“There’s my elementary school,” I point right, over him, nearly taking off his nose.
“There’s the park where I lost my first tooth,” I point left, poking Bryan in the ear.
“Up there is the Dairy Queen I went to on my first date,” I point through the two front seats.
We ride along like that until we approach our house.
“And this,” I say proudly, “is our house.”
We excitedly pour out of the Explorer and I grab Justin’s hand and drag him onto the porch. Our house has one of the greatest porches of all time. It spans the entire length of the house and has two big wooden hanging swings.
Jamie reaches the front door first and throws it open, yelling, “We’re home!”
As soon as the door opens, the comforting smell of home explodes in our faces and we can’t help but be drawn in. The house smells like a mixture of furniture polish, peach cobbler (our mom’s summer specialty), homemade barbeque sauce, and our old dog, Skipper.
Skipper, even in her old age, is the first to bound out and greet us. My parents got her my senior year of college, so I never got to live full-time with her, but I can always tell that she loves me best by the way she greets me when I come home. Skipper is a yellow lab, named after Barbie’s little sister, but she’s starting to look like an old lady now. She’s a little heavier than she used to be, and the fur on her face is turning white.
Jamie and I get down on the ground to greet her until Mom walks in, wiping her hands on her apron (I swear, she looks like a picture out of a country-living magazine), and we jump up to hug her. We’re thrilled to see our dog, we’re thrilled to see our mom, but really ... they aren’t who we are there to see.
“Where is he!?!” I yell.
“He was jet-lagged, so he took a nap, but I woke him a little while ago and he was getting in the shower,” my mother explains in her patient-teacher voice.
Jamie and I groan ... we might be patient with our students, but with our family we immediately revert to our childhood ways.
“Oh well,” I moan. “Come on, Justin, I’ll show you around the house.”
After Justin properly greets my mother and gives a satisfactory amount of attention to Skipper, I take him by the hand and lead him through the living room. I glance over my shoulder and can see my mother take my father’s hand and beam at me with Justin. Another pang of guilt hits me ... I really do hate that they have to be involved in this whole lie.
Justin and I are standing on the back deck. To the unsuspecting person we are whispering sweet nothings to each other; in reality, we’re having a run-down of the evening so far. We both agree that things are going really well. I hear someone open the French door behind us and I turn around to find Logan standing there. He is such a sight for sore eyes—honestly, my eyes tear when I see him. He looks amazing; months of backpacking through Europe, lugging all his belongings, have left him tan and buff. Logan, Jamie, and I all look very similar—dark hair and blue eyes, but unlike Jamie and I, who are, let’s say vertically challenged, Logan is tall like our dad. Now, with some definition in his muscles, he looks so handsome.
I squeal with delight and run into his open arms. He grabs me and whirls me around in a hug. I cannot believe how strong he has gotten. Once he sets me down, I turn back to Justin.
“Logan,” I say, “this is Justin.”
Justin smiles warmly. “It’s about time I met you, man—your ears must be burning morning, noon, and night.”
“I could say the same thing to you,” Logan replies.
Oh, yippee! They seem to be hitting it off.
The rest of the evening goes spectacularly well. We sit on the patio in the warm sunset eating tons of my dad’s amazing barbeque and corn, and then my mom’s amazing peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce. Logan shows pictures and shares stories from his trip, and Justin fits in like a member of the family. It doesn’t even feel like an effort to pretend that he is my boyfriend because in a lot of ways, he is. Actually, in every way but the bedroom way he is. He shares my life, we’ve become wonderful friends, I can count on him to be there for me, and I feel like it works both ways. It definitely stopped feeling like a business arrangement some time ago.
After we’re all stuffed and nearing food comas, Bryan reminds us that some people have to get up and go to work in the morning. Jamie and I groan, but we take the cue to say our good-byes.
