Porn and the Piano

When Monday arrived, I had successfully avoided seven phone calls from my mother the previous day, leading to seven never-ending messages. The final one saying I “better be dead in my apartment” or I will be when she gets a hold of me for not returning her calls. And I decided I must be dead, and I have entered the gates of hell.

Secretly hoping to startle my sleeping mother, I called her back on my six thirty drive to work. I should have known she was already on her second power-walking mile.

“Finally,” she huffed, answering the phone.

“Good morning to you, Mother.”

“Where have you been?”

“Busy. I do have a life.” Which if you count The Hills marathon on MTV as a life, I was telling the truth.

“Oh please, Mark told me you don’t have a boyfriend.” I could actually hear her arms pumping violently by her side as she walked.

“Mark? How would Mark know if I had a boyfriend?” And why the hell was she talking to Mark about my boyfriend…or lack of boyfriend?

“I don’t know. Do you think maybe he still cares for you?” Her act of naiveté was nauseating at this hour.

“No, Mother. He does not. I have to go. I’m pulling into work.”

“Dinner tonight. Seven o’clock.”

“Okay,” I sighed, defeated too much, too early in the day.

“Excellent. Enjoy your day.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I grumbled, hanging up the phone.

I teach high school English at a public school five minutes away from the private school I attended. I am not the young, white woman who walked into the low-income, gang-infested, high minority populated inner-city school. Which do make for great Lifetime movies, don’t get me wrong. But if you are imagining Freedom Writers, remove Hilary Swank’s pearls, multiply her one racially diverse class by five, add a district and state curriculum, subtract McDreamy (who I always find more McWhiny), and you have a truer idea of what my job entails. I do want to make a difference; I don’t think you could be a teacher without wanting to help others. And I have written my share of letter s to judges and probation officers as well as watch female students’ stomachs grow for nine months. And I teach freshmen. But I think this is what all teachers experience, even those teaching in a suburb of Houston like myself.

I walked through the main entrance and was immediately hit by the smell of high school. I have been to many high schools, and they all smell the same. The deodorantless. The cafeteria food. The antiqued textbooks. The decades worth of gum under desks. The chalk and the markers. The fresh paint covering whatever teenagers thought wall or stall worthy. The gym clothes and sack lunches left in lockers. The symphony of smells creating the breath of high school.

Dragging a bag full of essays I never got around to grading, I made my way to my classroom. I had just thrown the pile onto my desk when Kim, the ex-lawyer, tell it how it is, don’t mess with me, burst through my open door.

“Check your email,” she declared, walking across the room and turning my computer on for me.

“What? What now?” I asked, dreading another email from administration.

“No, nothing bad. More funny. For us, anyways,” she smiled.

We both sat in silence as I opened my email.

“What’s going on?” a voice came from the doorway.

“Jenny, you have to see this,” Kim answered. Jenny, mother of three, my second (more motherly) mother, walked over, now looking over my shoulder, and we peered into the monitor with jaws dropped.

“Oh. My. God,” I laughed in disbelief. In front of our eyes was footage of our head football coach in what looked like the first moments of a low-budget pornographic film.

“I could show you some moves off the field,” he whispered to his co-star, moving closer and tossing his clipboard to the side as the unoriginal strip tease music began. “And I won’t be fumbling in balls.”

“Ohhh,” we all yelled, minimizing the screen before giving Coach a chance to further explain his game plan.

“Where did you get this?” Jenny asked, gaping at the now pornless screen.

“It was sent to all faculty and staff late last night. I just came from the front office, hoping to hear who exactly knew about this, when Dr. August rushed into his office and slammed the door,” Kim shared.

“So, I guess he knows,” I laughed. Dr. August is our rumored bipolar, dictionary walking, Michael Scottish principal.

“I wonder if it is on the news yet.” Jenny opened the News 2 Houston website, scanning for the story.

“If it isn’t there yet, it will be by lunch,” Kim offered.

