by Xavier Neal
“No.” Evie hushes her with a swift finger. “Language needs to match the atmosphere, remember? You can say things like that when having drinks on someone’s yacht or their beach house extravaganza. Here you say things like ‘having my breath not smell pleasant’.”
My fiancée groans and leans against me. “She’s like having a bitchier blonde version of Mary Poppins around.”
Evie doesn’t bother responding.
The comparison in many ways is accurate. And as much as I loathe anyone dictating how I behave, I understand her purpose. I understand her reasoning. I understand how she functions and why things are commanded rather than requested. She has a very specific job to do and gets it done in even the least ideal conditions.
J.T. joins the gathering, smacking on shrimp cocktail being served in a martini glass.
“Mouth closed while chewing. Photos of you chugging back shrimp like a starving seagull are not wanted.”
Jenni presses her lips together to stop from snickering while Brynley and I laugh freely.
It’s nice to occasionally watch her pecking land on her perfect pupil.
“Everyone, soft smile please,” she states through her own at the same time a camera man strolls by to grab a few snap shots. The instant he’s moved his focus to someone else, she returns to speaking, “I am hoping to land us a photo opportunity with the hosts, preferably when you purchase something for an outrageous price demonstrating while you are free with your money you prefer it fall into the hands of those who need it instead of paying a crew to hand wash and dry your expensive car collection.”
“They were my father’s,” I grumble. “I’m simply trying to keep them maintained as opposed to further neglecting them.”
Evie pulls her silky strands to the side of her slender face. “Honestly, Wes, I don’t care. I don’t care if you paid them to film you having sex in the back of it as an anniversary gift.”
“Can we do that?” Brynley playfully interrupts.
“What I care about are the headlines Global Laundry has an irritating way of creating. You are here in person because they have an incredible track record for undermining your company and your personal life. You here at this event with your loving fiancée on your arm and your best friend at your side, is a definitive counter without having to counter. This is evidence their stories about your future wife’s ‘wandering eye’ and your best friend embezzling from you are just mountains of bullshit.”
“Language,” my fiancée teases, forcing me to give her a harsh squeeze.
Evie glares and points. “Where’s the rest of your dress, Brynley?”
“Hm?” Her faked innocence isn’t missed.
“The one we picked out with the stylist looked exactly like that yet was floor length. What happened?”
“Needed the room to breathe.”
“Yeah, well, now every time you do, you run the risk of sharing your ass with an entire room full of people who often pay to see one that perfect.”
Brynley doesn’t back down from her taunting tactics. “Is it just me or does this conversation feel strangely similar to the opening of a girl on girl porn?”
J.T. begins coughing profusely.
His cheeks rubricate along with mine.
Evie shakes her head in defeat. “For the love of God, could you three please remember to act like you are admired public figures and not college children fresh out the frat house.”
“Wouldn’t it technically be fraternity and sorority house, since Brynley’s a female?” Jenni quietly questions over Evie’s shoulder.
“No,” our publicist replies and jets off, attempting to flag down someone.
Brynley heavily sighs, “How is it possible to hate and love one person this much?”
“I ask myself the same thing about you,” J.T. jokes.
“She’s just doing her job,” I defend instantly.
“Ugh. It’s like having two mothers instead of one.” Brynley’s comment bulges her eyes, and she quickly shifts her remorseful expression to me. “I didn’t mean for that to-”
My lips push against hers to stop the unnecessary apology. Afterward, I state, “Why don’t we go look at purchasing something more fun? Maybe a private tour of something or a weekend getaway?”
With Evie’s instructions lingering in the back of our minds the three of us continue around the auction half of the gala for another half an hour. We make occasional small talk to strangers, exchange joking jabs, and end up bidding on bullshit we can tolerate having, but obviously don’t need.
By the time we are settled at our black and purple decorated table towards the front of the room, close to the dance floor, Brynley is starving and J.T. has been summoned away to kiss the ass of someone Evie deems important.
We’re promptly served the dreaded dish my fiancée hates and a small wedge salad that has a light covering of blue cheese dressing.
Brynley poorly hides her disappointment with a faint smile. “All the money it costs to throw this thing and they couldn’t get a decent caterer?” I chuckle at the same time she pushes me her tuna and pulls over my salad. “Swear, just the word churns my stomach now.”
“Is your stomach having problems again? Is that why you didn’t finish your champagne?”
“Just…wasn’t in the mood to drink it.”
I knock a kiss on her cheek. “Well, enjoy what you can of the salad, baby. We’ll stop for something else on the way home or I can always have Lucky meet us at the penthouse and whip something up.”
