Not Quite A Bride (2 page)

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Authors: Kirsten Sawyer

BOOK: Not Quite A Bride
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2
Hangover Pains
I
struggle through the door trying to juggle the mail, the hoopskirt and my cat, Tiffany, greeting me with the excitement that only a cat can have toward a massive amount of lavender chiffon. I drop the stuff onto the table and add some kibble to Tiffany's dish before I drag myself to the bedroom and remove the pastel monster that has been strangling me for twenty-six hours (but who's counting?). I kick it into the back of my closet where there is a pile of pastel puffiness in a variety of disgusting shades and materials. My cat loves this bridesmaid's-dress graveyard, so I haven't had the heart to heave them down the garbage chute or start a bonfire—yet. I've been fantasizing about doing it, though.
Other than the “graveyard,” my apartment is adorable. I really love it; it kind of looks like Monica's apartment on
Friends
, but less funky and more feminine. I am so happy with it ... the only problem is that if I could ever get a man to want to come upstairs, he'd probably take one look at my pink-and-green Pierre Deux couch and run for his masculinity.
Okay, so now you know my secret ... I'm one of those women. I live alone in an overly feminine apartment with a cat.
I pull a tank top and boxer shorts on (so much better!) and collapse on my bed, not even bothering to pull my Ralph Lauren quilt back or remove the seventy-five bobby pins poking me in the skull.
I don't stir again for many hours, and by the time I finally do manage to heave my body off the bed it's starting to get dark. I head back out to the living room, where I am faced with an angry white cat (cats don't like to be ignored for two days straight) and a stack of mail, which I flip through, only halfway paying attention.
“Wedding invitation, wedding gift thank-you, shower invitation, baby shower thank-you, engagement party ... what?!? When did
she
get engaged?!?” That gets my attention because it's the story of my life.
Oh, I should tell you at this point ... I talk to myself, sometimes under the guise of talking to my cat, but sadly, she's not always in the room. As I'm flipping through the mail, rubbing salt on my wounds, I notice the answering machine blinking and hit the button.
“Time of call: 6:57 A.M.,” the friendly, computerized voice tells me.
“Jeez, who called
that
early?!?”
Okay ... I also talk to the answering machine man ... and occasionally—all right, often—to TiVo.
“Good Golly Miss Molly ... it's hard to believe ...”
My mother ...
“... that thirty years ago at this time my first baby was born. Daddy and I love you ... we will see you next weekend for your birthday dinner? I hope you had a lovely time at Maggie's wedding. Did you meet a man?”
I can hear my father grumbling something in the background, and then my mother hissing something with her hand over the receiver.
“It doesn't matter if you did or not, 'cause we love you very much, Molly.” CLICK.
Ugh ... I'd kind of forgotten ... and I was kind of trying to keep it from you. Today is my thirtieth birthday. So now you know the rest of the secret ... and I'm sure you have a clear picture of me in your head. Oh, wait ... and did I mention I'm a schoolteacher? There you have me: a single, thirty-year-old schoolteacher who lives with a cat. It's not what you think, though. I'm not a spinster or old-maidish at all ... at least, I don't think I am.
“Time of call: 12:04 P.M.”
“Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthda—” a voice sang. CLICK.
My sister, Jamie ... she sings every year. I don't need to hear it and
you
definitely don't need to hear it. Jamie is wonderful, but she's always happy and upbeat and that can be exhausting. She's also a schoolteacher (maybe that helps explain why she's not opposed to leaving musical messages for people?) and so is our mom, just so you understand the genealogy. Jamie and I are exactly the same in some ways and couldn't be more opposite in others. The similarities mean that we are really close but sometimes that can cause us to bicker like we are still little kids ... plus she has some middle-child issues. Jamie is three years younger than I am, she's much trendier, and she's way more “cutting edge.” I'm so uncool that I say things like “cutting edge.” People are always shocked when she tells them she teaches third grade, whereas they look at me and nod like it's an obvious fact. The biggest difference, though, is that she's married to her college sweetheart. They were together five and a half years before they tied the knot, and if I didn't love Jamie and her husband, Bryan, so incredibly much, I'd hate them both to death.
“Time of call: 2:42 P.M.”
“Molls, it's me ...”
“Me” is my best friend, Brad.
“I hope you don't feel as bad today as you looked last night. Hahaha ... just kidding! Be ready at seven tonight ... I'm coming by to pick you up.” CLICK.
