Mistakes We Never Made
1 Wednesday Night
(Three days before the wedding)
THE GREAT THING ABOUT TEQUILA IS THAT IT’S NOT JUST A DRINK. IT’S ANactivity.
Lick. Shoot. Suck.
Salt. Tequila. Lime.
And an activity is something we desperately need.
Earlier this afternoon Sybil and I dropped our bags in the cottage we’re sharing, at least until she marries Jamie on Saturday—then I’ll bunk with Nikki. Her eyes had gone wide when I fanned out four identical, laminated copies of our itinerary on the white oak coffee table.
“Emma, this is so… thorough.” And it was.
Complimentary hotel golf carts arrive at 7:10 p.m. Disembark at the Pelican Club at 7:25 p.m. Enjoy sunset and take photos 7:30 p.m.–8:00 p.m. Seated for dinner at 8:15 p.m.
Some might call it anal, but I just call it being prepared.
We had been progressing right on schedule. Five-star dinner: check. Oceanfront views: check. But now, a lull seems to have settled over our party. Full bellies and weak drinks will do that to you. Nikki has been sipping the same glass of rosé for an hour, while Willow nurses a nonalcoholic black pepper mango spritz. And Sybil has barely touched the rosewater and pistachio martini the bartender spent ten minutes concocting.
I covertly glance at my phone. It’s only nine forty-five. This is bordering on pathetic. We’re four women in our prime. Well, that is, if you consider “prime” to mean heartbroken (Nikki), pregnant (Willow), and possibly about to be fired (me). But no one can deny that Sybil is a woman in her prime, and this night was supposed to be about her. The wedding had come together in such a whirlwind that we didn’t have time for a real bachelorette, but I had at least hoped that the Core Four coming to Malibu a day early for the festivities would allow us one unforgettable night to toast away Sybil’s singledom. After mentally flipping through my itinerary of activities for the evening to see if there was anything I could shuffle around to revive our flagging group, there was only one option.
“I’m going to get us tequila shots!” I stand and adjust the sweetheart neckline of my most recently purchased Reformation sundress, brushing at the wrinkles.
Nikki perks up a bit. “I would do a shot.”
“We’re all going to do one. It’s tradition.” We do shots whenever one of us has a big win or life event. We did them when Nikki got picked to go on the reality show LovedBy, when I got my first big design job, when Willow got married last year. I’d even scheduled it to make sure we didn’t forget: 11:15 p.m. tequila shots. We had to have shots for Sybil’s wedding. She may have been engaged three times, but she’s only going to get married once. “Sybil, you’re drinking Willow’s too. I’ll be right back, and then we can play the game!”
Sybil’s eyes narrow. “What game?”
“It was on the itinerary!” I call over my shoulder, already halfway to the bar. “You’re gonna love it.”
The bartender—a white guy in his early thirties—is fairly cute, if only in a this-bun-and-beard-make-up-most-of-my-identity kind of way. I flash the smile that’s worked on bartenders since I was a freshman at the University of Texas trying to convince them that I actually was Carly Mulherin, twenty-two and from Elk City, Oklahoma, not Emma Townsend, an eighteen-year-old Pi Phi from Dallas with a $120 fake ID. It’s been a decade since those desperate days, but we need to get this show on the road, so I crank the charm to eleven.
“My friend Willow says the spritz you made her is the best drink she’s had since finding out she was pregnant,” I tell him, even though what Willow actually said was that it tasted like air freshener and she’d kill for a moscato. Drying a wineglass, the bartender just nods, so I plow ahead. No use wasting charm on an unreceptive audience. “Four tequila shots, please.” While I wait for the bartender to pour our drinks, I take a moment to look at the material of the bar. It’s a bone-colored marble with a sleek waterfall edge that adds a much-needed tension with the more boho vibes of the rest of the decor. I’m surprised that it’s still in such good shape after being outside in the elements. I don’t usually recommend using marble outdoors to my clients since it’s so soft. Maybe it’s brand-new, otherwise I need to ask what sealant they used.
“Unfortunately, I can’t serve shots.”
I look up from the marble. “Pardon?”
“It’s against the hotel’s policy.” He seems entirely too pleased to be telling me the hotel’s policy on alcoholic portioning. I feel the flicker of a challenge, and I fixate on it. I haven’t had a ton of wins lately, but I’m not going back to our table without these shots. We’re going to celebrate Sybil whether this bartender wants to help or not.