The offer receives a genuine smile followed promptly by her leaning over. Our lips lock and my hand effortlessly skirts across her exposed thigh.
Unfortunately, the intimate moment is interrupted. “Now that’s a picture-perfect moment.”
Our attention darts to a familiar face.
“Would’ve been perfect for Playboy had you given us just another minute or two,” Brynley grumbles under her breath as she lifts her fork.
“Evening, Ava,” I greet warmly. “Wasn’t expecting the Highland Herald to be here.”
“It’s not.” The woman sits down in the chair across from us. “I now work for Outside the Lines.”
“Isn’t that a trashy celebrity magazine?”
Brynley beats her to the correction. “Not trashy. That’s Global Laundry. Outside the Lines covers real topics and issues outside of just the normal bullshit of which celebrity is banging who. And unlike most tabloids they do their fact checking.”
“And we also request the stories rather than create them out of thin air,” Ava adds. “I primarily cover their posts on social functions in real time. Instagram photos here. Tweet photos and quotes there. Occasionally, I luck out and am given the chance to do an actual interview, but it isn’t often.”
With a slow nod, I drink in the transformed woman. Gone is the frazzled clothing and speech filled with desperation. Not only is her confidence apparent, it’s relieving. Being the first to conduct a two-minute interview with me gave her the leg up she needed. It’s seeing the result of a small act have real results that drives the bullshit Monica whatever implied about the merger being a failure far from my mind.
The memory of the horrid interview sends my lips moving. “Could you grab a photo of the two of us? Post it with a charming caption? Publicly acknowledge we appear to be a couple very much in love?”
“That doesn’t sound Evie approved,” Brynley mocks.
“It isn’t,” I reassure her with a smirk. “But it is Wes approved, and we both know that’s what matters most.” She begins to glare, which is when I add, “Besides, aren’t you the one who lives to break the rules?”
Excitement leaps into her expression. “Now you’re talking my language.”
Ava giggles, “You two really are adorable.”
“Do this for us, and we’ll arrange it for you to be our first official interview as an engaged couple.”
Mutual shock floods the women’s expressions.
“Y-y-you’re serious?” A
va croaks.
I nod and drop my attention to where Brynley is fiddling with her silver airplane necklace. “We have to do one eventually. Why not do it with the woman who penned my original proclamation about marrying you in the first place?”
A rush of awe and annoyance whirl around her blue eyes. “That was a dick move.”
“It worked.”
She playfully snarls, pushes against me, and is stilled when my mouth descends hers again. The sound of our photo being taken by Ava’s phone is faint. Our lips part, and our tongues collide with haste.
As much as I hate how the public scrutinizes our every move, I do love the fact Brynley treats me with the same affections regardless if we’re behind closed doors or in front of a camera. She loves me openly. Willingly. Passionately. I couldn’t have picked a more incredible woman to venture back into the light with. I just pray being in it doesn’t eventually have us both desperate for the dark.
“Do you realize you’ve fed more of that sandwich to that duck than you have yourself?” my mother scolds from the chair beside me at Mo Mo’s Diner.
I flick the last of the bread at the excited animal. “Not really hungry. Actually, I haven’t been hungry in what feels like forever….”
“We didn’t have to come to lunch,” she sweetly states. “We could’ve rescheduled.”
Turning my attention back to her, I lean back in my chair, and shake my head. “No. Between work, wedding planning, and Wes, I have cancelled on you enough.”
More than I damn sure like. Work trips I don’t feel guilty about. Having a career and working hard at it are two things I know she’s always wanted for me. However, meeting with the wedding planner and dealing with having to be Wes’ eye candy during his social engagements at the drop of a dime, makes me feel like shit.
“You’re just a busy woman, Bryn. Nothing wrong with that.” The pride in her voice tempts the corners of my lips to move upward.
“Too busy,” I grouse. “I’m so tired all the time. Fuck, I don’t even remember what a full night of sleep feels like.”
“From work?”
“Work. Wedding conference calls. Wes’ social calendar. This month we’ve been to at least one disco for donation a week if not two. It’s exhausting to get off work, squeeze myself into a pre-approved cocktail dress, and then attempt to gag down whatever is being served for what they have the balls to call dinner. We’ve spent so much time kissing ass lately it feels like my fucking lips are swollen.”