First Skipper, who I now see is fat because Mom and Dad have completely lifted the “no people food” rule. As kids, if we fed any animal from the dinner table we were at risk of receiving the death penalty. Now, Skipper sits between Mom and Dad, cleaning up mounds of “accidentally dropped” food. Next we hug Mom and collect our Tupperwares of leftovers to take back to the city. Finally we say good-bye to Logan. I can tell by the way he sends Justin off that he definitely likes him and it makes me so happy. Even though Justin isn’t really going to be my husband, he will be around for at least a year and hopefully we’ll be able to stay friends after that, so I want my brother to like him. We then pile back in the Explorer and do our journey in reverse ... including the cab to Jamie and Bryan’s, leaving them out front and walking back to my apartment. It has gotten really late and we are both beyond exhausted.
“Why don’t you just stay here tonight?” I offer to Justin.
He hesitates for a second, “Is it really okay? It wouldn’t be weird?”
I think, quickly, “Not at all—you look too tired to go another step.”
Justin looks so relieved. “Thank you.”
We drag ourselves up the flights of stairs and into my apartment. The second bedroom (the one that would have been Jamie’s) is my guest room/office/library/den. It has a futon that I expertly unfold ... many a drunk bride has crashed on it post-bachelorette partying. I grab an extra pillow and blanket from the hall closet and toss them on the futon.
We crowd each other in the bathroom getting ready for bed—a gay man’s ritual is very similar to a straight girl’s—then head into our respective beds for much-needed sleep.
“Molly,” Justin says, as I climb into my bed and he heads for the futon, “your family is wonderful.”
I smile as I snuggle into my bed and doze off.
14
Dinner With Brad and Claire
The next morning we both sleep really late and don’t stir until Tiffany cannot stand the starvation anymore and begins howling at her food dish. I get up and make coffee while Justin gets dressed.
“It was nice having you stay here,” I tell him when he comes into the kitchen to get his coffee.
“Yes,” he agrees, “it was nice. So, what’s on your schedule today?”
“Well,” I giggle as I open my mostly empty calendar, “I appear to be open ... I just have a tutor session at one with the remarkably precocious Taylor Twain. What about you?”
He laughs at my silliness, “I actually have to work a double shift today because of the trade I made to have yesterday off.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s sucky.”
“No, don’t be silly, it was well worth it. I’ll be home late tonight, but let’s meet at our place tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, that sounds good. Call me when you wake up.”
We hug at the door and Justin kisses the top of my head as he walks out. In my fantasy world I am like a real girlfriend sending her boyfriend off to work and it makes me feel happy.
I decide to spend the morning working on the engagement plan. It is scheduled to take place in just a couple of weeks. It’s hard to believe how fast time has flown by. I get out my checklist of “things to do before we get engaged.” Yes, I have a checklist titled that ... and it has SO many checks on it! Mom and Dad—I could have checked it before, but I wanted to wait until I was absolutely certain. After last night, I give it two checks. Jamie and Bryan—check. Logan—check (hooray!). Lauren and Rob—check. Alex and Steve—check, Alex and I aren’t extremely close, anyway ... we’re kind of friends th
rough Lauren and I think the amount of bonding we did with them at Brad and Claire’s engagement party is sufficient. And then I come to Brad’s name on my list. There isn’t a check, there aren’t any notes ... it looks so empty and alone sitting on the page ... and it reminds me of the hole he left in my life. I stare at his name for what feels like the longest time ... Tiffany even climbs across the desk to see what I am staring at. I realize that I need to maintain my friendship with Brad, I need to be able to put a check next to his name, and therefore, I need to play by Claire’s rules.
I dial Brad’s work number ... it worked last time, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Ring, ring, ring ... no luck. Rats. I take a deep breath and dial his cell.
Ring, ring. “Hello?” It’s Brad’s voice.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound upbeat and normal, “it’s Molly.” The truth, of course, is that if things were normal I wouldn’t have said, It’s Molly, I would have said, It’s me.