Brad Lawson has been my best friend since the first weekend of rush parties our freshman year of college. We both had bad first experiences with something called jungle juice—it's a highly potent fraternity concoction that tastes suspiciously like Kool-Aid. Anyway, Brad and I ended up puking our guts out on the same bush outside the Phi Kappa Psi house. He ended up pledging there, and many of our happiest college nights finished up on that same poor hedge. When we met, we were both awkward freshmen, but by senior year my sorority sisters were both thrilled and confused by our strictly platonic relationship. I cannot count how many girls begged to be fixed up with him, thinking he was some kind of California surfer stud. He did grow up in Southern California and has blond hair and blue eyes ... but actually he's from somewhere called Tarzana in the San Fernando Valley, and he's never been on a surfboard. He made me swear to keep that a secret, though.
But really, once you learn to ignore his West Coast good looks, he has an amazing soul. Brad is the kind of friend you can count on to come pick you up in the middle of the night when you're driving home from a boyfriend who has just dumped you and it's raining and you get a flat tire. He'll show up at your door with an Egg McMuffin when he knows you are nursing a hangover. He'll even send you a dozen long-stemmed roses on Valentine's Day when you're sad and single. A better friend could not be found ... honestly, he has done all of these things (and more) for me.
I glance at the clock on the microwave and can't believe it's practically 4:30! I only have two and a half hours to recover from last night and be ready to go, looking twenty-five years old, to celebrate my thirtieth birthday! Perhaps I should have checked my messages sooner?
First stop: bubble bath.
3
The World's Worst Birthday
S
omehow, and don't ask me how I did it, only two and a half hours later I am ready to go and looking adorable—I really am—except for the slightly funky tan line from the hour we spent outside taking pictures in the lavender curse. And even with the strange stripes around my shoulders, the hours I have spent with the free weights have left my arms looking anything but thirty. I'm telling you, prepare to watch me get carded tonight. I'm also working really hard on my positive attitude. I will not let turning thirty make me bitter.
At 7 P.M., practically on the dot, my front door buzzes. I'm in the final stages of the getting-ready process ... final sprays of perfume, buckling of sandals, lip gloss, etc.
“Crap ... who is that?” I ask Tiffany ... as if a cat knows who's at the door. “Hello?” I holler into the intercom.
“Molls, it's me ... buzz me up.”
“Brad?” I question Tiffany, who looks at me, confused. “Why is he so early?”
Brad enters my apartment carrying a single chocolate (my favorite) cupcake with a burning candle in the shape of a three.
“You bought a new candle for me?!?”
The birthday cupcake isn't a complete surprise ... it's more a tradition, really. Since my 21st, Brad has always “surprised” me with a cupcake. What
is
a surprise, though, is that the wax candle in the shape of a two that was used to celebrate the past nine birthdays (he never bothered to specify where in my twenties I was, which was always appreciated) has been replaced.
“Nothing but the best for you. Happy Birthday, Molly. Make a wish.”
I blow the candle out ... we all know what I wished for.
“It's going to come true, I promise,” he says as he kisses my head.
I smile at him as I take the cupcake and start peeling off the paper. Whoever said, “Life's uncertain, eat dessert first,” was definitely onto something.
“You're so early—thank goodness I'm dressed!”
Brad looks at his watch, “I'm not early—it's seven on the dot.”
“Exactly—who's on time? On time is today's early.”
He starts to laugh, and I can't help but look at him fondly because his whole face twinkles when he laughs as the buzzer buzzes again.
“Huh? Is this a birthday surprise?!? (Into the intercom) Hello?” I say, looking suspiciously at Brad.
“Molly, it's Claire. What is taking Brad so long? I'm holding a cab, you know.”
The happiness, the joy, and the anticipation of a nice birthday celebration come to a screeching halt. Brad has brought the human equivalent of nails on a chalkboard: Claire Reilly. Now I know I said that I personally don't find Brad attractive; however, based on the reaction he gets at every bar, club, and dental office I've ever seen him in, all other women do. Okay, I'm lying ... I mean, I'm not blind; even I can see how good-looking he is. I have just convinced myself that he's not, because I never want to jeopardize our friendship. But why he has chosen Claire Reilly to be with for the past year is beyond me. She's truly awful and evil. She doesn't work because her grandfather invented whatever thing it is in pacemakers that makes them pace and then died (ironically) of a heart attack shortly after, leaving her with an enormous trust fund. The really annoying thing is that she genuinely doesn't understand why everyone doesn't live off their trust fund and often acts like Brad's job, as a writer for an extreme-sports magazine, is a hobby. She is insanely uptight and the exact reason why Brad was ringing my doorbell at 6:59 P.M.