Not really Wes’ choice so much as Evie’s. She wants to continue to promote the image of Wes as a considerate, caring man who loves supporting causes and absolutely adores his future wife. It’s not untrue, but the constant pushing of it feels awful. Over the past few months I’ve learned the business world is a brutal battlefield fought on multiple fronts. With him having returned to the public’s judgmental staring, it is not enough he makes his company billions, they wanna know how and when he gives back or if he’s just another money hungry asshole. Is he actually making the world a better place or are those checks just being sent to Swiss bank accounts? Is he environmentally friendly? How often does he carpool? Is his latest plane fuel efficient? They wanna know how he spends his free time. Who he spends it with. And because he’s young, his love life, a.k.a. me, is up for discussion like I’m a damn debate topic for a high school competition. The press is desperate for details on how it started, who came before me, and any other little spec of dirt they can discover about Wes’ decade long absence. Evie doesn’t want their focus to fall on how we came together, partially since it’s not exactly ideal, but more so because she knows Wes doesn’t want his past delved into. He wants the world’s attention on the present and plans for the future. Digging into his past means bringing up demons I’m not sure he’s defeated.
She snickers, “It’s life in a relationship, Brynley. Their burdens become yours. You weather the storms together.”
I groan, “Ugh. You sound like an episode of Oprah.”
“Wise woman.”
“Yeah, you and basically every other woman in America agree on that.”
My mother lightly laughs again, yet her stare becomes inquisitive. “How long have you not been hungry?”
The question receives a shrug. “I don’t know. Couple of weeks or so. I think I caught a stomach bug and haven’t really shaken it.”
“And when’s the last time you felt rested?”
I toss a hand into the air to express my cluelessness.
She waits for the waitress to walk away with our plates from the table before asking, “Have you considered the idea that you might be pregnant?”
Horror hops onto my face. “Why would you put a hex on your only child?”
My mother pushes past her instinct to laugh. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Bryn-”
“That’s a hateful thing to do, Mom.”
“Brynley Elizabeth.” After I shut my mouth tightly, she continues, “When’s the last time you had your cycle?”
My face scrunches. “I don’t know. When I switched to the shot they warned it most likely would become nonexistent.”
“And when was the last time you had your shot?”
Quickly, I try to gather the answer to the question, but it proves to be more difficult than I predicted.
Am I due for another shot? Has it really been three months already? Shit…has it been more than three months?
I drop my mouth with the intention to answer, but end up childishly retorting, “No-huh. There’s just no possible way I’m pregnant.”
“Of course there’s a possibility. Anytime you have sex, Bryn, it’s a possibility.”
“Thank you, Coach Health Class.”
“And since abstinence is not a word in your vocabulary, nor Wes’ since you swooped into his life, it’s also a very likely possibility.”
Fear spreads in the bottom of my stomach at the same time the waitress places our bill on the table.
I pull my card from my jean shorts back pocket, drop it on top, and request, “Can we…change subjects?”
Prior to this conversation it was a relatively pleasant meal primarily spent with her gushing about Clark and the small romantic getaway they took to celebrate their anniversary. Wes surprised them with an all-expenses paid trip. He also gave them a card signed with love from the both of us. I honestly can barely remember his birthday let alone a damn date they kept in secret until last year.
Thankfully, she concedes. “How was your trip out to California?”
“Interesting. We witnessed a sea turtle operation, assisted in the breathing of some sick baby turtles, and participated in rehabilitation exercises for a seal.”
Her eyes widen. “Sounds extremely eventful.”
“It was. On our flight home, Calen expressed interest in maybe going for his vet license. He says it would be a definite if he didn’t have so much debt to pay off.”
“What about you? Any interest in going back to school? Getting your own vet license?”
“Fuck no,” I respond without hesitation. “I love what I do and love even more it lacks the pressure of being a vet. I like knowing behavioral patterns and observing for symptoms without having to break out the rubber gloves to shove my hand up Shamu’s asshole.”
She lifts her hands in surrender. “I was just wondering where you saw yourself going in the future.”
“Mom, I’ve had this job for less than a year. Right now, my biggest goal for the future is not saying something that could get me fired and having my pushy, superhero fiancé have to swoop in and save me since he’s one of the institute’s biggest benefactors.”
The waitress politely thanks us for coming, drops off the check, and darts to another table.
My mother’s face softens. “Is that resentment I hear?”
“Frustration,” I correct while tucking my card away. “I love Wes. I do. He is….” Memories of him greeting me last night with a drawn bubble bath and chocola
te covered strawberries flood my mind. “Incredible. He’s romantic. Giving. Passionate.” Quickly, I fill out the bill and relax back in my chair. “He’s also arrogant. Controlling. And very over protective. Any time I’m out of town for work it’s like the fact I’m not within quick snatch and grab range makes him bat shit cray. Don’t get me wrong. I know where he’s coming from, Mom. The shit with his parents, then the shit with you, I can see why he tries to death grip the reins to his life, but I’ve gotta be able to do my job without eighteen missed text messages because I didn’t send him one the second we landed.”
