Always the Last to Know (Always the Bridesmaid) (13 page)

       “Thanks.”  I say meekly and stare at my plate of spaghetti as the room goes silent again, save for our forks scratching against our plates.

      I look at Riley and he’s staring right back at me.  With Ms. Callahan and Bill’s eyes focused on their plates, I mouth ‘talk’ to Riley.  He replies with ‘about what?’ and I almost yell out ‘anything’, but manage to mouth it silently.  He shakes his head and I kick him under the table.

       “Are you all getting excited for the wedding?”  Bill asks, looking at me and Riley.

      I nod, “Not as excited as Carla, but, then again, I don’t think anyone is as excited as she is.”

       “She seemed really exuberant about it.”

      Exuberant?  That’s the same word that Ms. Callahan used when talking about me moving in with Riley.  She said that he was exuberant, and here is her boyfriend using that same word to describe Carla’s emotions a week before her wedding.  I don’t think they’re using the same dictionary as everyone else.  Maybe I should buy them a copy of Webster’s for Christmas.

       “What about you, Riley? Molly’s told me that you’re walking Carla down the aisle.  That’s really nice of you.”

       “Thanks.” Riley says quietly.

      The room falls back into silence.  I ask Bill about his job as a vet and he talks about it for a few minutes, continually trying to get Riley into the conversation but fails.  I have to give Bill credit though; he’s coping well with Riley being an asshole.  I wish I could say the same but it’s come to the point that kicking Riley in the leg has become a sort of reflex for me.

      The silence falls among us again and stays there until Ms. Callahan asks me to help her with the dishes, and nods her head toward Riley quickly.  I agree, anything to get me out of that room.  I grab a few plates and follow her into the kitchen, leaving Riley and Bill alone at the dining room table in complete and total silence.

       “How do you think it’s going?”  Ms. Callahan asks as she drops the plates in the sink to soak.

      I should be honest with her and tell her that was the most uncomfortable, nerve-rattling dinner I have ever sat through.

       “I think it’s going okay.”

      Oh, come on, I can’t tell her the truth.  She likes Bill so much, and knowing that Riley and I spent the entire meal kicking each other under the table whenever Bill touched his mom’s hand or when Riley was being a jackass would break her heart.

       “I knew that Riley wasn’t handling this well, but I honestly didn’t think he was this upset about it.  He looked like he was in pain ever since we sat down.”

      Oops.  I guess kicking him under the table wasn’t the best idea.

       “I just wanted this to go well.”  She says, shaking her head sadly before beginning to load the dishwasher.

      I can’t let her feel like this.  I just can’t.

       “I’m going to grab some more dishes.”  I retreat back into the dining room where the two men are sitting in silence and doing anything they can to keep from making eye contact.

      Wait. . . did I really just refer to Riley as a man?   Huh, weird.

       “Riley,” I try to get a conversation flowing, “weren’t you telling me that UK’s point guard is going to be out next season with a knee injury?”

       “What?”  He looks at me with an eyebrow raised.  “I didn’t tell you. . .” I kick him in the shin.

       “You like UK?”  Bill asks, giving me a surprised look.

       “Yeah, but Riley here is the true fan.  Actually, didn’t you write your thesis over the history of their basketball program?”  I clamp a hand on his shoulder.

       “It wasn’t a thesis paper.”  He says between clenched teeth and I squeeze his shoulder hard, digging what little nail I have into his skin through his shirt.  He turns back to Bill, “It was just a research paper over Adolf Rupp for my History of Sports class.”

       “I just bought season tickets for next year.  If you ever want to go to a game some time, just let me know.”

       “Really?”  Riley’s eyes light up like a little kid seeing a brand new bicycle under the tree on Christmas morning.

                I smile and head back into the kitchen to leave the two of them engrossed in conversation.

***

      Riley talks the entire way back to my apartment about how great a guy Bill is.  I manage not to say ‘I told you so’, even though I totally told him so.  While I was helping Ms. Callahan in the kitchen, Bill and Riley were comparing different basketball seasons between each other and arguing over who was the best coach.