And she was right. In between classes all day, fellow teachers pretended to monitor students while in reality they gossiped in the hallway. My pile of essays to grade did not even lessen by one, for my conference period was spent watching and re-watching the one and a half minute porno clip or the breaking news story on all of Houston’s local networks with the crowd gathered in the English office.

The football coach was given paid leave, until an investigation was completed, and by a show of hands, an overwhelming majority of English teachers decided they, too, would have volunteered to participate in porn if they’d known paid leave was in their future.

The day skipped quickly along as they always do when you are dreading the night. And a wedding planning dinner with my mother was definitely something to dread.

A slate stone path weaves through my parents’ perfectly landscaped front yard. I always feel so small jumping from one stone to the next, because I can never bring myself to allow my short legs their comfortable gait and step on the grass between stones.

The front door was unlocked, and I wasn’t surprised to find the house empty; my mother adores showing off her jungle of a backyard. I followed the grand crescendo of voices out the back door and was greeted with an overzealous soprano.

“Becca!” my mother sang over the small crowd. “Finally the maid of honor has arrived!” Maybe it is me, but I swear my mother emphasized “maid.”

“Hi. Hello. Hi,” I greeted the many faces now welcoming me.

My mother glided over, kissing my cheek, and whispering, “Would it kill you to wear something cheerful?”

“It’s a dress.” I looked down, frantically trying to smooth the wrinkles out of the silk dress.

“It’s navy,” she whined.

“Mother, stop!” I urged between closed teeth as she, too, began pulling at my dress.

“Becca, I don’t think you’ve met everyone,” Emily called, waving us over to the party and probably hoping we would leave the insanity behind. No such luck. “This is Jacob’s brother Ian.”

Standing before me was the same crumpled hair guy to whom I had confessed an odor of shit at the brunch on Saturday.

“Oh, we’ve met.” I didn’t know until this moment that every ounce of blood in your body could rush to your head, and not only will you live, you won’t even pass out.

“Not formally. It’s nice to meet you, Becca,” he smiled. And as he leaned in to shake my hand, he whispered so that only I could hear, “You smell nice tonight.”

“Right,” was all that came out, and I looked down, avoiding his blue eyes. He wore brown leather flip-flops, and his toes sprouted scarce fields of brown hairs.

I needed a drink, so I excused myself and made my way to the bar back inside the house.

“Pour me one, too,” Meredith demanded as she threw down her purse on the kitchen counter. “How long have you been here?”

“A couple minutes. Long enough.” I poured Meredith’s scotch and handed it to her.

We stood in silence, taking large gulps of alcohol.

“Let’s just go and get it over with,” I offered. But before walking back to the party, we refilled our glasses.

“At least your funeral ensemble is fitting this time,” Meredith giggled, laughing at her own joke. “Except I’m not completely sure whose funeral it is yet.”

The dinner wasn’t as torturous as I feared. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was awful, but there were some positives. I didn’t have to sit by Meredith all evening; crumpled hair, blue eyed Ian took care of that for me. I was also far enough away from my mother that I could only hear every other word she said. But yes, the wedding talk was endless. So after dessert and the last of many drinks, I quietly vanished from the roar of color schemes and photographers and possible rehearsal locations to the only peace found in my parents’ house: the piano.

I pulled the bench from underneath the piano’s belly, and it growled against the oak floors below as if reprimanding my long absence. I sat gently, sliding a little as my silk dress made contact with the polished wood. Slipping the cover off to reveal the black and white keys, I automatically corrected my slouching posture and stared at the silver framed photographs that decorate the instrument. In every picture, Emily, Meredith, or I are posing in front of various pianos and holding trophies or medals and wearing pink dresses trimmed in lace. Always pink.

Before deciding what to play, my fingers took control, and they quickly danced across the surface of the black and white alley, flirting with each key momentarily before meeting the next, toying with each individual sound. I then started to intensify the sound by violently striking the notes. The more profound the chord, the more I disappeared into the music. My heart conformed to the new beat. My blood flowed within the new rhythm. My thoughts slid through my fingertips and exploded into fireworks of echoes overhead.

“How long have you played?”

