become Dad when you start filling the gas tank whenever it drops below three-quarters full.”
Like magic, or — more likely — driven by his own need, my brother-in-law appears with two plastic bowls of ice cream for the kids.
Disengagement occurs immediately, my legs freed as sugar saves the day.
“Hey, Ry.” Carlos gives me a fist bump. “Leave while we can,” Carlos whispers to Tessa. The two kiss the twins’ heads and tiptoe to the door while the boys sound like pigs at a trough during feeding time.
“You know the drill,” Carlos says to me, giving me a quick bro hug.
“Right. Sugar ‘em up, let ‘em drop where they pass out, and more sugar for breakfast.”
Tessa’s about to throw a clot.
He shrugs. “Works for me. I get eighteen hours of sex in exchange.”
Tessa stops at the doorway and peers at me. “We’re not done talking about Carrie.”
“You’re losing precious blue ball evacuation time worrying about my love life.”
“You told him about… that?” Carlos’s eyes bug out behind his glasses, sharp rectangles with a silver edge that make him look like the accountant he is.
“It got him here, right?” Tessa shrugs.
“Bro Code,” I say somberly, giving Carlos another fist bump. “Never let a bro suffer.”
“Hey, man, let me tell you, it’s been so long that I’m backed up and I swear I can taste my own— ”
I hold up a palm. “Bro Code has limits. She’s my sister.” I put my fingers in my ears. “Lalalala.”
The twins imitate me.
And that’s the soundtrack as my sister and brother-in-law peel out of the driveway and take off for the business district in town, where the hotels cluster together.
Leaving me with mini Carlos, mini me, fourteen half-full pints of ice cream in the freezer, and Cartoon Network.
“It’s mantown!” I shout, the twins jumping up and grabbing my arms. I march around the room with boy meat hanging off me like beef jerky drying on a clothesline.
“ARRRRRRRR!” Darien shouts.
Elias drops to the ground like a ripe apple releasing and scurries back to his ice cream, scraping the bottom of the bowl then looking at me, hopeful.
“Uncle Ryan? More?” The look on his face says he knows his mom and dad would never let him.
“SURE!” I call out, reaching into the freezer to line up all the pints like little kids getting ready for recess. “Pick your poison.” I spot Carrie’s favorite flavor in there. I grab my phone to text her, wondering if she’s free.
Of course she is. She just got dumped. I should have called her sooner.
And — damn it. Dead phone. Shit.
“It’s not poison! Mom says ice cream is a kind of love potion.”
“She does?”
“She tells Daddy it gives her organisms when she eats it. I heard her the other night when I got up to pee.”
“Okay, buddy.” I rush through scooping a big pile of ice cream into his bowl so he’ll stuff his face and we can end this topic.
And move on to the real fun.
Bingewatching South Park.
Haha. Kidding.
Chapter 6
CARRIE
Jenny’s wedding is now ten days away. As far as I know, Jamey still has not come out to his family, and I think I would have been the first to hear about it if he had. Is there any etiquette for this, a standard procedure to be followed when your serious boyfriend switches teams a few weeks before a major family event in which you are both involved, yet doesn’t breathe a word to his closest relatives?
Do I at least give them a heads-up that something’s different? I mean, at the very least there’s going to have to be an extra place setting for Jamey’s new date at the reception, right? What about hotel rooms? If there aren’t any extra rooms, I guess I’ll have to share with another single bridesmaid.
Great. Not exactly what I had in mind.
What I had in mind went more like this: Jamey and I arrive at the Chatham Beach Inn a day before everyone else. We walk the dunes holding hands. We browse the galleries and he buys a lovely seascape, a small oil in soft blues and aquas: a memento. We drink sophisticated cocktails. My hair is perfect. Back in the room, Jamey is suddenly overcome with lust and passion for me, and we make love for hours while gazing out at the ocean view.
The big day arrives. We are paired in the wedd
ing party, and everyone says what a perfect couple we make. What with the beach-walking and the cocktails and all the acrobatic sex, I have lost two pounds. After witnessing Jenny and Aiden’s romantic vows, Jamey is inspired to drop to one knee and propose to me on the dance floor. I accept, weeping tears of pure joy (but my eyes do not puff and my nose does not turn red). The reception explodes with applause, and when Jenny tosses her bouquet, I catch it. Happily. Ever. After.