“What about four tequilas, neat,” I ask, and shift my smile from friendly to conspiratorial. He looks like he’s about to refuse, so I follow with a kill shot. “That man at the table by the firepit has a glass of whiskey. Neat. It really wouldn’t be fair for us not to have our tequilas neat. Would it?”
He gives me a look that says he isn’t particularly impressed, but must decide it’s not worth the fight.
“I can give you sipping tequila,” he says tightly, turning to the collection of bottles behind him. Instead of pouring the alcohol into shot glasses, he lines up four tulip-shaped glasses.
“This is an aged a?ejo. On the nose, you’ll find a soft bouquet of lemongrass, melon, and a touch of butterscotch.” He unscrews the top. “The palate opens with a hint of charred grapefruit rind, harvest grasses, and a light scent of caramel.” I nod along, as if I have any idea what “harvest grasses” are supposed to taste like. “It finishes with a strong pepper spice.”
“Oh, I love some spice. Could we have four lime wedges?”
He looks at me like only an absolute heathen would shoot his sipping tequila and destroy the aftertaste of “pepper spice” with a wedge of lime.
“I don’t have any limes.”
“Okay, lemon will work.”
“No lemons, either, ma’am.” That gets my attention.
“You’re—are you messing with me?” I plaster on a smile, hoping against hope that this is just a mixologist’s attempt at humor.
“We only use in-season ingredients grown on the property, ma’am.”
“It’s Southern California. Everything is always in season.”
“Limes are a winter fruit. It is June.”
“And y’all couldn’t have gotten some from the grocery store?”
“I take my work very seriously. Some of us care about quality control and our carbon footprints.” It takes him a beat, but he tacks on, “Ma’am.”
That initial flicker of a challenge now roars to life. I have to have a lime. It’s tradition. And not just for the Core Four, but for humanity in general. Salt. Tequila. Lime. It’s practically sacred. I think back to when we arrived at the restaurant, and an idea blossoms. “Isn’t there a giant floral arrangement near the host stand filled with limes?”
A vein above the bartender’s left eyebrow twitches. Victory.
“I have no control over the aesthetic choices of the hotel’s design staff.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to take these glasses of aged jalape?o—”
“A?ejo.”
“Aged a?ejo,” I correct as I clink all four glasses together, “and sip them very slowly. If you could just add this to my tab.”
I’m not about to be bested by some snobby bartender. I’m getting one of those limes.
I turn back toward the table, drinks in hand, to see Sybil perched precariously on the deck railing, chatting with a man who has made his way to our table, drawn like a moth to a flame. He leans in to whisper something in her ear. Sybil tosses her blond hair and shoots him a megawatt smile in response, but then shakes her head and holds up her left hand, the stunning four-carat diamond catching the glow from the bar’s Edison string lights. The man throws a hand to his heart like he’s gutted, and Sybil consoles him, placing her right hand on his shoulder. Which means she now has zero hands on the railing.
“Oh, no, no, no.” My espadrilles are sturdy, but they aren’t built for speed. It’s fifteen feet down to the sand, and a broken-legged Sybil would probably constitute a massive failing of my maid-of-honor duties. The glasses rattle against the slick polished wood of the table as I rush to put them down and reach for Sybil right as she begins to wobble, pulling her back onto the deck.
Sybil’s admirer hovers awkwardly, as if waiting to see if he and Sybil will continue their conversation.
“Great to meet you, Glen,” she says genuinely. “But I’ve got to get back to girls’ night.” The man wanders back to his table, grinning as he reaches his buddies. I’ve seen that look a thousand times before: high off the adrenaline of having mustered up the courage to talk to Sybil in the first place, and feeling like they really hit it off. If only he had gotten to her first, they would have lived happily ever after. Of course, in reality, Sybil could do leagues better than this middle-aged guy with a guacamole stain on his polo, but that’s just how Sybil makes people feel. Special. Chosen. Like her magical light might fall on you, too, if you just stick by her side.
