Six, Maybe Seven

by Katie George

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE SKY WAS a miraculous shade of baby blue azure, the clouds as puffy as pillows. Somewhere in the outskirts of Memphis, Tennessee, a young man stood with a rolling suitcase, a bag of snacks bought at an airport convenience store in Houston, and a dirty cell phone. He punched in the number as he stood with a view of rolling hills on his family’s ancestral property. It was a collection of green knolls mixed in with the flat plains prone to flooding of the Mississippi Delta. His shirt was ragged from sweat, as the heat of a Southern summer mixed with the densest humidity. He hadn’t missed this, but he’d missed the horses, the old farmhouse that was modernly renovated, and the beauty of anything remotely rural. Building after building after building in Los Angeles had sucked some of the juices from his country blood, but now it was roiling back like a flood in his brain.

  This is how I imagined it all, of course.

  “Emma,” Jamie said, his voice delicate and smooth. The phone line was somehow clear. From what Jamie had told me, phone service was hard to come by in his neck of the woods. “Em, can you hear me?”

  “How you doin’, Tennessee?”

  A lilting laugh responded, reminding me that I had the apartment alone for a weekend, though I was actually supposed to leave for Big Sur in an hour. “I’m doing fine,” he said. “Just got home. I smell a delicious pot-pie in the oven. The horse dung is scant, which is positive. Are you leaving for Big Sur soon?”

  “Yes. Anyway, call me if you need me. I don’t want to interrupt your home time. Have fun for me, and whatever you do, do not mention Nina to your parents.” They still thought their doting, respectable son was dating the gorgeous biology major from the university. Jamie hadn’t had the heart to tell them: We consciously uncoupled.

  As for me, my hot, bubbling July 28th was spent driving to Big Sur for the small, intimate nuptials of Monica and Jerry. It would be a lavish affair, I decided, on a grassy hilltop overlooking the jutting coastal region of the Pacific. Whales might even pop out in the distance like little half-moons or skipping stones.

  Around one o’clock in the afternoon, I rolled the top down on my old beater mobile’s convertible, and allowed the breeze to streak my hair as I took the interstate to Calabasas, where I jutted down an intersection to pass through Malibu in order to take the Pacific Coast Highway. As the warm air swirled around me, my brain was enlightened by the sense of freedom and the magnanimous coast to my left. I drove like I was a California girl; my heart was innately Texan. The sweet swell of pride in my heart was sharp like a steak knife: My friends were getting married. One by one, like dominoes falling over. Yet they had taken a huge step, a giant leap of commitment, something that many people don’t do anymore. Through the jealousies and annoyances and little spouts of fun, there was a silver lining: The fact that true commitment was possible, even as the millennial generation (me included) remained ignorant about pretty much everything else.

  Sunny SoCal passed by. As I cruised north, the sweeping coast poking out like a royal king, I remembered waking up to Sam clunking around the kitchen the previous weekend while Jamie informed him about the latest rumors on a new Galaxy Wars film. We had talked in snippets since then, but if I was honest, I was glad we were taking things (whatever we had) slowish.

  My little junker crossed the Bixby Creek Bridge, one of the staple icons of Big Sur, around five o’clock, the sun still high in the sky, its own queen. I’d printed off directions, completely prepared, to the little inn Monica’s mother had rented out for the wedding party and guests. About sixty-five humans were expected at the coastal nuptials, a bigger group than Annabel’s, but still relatively small to how I’d seen large, traditional Southern weddings.

  Monica’s bachelorette party had passed by a few days ago, one that I had dutifully passed up on, mostly because I had a job I had to stay focused on. With my frequency of leaving for weddings, I took every day as serious as possible. There was a rehearsal dinner scheduled for that night, a little get together at the inn, where we’d spend most of our time anyway. Supposedly, the inn catered to celebrities and the rich, but I didn’t really care, because as soon as I saw a rose trellis and a perfectly green lawn in the dead heat of draught, I was shocked. Royalty must have vacationed here.