The voice immediately and painfully shocked my core, causing the levity of my spirit to sink. My fingers froze, losing all musicality, and the last sound reverberating through the vaulted ceilings mirrored the first chords a two year old creates with delight.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ian offered.

“Oh, that’s okay. I just…I just didn’t hear anyone come in,” I smiled weakly and started to grab the cover to contain the keys and my awkwardness.

“Don’t stop,” Ian insisted and sat down on the edge of the piano bench. I started to slide over, but he stopped me before I could. “I’m good,” he assured.

“Are you sure?”

“”Yeah, yeah,” he waved away my question. “Play something.”

“Uh…I don’t know…like what?” I hate that good looking men scare the crap out of me.

“Whatever you were playing before,” Ian offered.

“What was I playing?” I honestly didn’t know.

Ian laughed—with me or at me, I wasn’t quite sure.

I started to play a Chopin concerto, knowing it was not, however, what I had been playing before.

“How long have you been playing?” he asked over the soft chords and intricate but delicate melody.

“Forever.”

We sat silently until the final notes faded, allowing the music to have the sole voice.

However, I quickly shoved the silence away, “Did I miss anything outside?”

“No, just more wedding talk,” he over annunciated his words, clearly sharing my frustration. “Oh, except your sister Meredith has all but said she is willing to have sex with me tonight,” he smiled.

“Oh, well…God.” I couldn’t take the insanity anymore. I dropped my elbows onto the piano keys, creating a sound of thunder, and held my head, burying my face. “Why can’t we be normal?” I groaned.

Ian laughed again as I continued, now looking into his blue sea of eyes. “No, seriously. Who does that? Who offers sex to their sisters’ fiancé’s brother when they’ve just met? Who offers sex to anyone when their entire family is in earshot? Who? We’re all insane.” If he hadn’t been laughing, I would have been completely sure that he thought I was a lunatic, but now I was only sure he thought I was a complete lunatic but one with a sense of humor.

“There’s no such thing as normal, let alone a normal family,” Ian offered with a smile. God, he is cute.

“That’s not true. Look at your family. Your mom isn’t practically ripping your clothes off in efforts of de-wrinkling you, as if that is your biggest problem. Your sibling isn’t basically selling a ‘buy one hour of hot sex and get the second one free’ to any of the other guests at the party. And you…you aren’t ranting to a perfect stranger,” I finally stopped to breathe.

“You’re right, but not all of our family is here tonight,” he started. “We have a sister. And if I’m the black sheep in the family that would make her a neon flashing light.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you ask my parents, they will have a well rehearsed story, but the truth is, my younger sister dropped out of college and is now working at an organic farm in California with her girlfriend.”

“Oh,” I was pleasantly surprised. And we both started laughing at my obvious relief that other families had problems.

“My mother would die.”

“See?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

And then, we fell silent. I could hear the voices from outside; my mother’s the loudest. But I pushed it all aside and thought, kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me. My pathetic, lonely mantra.

“Becca! Are you in hear?” I heard my mother call from the backyard.

“Yeah. Coming,” I called back and stood to leave. But as I started to walk away, I turned back and said, “Don’t have sex with my sister.”

“Okay,” he smiled.

Bitches and Poodles

Torn between being a bitch and a sister, I retreated to the backyard. I guess the bitch won. Even the walls of this modern fortress couldn’t block the noise from within. I took a deep breath, ran through all the excuses I could possibly make for a sudden, unannounced departure, and after realizing none of the excuses would work, took another deep breath.

Re-smelling the dog shit on my shoe, I began searching for a garden hose, walking carefully in order to avoid further poodle infestation. After a few minutes spent in the bushes, I finally found one. But my feeling of accomplishment was short lived as I realized the hose was not connected to the spout, and a spout was no where in sight. In frustration I marched myself out of the bushes, slightly tripping as I stepped back onto the beaten path.

“Fuck this shit,” I yelled, pulling off my black flats and throwing them into the swimming pool.

“You’ve always had a way with words.”