       “Oh, and he hates Duke.”  Riley says happily.

       “Every UK fan hates Duke.  Hell, I think even Duke fans hate Duke.”  And, if they don’t hate Duke, then they should.  Stupid Duke basketball.

      You know, come to think of it, I’m not even sure why I hate Duke.  I just know that I’m an UK fan and, part of the fandom means that I have to hate Duke with ever fiber of my being.  And, boy do I hate me some Duke.

       “He has season tickets too.  Season tickets, Reynolds.”

       “That’s great, Callahan.”  I smile as I dig through my purse for my keys.  You know, I’m not so sure that Riley doesn’t have a crush on his mom’s boyfriend.  He’s so happy, though, that I can’t even tease him about it.

      He stops the Jeep in front of my building, still mumbling about the tickets and wondering whether or not the seats are close to where Ashley Judd will be sitting.

       “Okay, I’m getting out of here before you build a mini-shrine to your mom’s boyfriend.”  I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door.  With one leg in the car and one out of the car, Riley grabs my hand and squeezes it.

       “Thanks for making me do this, Jess.”

       “It’s no problem.”  I smile at him, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

       “Jess, I need to tell you something.”  Riley says just as I see a short, stocky figure rush out of my apartment building and into a car that looks like the one Evan is borrowing from his mom since his truck is in the shop until at least Friday.  The tires on the car squeal and the driver takes off down the street.

      That was definitely Evan.

       “What the hell was that about?”  I look at Riley, who is frowning.

      He lets go of my hand and says, quite begrudgingly, “We should probably go check on Carla.”

      Unlike the other day, it’s not Riley rushing up the stairs, but me, my Maid of Honor genes kicking into full gear and pushing me on to achieve a new record time of making it up the stairs.     

      I open the door to the apartment, expecting to see Carla balled up in the corner in tears and crying into her wedding dress about how the wedding is off and then taking a gigantic bite out of Snickers bar, something she has sworn off since she got engaged.  She has ten Snickers bar waiting for her in the chest Riley and I are giving her, all from me.

      But that’s not what I see when I enter the apartment.  Carla is sitting at our little rinky-dink kitchen table, reading a bridal magazine and eating what appears to be a bologna sandwich.

       “Hey guys.”  She says casually, flipping to the next page of the magazine.

       “She seems safe.  I’m going home.”  Riley says and exits quickly, shutting the door behind him harder than is really necessary.

      I sit across the table from her and just stare at her for a minute.  She looks completely unmoved and calm as she reads through her magazine.  She does seem a little pale, which is odd for Carla whose tan is mostly natural, and she is eating a bologna sandwich.  And, okay, it’s on wheat bread and that’s probably light mayo but still, Carla is eating bologna.

      Carla doesn’t eat bologna.  Not after she read the ingredients of it in fourth grade anyway.

       “What’s going on?”

      She looks up from the magazine almost reluctantly.  “I could ask you the same question.  What fire was my brother rushing out of here to fight?”

       “Probably the same one Evan ran out of here for.”

      She still has that calm demeanor but I can’t help but notice that she raises the magazine so that her face is partially shielded from me.

       “You saw that, huh?”

      I nod, but realize that she can’t see me over her magazine.  “Yeah, he made a nice exit, burning rubber and all.  Is everything okay?”

       “Everything’s fine.  Evan just has some growing up to do.”  She says matter-of-factly before lowering the magazine to look at me, “What’s going on with my brother?”

      I ignore her question because a) I’m too concerned about her upcoming marriage and whether or not I need to replace  the ‘just married’ banner that I may or may not have thrown away while cleaning my room in preparing for my move to Riley’s and b) I have no clue as to what is going on inside her brother’s little brain.

      Although I do have to wonder what it is that he wanted to tell me.  Probably that the washer at his place is on the fritz or that the garbage is picked up on Mondays or something equally unimportant.