  When I parked my car and lugged my baggage to the lobby, Monica’s mother appeared, wearing a large summer hat and donning an umbrella. “Emma! What a nice surprise to see you. Hurry up to get changed now.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and headed upstairs to my room, which I was to share with Gerry’s sister Swetha who would be travelling in with her mother and father. It seemed to me a lot of people were missing, but it was still fairly early in the afternoon. A light dusting of rain appeared on the horizon, coating the sea a darker tinge.

  As I changed into a casual summer dress, I heard the click of a door opening, and a pretty Indian woman appeared before me, her eyes a sharp brown, her hair black and bouncy. Her skin was a burning russet, a smooth, perfect layer compared to my (still prevalent to acne) face. She genuinely smiled, sticking out a hand. “Are you Emma Richmond?”

  “Hi, you must be Swetha.”

  “That is me,” she said, setting down her things. “Well, I wish we’d have met on sooner terms, but it seems like Jerry and Monica are ready to jump the gun. Say, do you know when we’re supposed to be ready for the rehearsal? Ms. Granger tried to explain, but I was so happy to be out of the car.”

  “Seven sharp. Trust me, Monica’s mom will be all over us if we’re not down there.”

  “Very true. I work with her sometimes. She’s an acute woman. Well, I have enough time to shower. It was nice meeting you, Emma.”

  As she disappeared, I snuck downstairs, deciding to take a stroll around the garden before the others came. Passing by some flowers I recognized from Tyron’s instruction and others I’d never paid attention to, I finally stopped by a pergola set up in the wide redwood trees, a little oasis away from the inn. The coast was about half a mile away, a short stone’s throw, but far enough to feel like I was in the wild north. The farthest north I’d ever gone was Portland, Oregon, when I took a spring break journey with a few girls from the anti-sorority sorority I’d joined.

  Eventually, a ladybug landed on my hip, and I cuddled it in my hand, reminded of the outdoorsy, rural feel I’d grown in. At this point, I took the ladybug as a symbol of peace that would surely come into my life someday once all these weddings were finally gone, like an unwanted, blasted zit. The ladybug fluttered its wings and took off, leaving me stranded in the forest.

  I headed back to the group, suddenly homesick.

  The rehearsal dinner went smoothly, a joint affair that combined the eccentric Monica with the even more boisterous Jerry. His parents were not shy in the slightest. Once we’d finished our seafood, we moved like a line of ants to the dancefloor, where Jerry’s mother proceeded to steal the show like a professional. In fact, it was discovered she was a ballroom champion back in the day—and I believed it. There was a tremendous great time filled with mirth and ease. Monica’s mother lightened up some, taking off her ascot to relieve the sweat sticking to her neck.

  When I landed on my bed at the inn, my heart was pounding like a drum from the partying we’d just done. It was a refreshing workout, one that had replaced any semblance of a jog today, tomorrow, or the next day. Swetha was later in coming to our room, but when she did finally appear, her hair swirled around her like a hurricane had riled the strands into black waves, and she fell into a sleeping heap on the bed.

  I pulled out my phone, unable to sleep just yet. A text appeared on the screen, a fleeting ghost. I scrolled through my messages, reading what I’d thought it was.

  Nina: Em—hi. Would you like to go out to lunch sometime next week? Only if you can, of course. I’d like to talk about the wedding. Miss you. -N

  The fact that she’d signed the text with a little sharp N reminded me how far we’d drifted apart. We were cordial; she wanted me to be he
r bridesmaid, and I’d accepted. But after the whole James Allen Stewart drama, I’d tried to act as glue, a sure non-discriminator, but as time went on, Jamie and Nina began to slowly disassociate from each other altogether, severing any chance of our trio ever hanging out again. At one point, Nina and I stopped talking, just because she was afraid I was completely on Jamie’s side.

  I thumbed a quick response, agreeing whole-heartedly to seeing her again, my old best friend, Erinina Huston, the one who—even if she would never admit it or not—would have made the perfect wife for Jamie Stewart, and he would, likewise, be the perfect husband for her. Some make the argument for certain couples to never intermingle, but with Nina and Jamie, there was a spark I’d never really seen in anyone else. A spark that could ignite a devouring, beastly fire—and fires aren’t always bad.