I wheeled around to find my overly tan, overtly confident ex-boyfriend, Mark.

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged and then smiled, brushing my hair back into submission with my fingers.

“Your shoes are in the pool,” he smiled and walked toward me.

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged again.

“You were in the bushes.”

“Again, you know.” But not even I wholly knew.

“Yeah, sometimes.” I always felt like Mark could read my mind, look right through me. It terrified me. It was one of the reasons we broke up.

“Did you just get here?” I asked, trying to block my mind from his supernatural powers.

“Yeah. Did I miss anything good? I hope not the dance train,” he laughed.

“No, not the train. But Emily’s now engaged,” I tried to look happy for her. But who was I kidding, this was Mark I was talking to.

“No, shit,” he said with an air of disbelief.

“No, definitely shit,” I sighed, glancing at my shoes floating in the pool. “I better get back inside. You know, sister of the newly engaged and all.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

“So do we like him? What’s his name? Jacob?” Mark always used “we.” “We” went to this party. “We” bought this C.D. “We, we, we.” It was another reason “we” broke up.

“Uh…he’s okay. Meredith hates him, but…”

“But Meredith hates any guy you two date,” Mark finished, again with the all-knowing.

Mark held the door open for me as I took another deep breath and re-entered the party. I saw a large crowd near the stone fire place in the living room, and I assumed Emily and Jacob were the eye of the hurricane.

“I should go find Em,” I said over my shoulder, and Mark nodded and motioned me to go.

As I desperately tried to make my way to Emily, I was stopped and congratulated by the guests at the party. “Aren’t you thrilled?” I was asked. “Were you surprised?” “When do you think the wedding will be?” I wondered if Meredith was being asked these questions, or if because I was the eldest sister, I received such questions. I answered with smiles and shrugs, clinging to the hope I wasn’t as transparent as I felt.

Finally, Emily.

“Hey” was all I could get out. Emily hugged me, and I think I hugged back.

“Oh, don’t be mad I didn’t tell you last night, but Jacob thought it would be so much fun to announce it at the party since his parents would be here too. Can you believe it? I’m engaged. Me! Engaged! To be married!” Emily reminded me that we were related to Meredith after all.

“I know” was, again, all I could manage.

With so many bidding for Emily and Jacob’s attention, I bowed out, telling Emily I’d talk to her after the party. I found Meredith at the bar when I re-emerged from the mosh pit.

“She’s only known him four fucking months,” was my greeting.

“We need to be supportive.” I’m a fucking hypocrite.

“Supportive? Supportive? He’s awful!” She was loud, but luckily the euphoria of the announcement was louder.

“Meredith! Stop! God, what if Emily hears you?” I looked around, making sure the coast was clear. We both stood silently, drinking and watching the joy we should have been illustrating.

“Mark’s here,” Meredith finally said, continuing to stare into the crowd.

“I saw him.” I reached over the bar and grabbed an opened bottle of champagne. At first the bartender gave me the same shocked look. “Give me a fucking break,” I glared back. He turned bright red, and I felt like even more of an idiot. He probably wasn’t even twenty years old. I poured more champagne into Meredith’s glass. “I can’t believe Mother still invites my ex-boyfriends to her parties.”

“I can’t believe they still come,” Meredith hiccupped.

Who was I kidding? Boyfriends, plural? I have had only one sex partner in my twenty-five year existence. Mark. Some would assume, including my sisters and mother, I must be a hopeless romantic or a prude, but I’m neither. I am still not quite sure what I am, but I know not that.

“Speaking of…” Meredith motioned to Mark walking our toward us.

“Did you find her?” Mark asked, walking toward us. “Hey, Meredith.”

“Yeah,” I replied. Meredith just raised her eyebrows in response.

“He seems like a nice guy,” Mark offered, taking the champagne bottle out of my hand and giving it back to the bartender.

Meredith and I both grunted, and the subject that didn’t even take off was grounded.

Mark tried to converse again, “Meredith, I know this guy you might like.”

Meredith downed the last of her champagne and walked away without a word.