That is what I had in mind.
Now, apparently, it’s going to play out a little more like this: I leave work at noon on a Friday and head to the Cape, just like everyone else in Boston. If my car doesn’t break down and leave me stranded on Route 3, I eventually check into a room shared with Angela, who arrived early and took three quarters of the closet, most of the counter space in the bathroom, and the bed with the ocean view. I missed cocktail hour. Angela snores.
The big day arrives. Jamey and I are paired in the wedding party, but he barely notices me and spends most of the ceremony looking at his Apple watch, surreptitiously texting someone. Which is just as well, because I have gained six pounds since the last time he saw me. At the reception, Jamey and his date steal the show with a choreographed swing dance routine that clears the floor and ends in an explosion of applause. It later becomes a viral YouTube sensation. When Jenny tosses her bouquet, I don’t catch it because I am in the ladies’ room weeping and eating a little gift bag of Jordan almonds. I think I read online that almonds contain trace amounts of cyanide. Maybe if I chew enough of them...?
Sighing, I sip my coffee and try to focus on my computer screen, where I have the virtual reality phone script open. I know how to design beautiful and sustainable rooms, but creating an imaginary space with words and sounds is different. What do women want to hear while they are on hold? Brazilian samba? Waves on the beach? Male moans?
I channel Yoda: Do. Or do not. There is no try.
To be honest? I’m having a hard time caring about the deeply personal satisfaction and radiant inner glow of every potential O client (translation: every female on the planet). My own inner glow feels more like a nuclear meltdown, evil green radioactive slime. And how does a virtual reality phone script even work?
So when my phone pings with a text, it’s actually a welcome distraction.
It’s Jenny: Is this some kind of practical wedding JOKE? Like short-sheeting our bed??
Looks like Jamey finally got around to sharing.
Not a joke I type. I consider adding a sad-face emoji, but that seems a little inadequate. And maybe inappropriate. This feels like when friends announce they’re pregnant, or getting a divorce. Best to stay neutral and follow their emotional cues before committing to a feeling.
WTF? Does he think these seating plans are easy to rearrange? He can’t just do this at the last second!
Jenny is obviously well beyond the bridezilla stage where her close friend’s heartbreak has any impact at all. Not to mention her brother’s life transformation.
I don’t think it was really a last-second thing, Jen, I type, hating Miss Manners right now. Where’s the style guide on this? Maybe Dear Prudence has some advice.
Did you know about this? Jenny shoots back. Oh, God. I’m going to have to answer this question for the rest of my life, aren’t I? Only most people will really be asking, “How could you sleep with a gay guy and not know the difference?”
I doubt Jenny’s asking about her brother like that, but the rest of those nosy assholes sure are when they ask.
Not really, I type back. It’s the only true response I can think of. I’m too emotionally spent to lie at this point.
There’s a pause. Then: OMG Carrie
That’s my Jenny. She got it. She’s not so far gone in caterers and cake toppers that she’s lost her heart. She remembered that I’m collateral damage here, that my life just came to a gigantic traffic sign: Road Closed Seek Alternate Routes. She’s trying to figure out how to comfort me.
Three bouncing dots, then: OMG Carrie, you’re still going to be my maid of honor, right? Because you’re the perfect height for Jamey.
Okay, maybe she is too far gone.
Are you sure you still want me? I mean, this is going to be awkward for Jenny and her family, too.
OF COURSE I DO!! And sweetie, I’m so sorry. My brother is an ass. We’re all in shock. I don’t know what to say. Boss just walked in for big meeting. Call you later xoxo
I’m still not exactly sure whether she has more concern for me or for her careful plans, but at least the whole fiasco’s not a secret anymore.
“‘Did you know’?” I mutter, my fingers worrying my braids. “‘Did you know’? How am I supposed to answer that?” I take out my frustration on the cold cup of coffee in front of me, ignoring the thick layer of milkfat that sticks to the top. One swig and I cringe. House coffee is better than this. Barely, but it is. I get up and head to the employee lounge.
“Oh, you already have one.” Ryan’s voice sounds disappointed as I startle, midway into the small kitchen..
I turn to see him standing behind me with a Grind It Fresh! go-cup the size of a small fire extinguisher. I love that their cup-size names make sense: small, medium, large, and life-support. No silly fake-Italian words for them.