“Oh, hey there,” Brad says in a strange tone ... he must be with Claire and he doesn’t want Claire to know it’s me.
“Is it a bad time?”
“Um, no ... not really. Claire and I are just meeting with a wedding coordinator. Hang on one second.”
I can hear him put his hand over the phone as Claire’s shrill voice asks who it is. He doesn’t answer ... just says he needs to take it and a few seconds later he’s back on the line.
“Hey. It’s good to hear your voice,” Brad says with a warmth that tells me he means it.
“You could have called back if it’s a bad time.”
“No, I really want to talk to you.”
“Okay.” I open my mouth to take a big bite of humble pie. “I miss you, and I want to see you, so ... why don’t the four of us get together this weekend?”
“The four of us?”
“Yeah. I thought the only way for me to be allowed to see you was under Claire’s supervision?”
“Well, yes ... but who’s the fourth?”
What?!? “Justin!” I say with a “duh” tone.
“Oh, really? You guys are still together, huh?”
That is such a strange response ... I’m not even sure what to say. “Yes, of course we are.”
“Okay, well, great. I think we’re free Sunday. I would love to see you, too, Molly.”
“Sunday is perfect.” I know Justin has Sundays off.
“Fantastic—I’ll call you Sunday morning to set up time and place. ’Bye, Molly.”
I set the phone back on the receiver, but I’m kind of weirded out by the conversation. Brad just doesn’t seem like himself. It’s so strange ... and so sad. Claire really must be brainwashing him! Sunday should be interesting.
Justin and I really enjoy the weekend. As fall is approaching, the leaves are starting to change color and it’s starting to cool down just a little. School starts soon and shortly after that we are supposed to get engaged ... so there’s a lot to do. We spend the days shopping; we look at fake, fake engagement rings ... it’s a little depressing. I get some back-to-school clothes (yes, teachers get them, too), Justin gets some “straight boy” clothes, as he calls them, for the post-engagement events we’ll be doing, and we play with all the knickknacks at Williams-Sonoma in preparation for our registry. Justin even packs a weekend bag and spends Saturday night at my apartment. It’s like having a slumber party ... we make mai tais, put on face masks, and stay up half the night talking and giggling. As much fun as I’m having, our Sunday night plans with Brad and Claire leave an uncomfortable knot in my stomach. It’s similar to the feeling of dread I get when I have an impending dentist appointment. And just like the time leading up to a dentist appointment, it flies by and before I know it, it’s Sunday night.
True to his word, Brad calls on Sunday morning to confirm our plans and set up a restaurant in Greenwich Village that “Claire loves.” The phone call only makes the knot in my stomach grow because it’s SO not Brad to be so responsible. When the old Brad said, I’ll call you Sunday morning to confirm (if he would even be organized enough to say that), it meant, Call me Sunday afternoon to remind me.
Sunday evening, Justin and I get dressed and, thanks to his help, we look damn good. We get to the restaurant ten minutes after the scheduled time ... we take our time and have the cab drop us off a block from the restaurant and stroll the rest of the way, knowing that this will upset Claire and taking immense, although immature, pleasure in it.
We walk in the restaurant, which is practically empty, but Brad still waves us over like the place is a crowded bar that we could never have found him in. We exchange uncomfortable hellos; Claire doesn’t get up, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to hug Brad, so I don’t. Justin awkwardly shakes his hand, but Brad is looking at me, not Justin, while they shake. Finally, we all sit down (except Claire, who never got off her bony ass) and I grab the first waiter I see and order a glass of white wine. Then there is silence. Hmmm ... dumdedum ... okay ... this is weird.
An icebreaker, we definitely need an icebreaker. Should I knock something over? Choke on bread? I look helplessly at Justin.
“So,” Justin says and clears his throat, “Brad, what’s new in the world of extreme sports?”
Oh, hooray! Such a more brilliant icebreaker than me needing the Heimlich maneuver.
“Nothing,” Brad replies.