My family and I have always apologized for Meredith’s behavior. As the baby of the family, we have always allowed behavior that was unacceptable for the rest of us. So even at twenty-two, I found myself offering an excuse on her behalf, “She’s having a bad day.” And then I added for my behalf, “No one has complimented her new dress.”

The rest of the brunch was a long, slow migraine. With too much champagne on an empty stomach, my goal changed from “happy, older sister” to “don’t vomit in public.” The last guest took their leave at three as I was starting to wonder what my mother would serve for dinner if the guests remained.

Meredith made an excuse and left around two, something about work, which I greatly doubted. Even Emily and Jacob left around two thirty. I would have followed them out had my mother not guilt me into staying.

“But your not leaving too, are you, Becca? All my daughters leaving me.” And I swear to God, she was teary eyed.

“I’ll stay only if you promise to feed me,” and I slouched onto the couch exhausted. “Where’d Dad disappear to?”

“Oh, I told him to go figure out how much we can spend on this wedding.” Her tears were gone as she mentally transported herself to the world of party bliss. “Grab an apple or something and come with me to walk the dogs.”

“I’m not going with you. You don’t walk the dogs. It’s embarrassing,” I whined as only a daughter can whine to their mother—juvenile and guilt free.

“I do too walk the dogs. Oh, come on. Do this one thing for your mom.”

“Fine” and I dropped my head backwards onto the couch cushion before rising to “walk” the dogs.

I climbed into the passenger seat of my mother’s light blue Lexus SUV, which cost roughly what I make in an entire year. With the garage door opened, the two unleashed poodles took down the street as my mother climbed into the driver’s seat and quickly pulled out of the driveway.

“Come! This way! Come! Peaches! Pumpkin!” my mother yelled out her rolled down window at the dogs.

As we slowly made our way around the block in the SUV, the poodles ran by its side. My mother having to encourage them with her yells, occasionally waving at neighbors in their yards or correctly walking their own dogs. I propped my arm on the door and rubbed my forehead to hide my face, hoping to remain anonymous from the onlookers who found this “walk” as absurd as I did.

“There is so much to do for the wedding,” my mother said as we pulled back into the garage, poodles following. And there it was—my biggest fear and expectation.

“Have they set a date?” I asked, wondering how many acts this circus was going to be able to squeeze in.

“No, but they’re hoping for sooner than later.”

I always knew Emily had a kind soul.

If you look like shit and smell like shit...

I arose to the sound of my neighbor’s snores seeping through my bedroom floor Saturday morning. He’s attractive in an Abercrombie and Fitch kind of way, so I forgave the snores, but not for the fact he actually works at Abercrombie and Fitch. “Maybe he’s an undercover documentary maker preparing for his next project, ‘Half Naked Youth, Soulless and Brainless,’” my sister Emily offered. But no, he also drives an F150.

The only true conversation we have had wasn’t a conversation at all:

It was the decent thing to do. But not completely sure I was decent, I knocked anyways. It was late, but I could see light escaping from between the complex’s cheap mini blinds. He answered the door with a “What the hell?” look as I stood framed in the bright doorway.

“Your keys,” was all I could get out. His eyes narrowed in confusion. “You left your keys in the door.” And I unnaturally jabbed in the direction of the open door.

“Oh” was his only reply.

“Yeah” was mine.

Since then, we are on a head nod/arm raise bases. Abercrombie will noncommittally nod in my direction with no effort of a “hello.” And I will raise my arm in the air in reply with no effort to even wave it side to side.

Intimate.

I slid out of bed before realizing my entire left leg was still having pleasant dreams, unaffected by the snores. As a result I quickly melt to the ground, yelping in pain as my leg felt like nails were exploding from its core. “Fuck” naturally came out.

And on my bedroom floor lying as still as I could be, willing blood to quickly reach my left set of toes, I noticed the snoring had stopped. And I smiled, hoping my fall had awoken Abercrombie as his snores had arisen me. The sound of a toilet flushing a minute later confirmed my hopes. And although I was still confined to the floor, I glowed with vengeful glee.