“It’s left over from this morning,” I tell him. “It’s cold, and not in a good way. Is that really for me?”
Ryan’s getting to be like a canteen truck lately. You can be pretty sure he’ll show up with coffee, donuts, maybe a yogurt parfait or a soft pretzel — you just don’t know exactly when he’ll arrive or what he’ll be offering.
What is he offering, exactly?
“I thought you could use the energy.”
“Is caffeine the same as energy? I think there’s a nutritional difference. But that’s okay, I need them both.” I reach for the enormous cup he’s holding. It’s really too big to call it a cup. Vat? “Thank you.”
“How’s it going with virtual reality?” He sips from his own normal-size cup, but it smells more like spiced chai.
“Not great, but better than real reality.”
“That’s the whole point, right?”
“I guess so.” I hold up my phone. “Jenny texted. Jamey finally came out to them and she was worried that I wouldn’t want to be in the wedding anymore.”
“Did you tell her I’m coming as your date?”
I pause and study his face. We talked about this once, just as a joke. He might still be joking. I can’t quite tell. But… oh my God… it could actually work. I wouldn’t have to show up alone, sit alone at the reception, leave alone, while Jamey and my replacement reenact a scene from Dancing with the Stars and his grandmother asks me when we’re getting married.
“I can’t ask that of you! It would be three whole days, and we’d have to share a room,” I point out. Might as well be clear about the downsides. “And you couldn’t hit on any other women. No matter what.”
“Seriously? A weekend at a beach resort on the Cape, with an open bar and a beautiful date? I would pay to do that!” He grins and looks a little too much like Zeke for my comfort.
This could actually work.
Hmm. Maybe there’s a third scenario after all: Ryan and I arrive at the Inn a few hours early. We walk the dunes, telling O stories and laughing. We browse the local shops and he buys me an aqua baseball cap embroidered with a scallop shell: a memento. We stop at a pub for fried clams and beer. My hair is pulled into a ponytail that sticks out the back of my new cap. Back in the room, Ryan feels tired, so we lie down and he naps. I’m not sleepy; I watch his face and wonder what he’s dreaming.
The big day arrives. I do my maid of honor thing, Ryan plays the role of attentive boyfriend whenever anyone is looking. And sometimes when they’re not. He really is a great dancer, which is fun, and as a surprise he and the other O guys do a show to Brunos Mars’ Marry You that clears the floor and ends in an explosion of applause. When Jenny tosses her bouquet, I catch it, and I do not cry.
“Carrie? What do you say?”
RYAN
This is your chance! My mind screams at me, like a football coach on the sidelines in sudden death. My blood is pumping in my ears, and I’m on the verge of making a huge mistake.
So I don’t.
I don’t fuck this one up. For once.
“Carrie,” I say slowly, as if the idea were just coming to me slowly, like I hadn’t been stewing in it. “I’m not kidding.”
“Really?” She’s so cute when she scrunches up her face like that.
“You know,” I say with studied casualness, adding a shoulder shrug for emphasis. “We go as friends. But we’d pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Our eyes lock when I say girlfriend.
“Why?” she gasps.
Oh, shit.
“I - I mean, oh. Oh. Um….”
This is worse than that time I jumped a chainlink fence when I was nine and got my underwear caught on a wire, gave myself a wedgie, and old Mr. Agliotti had to come out and cut me down with pinking shears.
“But,” she says, her cheeks turning pink, her gaze still on me as I force myself to smile. “No one would ever believe we’re together. You’re way out of my league.” She waves her hands at me, palms flat, like she’s washing a glass shower door.
Or rubbing my oiled pecs.
I like that second image better.
I give her a half smile. “No, I’m not. That’s crazy.” If I’ve gone this far, I might as well push it. Without worrying she’ll notice, I take in her body, enjoying the openness. She’s wearing black on black, with flat shoes and her braided hair. I know she thinks she’s plain and boring, but she’s wrong.
Carrie is gorgeous. Not just on the inside, but in every possible way.
She gives me an epic eye roll. “Please, Ryan. Don’t even bother. I’m not being modest. I’m stating a fact. You’re a master masseur at the O Spa. You’re a 10.”
“A 10.5,” I correct her. “You said so the other night.”
She blushes even harder at the mention. “Right. So, I mean, it’s a nice offer and all, but I can’t accept. And asking you to waste your weekend wouldn’t be fair.”