SYBIL AND I METin the cafeteria of Eisenhower Elementary. It was a few weeks after my dad left us, and I was the new girl at school—which was pretty much the worst thing you can be as an eight-year-old. On the first day, Mom sent me wearing a bandanna shirt and a pair of thrifted denim shorts that she had “updated” by sewing on a bright trim with dangling rainbow beads. I’d loved the way they rattled together every time I took a step, like just walking was something worth celebrating. But clutching my red plastic tray and looking around for somewhere to sit, I quickly began to regret my one-of-a-kind ensemble. The other girls all wore those cool scrunchy micro T-shirts and a brand of jeans I’d never heard of. They looked like they’d walked off the pages of a Limited Too catalog, while I looked like my mommy’s arts and crafts project. I sat down alone at the end of a table, beads digging into the backs of my legs, and prayed that the next half hour would go by fast. But then, a bright-eyed blond girl plopped down in the empty seat beside me, snapped open her Lisa Frank lunch box, said, “I like your style. My mom never lets me wear anything cool,” and handed me half of a grasshopper brownie. And that was that. It was like she took my insecurities and recast them into something exceptional. Suddenly, I wasn’t a weirdo in handmade clothes, I had style. I wasn’t alone and friendless, I had Sybil. And ever since that day, I’ve kept her close.
WITH SYBIL FIRMLY BACKin her seat, I motion toward the tequila. “I almost had to commit a felony to get these from the bartender, so you better drink up.”
Nikki looks up from her phone and gives the bartender a predatory once-over. “He’s very pretty.”
“Nikki, no.” Nikki has been tearing through men after her recent breakup. “He’s very insufferable. And besides, I told you, you’ve hit your man-bun quota for the month. Now don’t touch these. I have to go grab a lime.”
Willow gives me a salute. “I will guard them.”
I head out of the bar and back through the restaurant, swiping a saltshaker from one of the tables as I go. Like a woman on a mission, I weave through the white linen tablecloths and rattan chairs, hoping that the Pelican Club patrons don’t notice the slightly wild look of determination in my eyes. I hate it when I find myself typifying the “fiery redhead” cliché, but sometimes I just can’t help it. When I commit to something, I commit. And right now, I’m committed to making sure Sybil’s wedding weekend goes off without a hitch.
I can admit to myself that the maid of honor really should have been Willow. After all, she’s known Sybil the longest—ever since their mothers took a mommy and me music-in-the-park class together twenty-eight years ago. And she’s always so serene and unflappable. She wouldn’t have let her need to best the bartender pull her away from her friends. But the pregnancy hasn’t been easy for her, and I know Sybil didn’t want to add any more stress to her life.
Nikki would have been a great maid of honor, too, or at least pre-breakup Nikki would’ve been. She was there when Sybil first met Jamie and had a front-row seat for all the major milestones in their relationship. But despite the many perfectly posed and flawlessly filtered photos she posts, it’s clear that she’s still hurting from her nationally televised breakup. And still not over Aaron.
In the end, I guess it does make sense that Sybil asked me to be her maid of honor. Our friendship has always functioned on a similar dynamic—Sybil, the glowing star of the show; me, the best friend keeping things on track behind the scenes. I know it might sound like that makes things unbalanced between us, but it’s not like that. She coaxes me out of my comfort zone, and I make sure she has a soft place to land after each wild adventure she embarks on. I take pride in knowing what’s best for Sybil—and all my friends—and making sure she gets it. Right now, what she needs is a lime.
I reach the gorgeous floral arrangement in the entryway. It’s an explosion of greens. Bells of Ireland are a subtle kelly, the magnolia leaves a dark glossy emerald, sprays of eucalyptus are a delicate blue-green pistachio. My mind wanders—could my painter color-match the electric chartreuse of the orchids?—before I remember my mission. There at the bottom of the arrangement, piled high and juicy: limes.
I dart a quick look at the host stand. The woman there smiles back, but the phone rings, and she turns to the tablet in front of her. It’s now or never.
I zone in on a lime right in the middle so as not to affect the symmetry of the arrangement. It’s a bit of a reach to the center of the table, but I think I can make it. Teetering on the toes of my shoes, I realize too late that one pair of my laces has unknotted. Right as my hand closes on a lime, I lose my balance. I pitch myself backward so I don’t topple over onto the arrangement, but before my ass makes contact with the Spanish tile, two warm hands steady my hips, pulling away as soon as I’m stable.
As I turn to thank my rescuer, the smile on my face ices over, but I can still feel the heat of his hands around my waist. Hands I know well. Hands that have skimmed up the bare skin of my calves toward my knee, and—
No. Stop. It’s not like that anymore.
I shut my eyes, as if my lids have the power to change the reality before me.
But when I open them a second later, I’m staring straight into deep brown eyes—dark but flecked with amber so they look like light through a glass of whiskey.
The eyes of none other than Finn frickin’ Hughes.