       “Seriously, Carla, is everything all right between you and Evan?  Did he get cold feet?  Do I need to go kick his ass?”

      Carla almost chokes on the bologna sandwich when I suggest the idea of me beating up Evan.  I don’t know why it’s so funny.  I could totally kick Evan’s ass.  He may be buff but I’m taller and have this crazy Maid of Honor adrenaline coursing through me.  I could kick Jack Bauer’s ass right now.       

       “Evan doesn’t have cold feet, and you don’t need to kick his ass.”  She says, trying to keep a straight face on the last part of her sentence.  “He just needs some time to think about things, but we’ll be just fine.”  She smiles and takes another bite out of her sandwich.

       “If you’re so fine then why are you eating a meat product that contains mechanically separated chicken, turkey, and pork?”

      Carla’s eyes grow wide as she looks at the tiny bite left of her sandwich before shrugging and shoving it in her mouth.

       “You hate bologna.”

       “I missed it is all.”

      I point a finger at her, “Mark my words: you’ll be sick in the morning because of that sandwich.”

      She laughs, almost snorting, before returning to her magazine.

***

      I was wrong about Carla getting sick in the morning; she’s throwing up in the bathroom right now.

      I hate vomit. Well, actually, who likes it?  It’s disgusting.  But I still tap on the bathroom door and ask Carla if she needs anything.  I mean, she’s my friend and I’ve seen her throw up before.  Granted the last time I saw her throw up, she had drank a lot of Rum and Cokes and I had my fair share of gin and tonics and was too drunk to be scarred by the experience.  But still, I think I can handle the experience sober.

      She croaks, “Crackers.  And my phone.”

      I get her necessities, plus a can of Sprite that had somehow ended up in our refrigerator, and take it to the bathroom where I can hear her heaving through the closed door.

      Eww.

      I tap on the door again and Carla tells me to come in.  I take a deep breath and walk inside the bathroom.  Carla is leaning against the bathtub looking like death warmed over.  Her hair is matted down to her forehead and her face is red and blotchy and she’s definitely been crying.

      I forget about the vomit and rush to her side.  I hand her the crackers and her phone as I put a hand to her forehead, which is burning hot.

       “It’s not a fever.”  She assures me and takes the Sprite can and puts it to her forehead before swatting me away.  “I’m fine, Jess.  Just a little sick is all.”

       “Do you need to go to the hospital?  I’ll drive you.  Where’s your insurance card at?”

       “I’m fine.  Calm down Florence Nightingale.”

      You know, when Carla’s sick, she can act an awfully lot like her brother.

       “I just don’t want you to be sick on your wedding day, Carla.”

      She shakes her head, “I’ll be fine.  You were right; that damn bologna sandwich got to me.  I’m going to call Evan and have him come over.”

       “Carla, I don’t mind to sit up with you.  Really.”

       “No, it’s fine.  Evan and I need to talk anyway.”

      Good luck doing that with your head in the toilet.

Eight

Monday, June 29
^th

       “Is Thursday really your last day?”  Annie asks as I walk behind the tellers’ window after my exit of the bank manager’s office.

      How does she know?  I just put in my two weeks’ notice literally fifteen seconds ago.  The bank manager told me to finish up this week.  Actually, he told Jennifer to finish up this week; I just assume he meant me.  When I told him that I had already put in a request to have this Friday off in order to put the finishing touches on Carla’s wedding
(not that she’ll let me help)
, he just ushered me toward the door and said that Thursday would make a good quitting day too.  Then he slammed his door shut behind me.

      You know, I don’t think that I’m going to miss him one little bit.

       “Yes, Thursday is my last day.”  I answer her question.  “But I’m working for a few hours on Wednesday to make up some of the time.”

      Annie snorts, “You look thrilled.”  She nudges me, “What is with you anyway?  You look sad as a nun.”

      Annie is SO going to Hell.

       “I’m fine Annie, I’m just a little confused.  And, before you even say it, no, I’m not confused in a sexual way.”