And then there is silence again and we’re back where we began. Justin looks back at me with an “I tried” expression.
Okay, I guess it’s my turn to try.
“Claire, Brad says you love this place. What do you recommend?”
Justin gives me an approving smile and nod.
“Everything’s good,” she says.
And back to silence.
“Oh, okay, everything.” I pick up my menu and study it.
This is going to be such a long evening.
The rest of the night drags on like the beginning. Justin and I bust our asses to come up with topics of conversation and Brad and Claire rebuff them with monosyllabic answers. It is horribly awkward and uncomfortable. We make it through the main course and even I, the queen of chocolate, am willing to forgo dessert to get out of there. So when the waiter asks if we would like to see a dessert menu, I begin to shake my head no, assuming Brad and Claire are having as horrible a time as we are and are as eager to get out, but Brad says, “Yes, please,” before I can shake my head no. I shoot a panicked look at Justin. Why is Brad trying to extend the torture? I mean, he is—or at least was—a fun person ... and believe me, fun people definitely know that there isn’t anything at all fun going on right now.
“Molly never says no to dessert,” Brad informs Justin.
“Haha, I know. Where does she put it all?” Justin replies, trying to be nice.
“Seems like you should know the answer to that,” Brad answers coolly.
Ouch! What does that even mean? It didn’t even make sense, but the way he said it was so harsh. I look at Justin, who looks just as stung as I feel. I take his hand above the table.
“Justin is blind to my potbelly—right, sweetheart?” I say to him stupidly since I don’t even have a potbelly ... I honestly don’t even know where I put it all.
“You don’t have a potbelly,” Justin says, clearly starting to get annoyed with Brad.
“What a good boyfriend.” I smile like an even bigger idiot and squeeze his hand, then look across the table at Brad and Claire like a jackass. Brad is looking back at us with a death glare and Claire is looking at her dessert menu as if she was alone at the table.
We finally get our desserts down, Brad has a refill on his coffee, and the check is delivered to our table. There is that weird second when the check is a landmine, and then Justin picks it up and says to Brad, “Want to just split it in half?” Justin is such a classy gentleman.
“Actually, Molly had wine,” Claire says ... it’s one of the first things she’s said all night.
All three of us snap our heads up and look at her in shock. If I h
adn’t just sat through this dinner I might have burst out laughing. Any other person in the world would have said it as a joke, but it is clear that Claire is serious.
“Okay,” Justin says. “Would it be okay to split it and we’ll leave ten dollars more tip on our bill?”
“No,” Claire says, “that will make us look cheap to the waiter.”
I think at this point my jaw drops open a little. She is unbelievable.
“How would you like to handle it?” Justin asks. It amazes me that he can still be polite to her.
“We’ll just have to split it down the middle and you can give us ten dollars in cash.”
“Done,” Justin says as he slaps the bill in front of her.
I’ve never seen Justin pushed this far before and I can sense that he is nearing some sort of snapping point.
“Well,” I say, “it was wonderful seeing you guys. We really have to do this again.”
Justin chokes and gurgles a little.
We all stand up from the table. We exchange good-byes about as awkwardly as the hellos, and Justin and I practically run out of the restaurant and grab a cab. That was so much worse than any dental work I’ve ever had done ... and I had my wisdom teeth removed with a local anesthesia!
As the cab pulls away from the curb, Justin and I start screaming.
“That was the most horrific thing I’ve ever been through!” I yell.
“I think I might need to raise my rates to sit through more dinners like that one!!” Justin adds.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry ... I would totally understand if you did.”
We spend the entire ride home dissecting each awful aspect of the dinner: the rude greeting, the lack of conversation, and the check fiasco.
“And the food wasn’t even very good!” I add.
Thankfully, by the time we pull up to Justin’s apartment we are able to laugh about it.
“I promise I’ll never make you do that again. If the only way to see Brad is to go through that again, I won’t see him ever again!”
Not Quite A Bride Page 8