I showered as quickly as I could, deciding no one would see nor touch any place needing shaving, so once again, I skipped that chore. As I wrapped the white terry cloth around my body, I avoided looking into the mirror in case the steam was not solid. I never like the way I look. Even when I feel good. Even when I feel beautiful or sexy. The vision in my mind is always better than the reality. So why ask Reality to visit?

My cell phone rang and vibrated itself off my bedside table. Uncharacteristically I answered before checking who the caller was.

“What are you wearing?” the voice asked before my questioned “hello” fully sounded.

“Presently?”

“I’m wearing that red dress. You know. The one I got last weekend. The one I texted you about.” My younger sister Meredith likes to ask questions without waiting for the answers. She also likes texting pictures of clothing she was considering buying. I never looked at the pictures. Instead, offered adjectives based on my mood at the time. “Ravishing” when I was hungry. “Dreamy” when I was tired. “Bitchin’ dress” when I thought she was literally a “bitch in a dress.”

“Oh. Bitchin’ dress.”

“I know. So what time do I need to be there?”

“Uh…”

“Is Emily bringing him?” She stressed “him” to show her disgust and to dramatize the fact she refused to say his name.

“Well…”

“Honestly, I don’t know what she sees in him. I mean, sure, the money. Shit, I mean, he has a lot of money. But even I wouldn’t, you know, for money. She can’t love him, can she?”

“I…”

“Shit, no. She can’t. Right?”

“I…”

“Right. Okay, kid.” She always calls me kid as if I were the baby in the family. “I’ll see you there. The dress is even better in person.”

I didn’t even try to say “bye.” I reminded myself that she is young. Immature. Baby-like. Any other synonym that would make me feel above her in more than just years. But in the end, I felt this was going to be an awful day.

I continued to get ready, considering for a moment wearing red, but thinking the “bitchin’dress” would never let me forget it, so I pulled on khaki pants and a simple charcoal colored blouse.

My mother adored parties slightly more than her daughters. I only hated this fact when I was on the guest list. Today’s party was a Sunday brunch in celebration of, well, nothing in particular. And like all my mother’s parties, alcohol consumption was my life vest in the seas of awkward conversations, set-ups, and drunken come-ons.

I pulled into the long driveway of my parents’ house thankful no one had blocked the entrance, for the street was lined with guests’ cars. It’s not the house my sisters and I grew up in; as unusual as my parents, they traded-up their home for more space when we all moved out. The six bedroom home has a Southern mansion feel with large decorative columns on the white façade. Not my taste.

I let myself in through the back gate, hoping to get a good look at the guests for possible danger zones to avoid and to down a quick mimosa or two. Looking through the outside of the overly draped windows, I saw my father passionately talking to a woman wearing different shades of pink and a man with a bow tie. He vigorously waved his hands around as if he was drowning in the conversation and frantically trying to reach the surface. My mother with her perfect posture was a few steps away, and she intently listened to a woman with big hair standing next to her.

I continued to make my way to the back door, traipsing through my mother’s flower beds when, “Shit.” Literally.

I found the closest potted plant, lifted my foot to the rim, and scraped the bottom of my shoe clean. Fucking poodles.

“You always look like your going to a fucking funeral.”

“Nice to see you too,” I replied dryly, dropping my foot back to the ground.

“So do you love the dress or what?” Meredith threw her arms in the air as if she had just landed a quadruple fucking axel, and I was pleased to see the “bitchin’ dress” had deodorant marks.

I ignored her question and asked one instead, “Did you just get here?”

“No, I was inside and saw you. Emily’s here too, and she brought him.”

I stepped passed Meredith and entered the house. She was right behind me, and it reminded me of how Emily and I used to run and hide from her when we were kids just to have a moment’s peace. Now I didn’t need to hide, but find a good looking man for her to flirt with. As I scanned the room for Emily, I kept an eye out for a Meredith distraction.

“Oh my God, look at how skinny Chelsea is,” Meredith didn’t mind talking even if it was to the back of someone’s head. “She’s anorexic,” she added wistfully. “She is so beautiful now.”