“Molly ... are you ready? Come on, we've got to go.”
Oh, and did I mention that Brad is completely pussy-whipped?
I grab my bag and buckle the left sandal strap as I hop out the door. I finger my hair as we literally run down the stairwell and secretly curse Claire for preventing me from doing one last mirror check.
Out on the street, she's holding open a cab door and tapping her little Jimmy Choos on the curb while she keeps time on her Cartier watch.
“Sorry, baby. Molly wasn't quite ready.”
I open my mouth to protest, but what do I care? Let her hate me. The feeling is definitely mutual.
“You know, Molly, when people say seven, they mean seven.”
She ushers me into the cab and I feel like an eight-year-old who is late for the school bus. Actually, worse ... I teach eight-year-olds, and I never talk to anybody like that! Claire is one of those people that you would probably be compelled to hate even if she was an angel, because she is physically flawless. She has skin that looks like porcelain, lavender-blue eyes, and pale blond hair without a single dark root or a moment of frizz. She has a great figure and a wardrobe to match. Everything is perfect. The fact that she's evil just makes it that much easier to wish her dead.
We get to my favorite restaurant in Little Italy where I have been coming for years and everyone knows me. I'm never sure if this thrills me or embarrasses me. A long table is set and waiting. And guess what? We're the first of our party of nine to arrive.
We sit down and get to work on a bottle of Chianti. Well, Brad and I do ... and about fifteen minutes later my very timely sister and her husband show up with arms full of gifts. (Ooh, hooray, I forgot there would be presents!)
“Molly! Happy Birthday!! I can't believe you're thirty!”
Ouch ... did someone just drop an anvil on my heart?
“Jamie, can we please celebrate without using the word or any references to the number thirty?”
Jamie laughs ... does she realize I'm serious? They look around the empty table.
“You guys are so early! We thought we'd be the first ones here and could set this stuff up (meaning the stack of presents hiding Bryan). Didn't you say 7:15?”
Claire has to cut in. “Actually,” she says, pointing to that stupid watch, “it's 7:30.”
Jamie looks confused, but she's never one to rock the boat, so she shrugs it off.
Over the next half-hour my friends slowly show up. It's a good thing looks can't kill, or Claire would have murdered my two best girlfriends from college, Alex and Lauren, and their husband and fiancé, respectively, Steve and Rob.
Lauren and I were pretty inseparable until a year and a half ago when she met Rob. We were the lone single girls from our group of core college friends and could always count on each other. Then she met Rob while interviewing for a job ... he was actually the one interviewing her. He called to tell her that she couldn't have the job because she was just too cute, and instead of being upset (as a normal person who'd been out of work for seven months would), Lauren thought this was just the sweetest thing in the world, agreed to go out with him ... and one thing led to another. Honestly, when I have to hear them tell the story, I throw up in my mouth, just a little bit. After Rob came into the picture, Lauren forgot about our sisterhood and all the humiliating bouquet tosses and lonely Valentine's Days we shared. Rob is great, but I still constantly have to remind myself not to be bitter and jealous ... I know it's not intentional.
Alex is the opposite of Lauren and me ... I don't think she's spent a total of five boyfriendless minutes since I met her my freshman year. Although, everyone was completely shocked when she announced her plans to marry Steve, the rebound from a three-year relationship that left her completely crushed ... but he fell so head-over-heels in love with her that she was convinced by it and vowed 'til death do them part only seven months into their relationship. Because Alex was always busy with one (or two) guys, we were never as close as I was with Lauren, but I still consider her a “core” friend.
Once everyone is settled and happy (except Claire, of course) and drinking, I can't help but look around the table: married, married, engaged, relationship, and me. I'm not sure which hurts more ... that or thirty. I push the thought out of my head, though; I'm determined to have a good time ... and I do. Lots of food, lots of wine, and the world's largest slice of tiramisu later, I'm thoroughly enjoying myself. I'm definitely having a glass-is-half-full evening. I have wonderful friends, I have a favorite restaurant I can always count on, arms that rival Jennifer Anniston's (when making muscles at the bathroom mirror after six glasses of wine, anyway). Life is SO good.