I rolled my eyes and increased the speed of my search.

“There they are,” Meredith said, pointing to the balcony above. We maneuvered through the many people we didn’t know, smiling at those we have met, and asking “How are you?” to the ones we knew well but not well enough to wait for a reply.

Emily was standing hand and hand with Jacob, the man formerly known as “him.” She was smiling and nodding in the direction of the older couple with whom they were conversing, stopping every once and awhile to genuinely laugh at a comment. The couple, probably in their fifties, looked familiar, but I couldn’t recall their names or relation to my parents.

“Becca!” Emily smiled, waving us over. “Where have you been?”

We hugged, and I shook hands with Jacob. And I turned to the older couple, hoping someone would re-introduce us.

“Becca, you remember Jacob’s parents,” Emily said, reading my mind.

“Oh, hello. It’s nice to see you again.” That’s why they looked familiar—Jacob’s parents.

“Becca’s the late one. Mom jokes she was even late to her own birth—three weeks past her due date,” Emily laughed, less genuine this time. It was an awful story. Not funny or interesting at all. And I was surprised to learn that she must be nervous.

“Traffic,” I explained with a shrug. “Today. Not in the birthing canal,” I added quickly. I guess I was nervous too but had no idea why. But the Roberts are nice people, and they laughed. A little forced, but none the less, laughed.

After a few more moments of awkward small talk, I excused myself in search of a drink. Meredith tried to come along, but Mrs. Roberts asked her a question, making her departure impossible at the moment.

I made my way to the bar, trying to make as little eye contact as possible to avoid guests I might know and be forced to stop and talk to.

Squeezing between a table of fruit trays and a man who at a previous party started a dance train, I found my heart’s desire.

“A mimosa, please,” I told the bar tender. When he picked up a champagne flute, I asked if there were any larger glasses. He just stared at me with his mouth slightly open. “Nevermind. That’s great,” I whispered, waving away my request, slightly embarrassed.

“I guess it’s too early to be serving the good stuff,” a deep voice behind me said. I turned to see a scruffy haired man in jeans and a faded t-shirt. He seemed out of place in this stuffy, grey-haired, diamond trotting, smoke piping room.

“Well, my grandfather always says it’s five o’clock somewhere.” Fuck. I sound like an idiot. And I downed my mimosa and turned to the bartender for another one.

“It was my grandmother who said it in my family,” the same deep voice behind me said. With a fresh mimosa in hand, I turned and smiled. “So do all rich people have brunches that include a bartender but no pancakes in sight?” His eyes were piercingly blue. The circular borders were a few shades darker than the cores of the eyes as if a child had outlined the circumference to ensure staying within the lines.

“They drink their meals,” I explained.

“You included?” he asked, crumpling his hair, and I wondered if he was flirting with me. I shook myself out of that let down waiting to happen to realize I had just found a Meredith distraction.

“When in Rome,” a cliché and a drunk, smooth.

“Right,” he smiled and crumpled his hair again. “This may be a weird question but does it smell like shit in here to you?”

“Oh God.” I lifted up my shoe. “It’s me.”

His eyes widened as he looked from my feet to every square inch of the room to avoid my eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed for saying something or embarrassed for me for smelling like shit. I didn’t wait to find out. “Fuck. Excuse me.”

I quickly made my way to the back door, when I heard Jacob’s voice echoing through the entire house. “Excuse me, everyone. May I have your attention?” You’ve got to be kidding me? He’s not. Not him. “Since we are all gathered here, I wanted to share with you all, well…” Shit. Shit. “Last night, I asked Emily to marry me. And she agreed to make me the happiest man on this earth.” He leaned over and gently kissed the blushing Emily. The guests clapped and cheered with sophistication, calling out phrases like “bravo” and “here, here.” Across the room, for the first time in her life, Meredith was speechless. My mother glowed as I’m sure she visualized the many parties she would now need to throw. My dear father had tears in his eyes, his arms lay quietly by his side.

And I, I smelled like I felt.