Don't start thinking this is a birds-singing-in-the-meadow story. The proverbial shit is about to hit the fan.
“Okay, everybody, gifts! Gifts!” Jamie's teacher skills are strong. She's standing with one hand in the air and the other motioning to the pile of gifts at the end of our table.
“Oh, yippee!” I exclaim as Alex passes the first package down to me. Generally, when I open presents, people want to murder me. I always save ribbon, and if paper is especially nice, I'll save that, too. The only person who doesn't go bonkers is my sister because she does the exact same thing.
The first gift is from Alex and Steve. It's a scented candle: generic, but thoughtful nonetheless. A single-gal staple, and it will get put to good use.
“You guys, it's perfect. I have a spot right beside my bathtub that this will be perfect in,” I gush, and they look pleased.
“I know that you used to love that scent ... I hope you still do,” Alex says.
“Definitely,” I lie ... I haven't used cucumber-melon in a few years, but it does smell good, so I'm sure I'll enjoy it.
I'm working on the paper on Brad and Claire's gift, secretly annoyed that my best friend got me a joint gift with the evil one, when my sister grabs it from me and thrusts another package at me.
“I can't wait any more. Open ours!”
“Okay ... sorry I'm so slow ... you know how I am.”
“I know, I don't care ... just open mine.”
Jamie and Bryan's is quick and easy to unwrap ... they took the gift bag route (obviously I will be keeping the gift bag ... unless Jamie swipes it back like she did with my Christmas gift bag). Inside is a T-shirt that says,
WORLD'S GREATEST AUNT.
What am I missing?
“Huh? I don't get it.”
“
World's Greatest Aunt
,” Jamie emphasizes.
“I can read it, I just don't get it. Is this, like, a new fad?”
Like I said, Jamie is a bit trendier than I am ... if something is about to be the hottest thing, she already knows about it. Like she totally brought the Laverne initial monogram back before everyone else did. She sewed a hot-pink “J” on an old black cashmere sweater and I told her she was crazy for ruining her sweater, and before I knew it, people were paying hundreds for the same look! But honestly, I'm wondering if she's losing her touch, 'cause everyone at the table looks as confused as I feel.
“I told you she wouldn't get it.” Jamie's husband, the practical one, says. Bryan appreciates and adores Jamie, but it's definitely a case of opposites attracting.
“Shut up, Bryan—it's an awesome surprise ... she'll get it.”
“Molly, don't you get it? (A little louder and slower than before)
World's Greatest Aunt
. (pause) Oh Jeez ... you're going to be World's Greatest Aunt because I'm going to be World's Greatest Mom,” she says as she squeals with delight.
Everyone around the table starts buzzing with conversation but it takes me a minute to catch on ... then I realize. This is a prank. It's a roast. It's a big, cruel joke on me because I'm single and thirty and live alone with a cat that I talk to. Maybe I've had too much wine, but truly I think it's the brutality of the situation that causes my eyes to fill with tears. Jamie glows as she informs everyone, “She gets it! She gets it!!”
“Yes, I get it, Jamie ... and it's the meanest thing I've ever seen,” I say, trying, fruitlessly, to hold back tears. “I asked you all to be sensitive that today is my thirtieth birthday. . . and of everyone here—no offense, everyone else—I thought you, my sister, would be the most sensitive. Haha ... I get your joke. It's hysterical. ‘World's Greatest Aunt' because I'll never get married, I'll never have children, and I'll never be ‘World's Greatest Mom.'”
Jamie's face looks stricken ... apparently her little joke isn't going off like she planned. Good!
“No, Molly ... you will be World's Greatest Mom one day. I'm trying to tell you that you are going to be World's Greatest Aunt in six months. I'm pregnant!”
Suddenly, everyone at the table starts shrieking and cheering. It's all kind of a foggy haze to me. Lauren jumps up and hugs my sister, and Rob and Alex both congregate on Bryan. Everyone is rejoicing—even Claire cracks a smile. My younger sister is pregnant? It's bad enough she got married before I did, but now she's having a baby before I've even met someone?!? I am cruel. I am selfish. I am jealous. And I am drunk. Also, I think I'm hyperventilating. I honestly cannot breathe. I feel like that girl on
The Bachelor
who had some sort of an attack when he didn't give her a stupid rose. Only this is a legitimate reason to have an attack. As I sit there, struggling to breathe, the world goes on around me in slow motion. Everyone is toasting and congratulating. They have forgotten about me, so I get up to leave.

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