Chapter 20 Eight Hours to the Winnipeg Petco
Eight Hours to the Winnipeg Petco
Monday, Now
“I’m dead. I died last night. This is my ghost.”
Petey might be thrilled to see us, but Laurel is visibly hungover, though still adorable in a pink halter dress and her largest pair of sunglasses.
“I might be a ghost too,” I respond, sinking into the camping chair beside her.
“Did Ethan kill you with his penis?”
I shush her. “How did you know Ethan and I…”
“I didn’t.” Her pleased grin is so big and white, I can hardly look at it. “But now I do. Holy shit!”
I should play it cool, but I can’t suppress the goofy smile that’s been permanently plastered on my face since last night. “Keep your voice down.”
“This is major.” She sits up excitedly, before her hangover sends her back into the depths of the nylon chair.
“Do you need coffee?” I ask, moving my hand to block the blinding light that’s refracting off the pond.
“Harlow made me some already. That beautiful baby angel of a woman.”
I lower my own shades. “Still drunk?”
She shakes her head. “Feeling sappy on my wedding day.”
The wedding.
All at once, I realize that this is it. We’re alone. Her guard is down. This might be my last chance.
“You don’t have to get married today if you don’t feel well,” I tell her. Hardly my final thesis statement, but it’s an inoffensive start.
She swats away my concern with the flick of her wrist and settles deeper into her camp chair. “No, if we don’t do it today, it’ll be this thing on our to-do list forever. I’d rather do it now while it still feels right.”
“That makes it sound like it’ll feel wrong later.”
Before Laurel can respond, Harlow bounces in with that Russell guy, whom she apparently shared her tent with after he socked me in the face with his scrotum.
“We’re going to hunt for Wi-Fi before the ceremony,” she informs me. “Do you need to call into the office again?”
“Uh, maybe later,” I respond. “I’m kind of hoping Bob’ll find a way to survive a single workday without me.”
“Way to set a boundary, Char.” Laurel’s tone is sharp, and it stings me a little.
My voice falters. “It’s better than nothing.”
“Do you know what you’re wearing?” Harlow asks us.
I point to my boxer shorts and band tee. “This.”
“You’re not wearing that,” Laurel objects.
I tug at my outfit. “What’s wrong with it?
” It’s not the most functional camping ensemble.
There’s a disconcerting breeze coming through the cotton boxers, and my denim baseball cap with “Ciao” embroidered over the bill costs more than is appropriate for attire I’ll be wearing to poop in a hole, but otherwise, I’ve done pretty well given the circumstances.
“It’s a T-shirt, and it’s white . I’m not even wearing white.”
I look down at my shirt. “It’s more of a cream,” I argue weakly.
“What else did you pack?” She wrestles the bag off my shoulder.
“My clothes had a run-in at a truck stop.”
Fabric falls onto the nylon chair as she rummages. “Why didn’t you pack anything nice?”
“I packed clothes appropriate for camping.”
“?‘SEXY MOTHER TRUCKER’? Is that supposed to be a reference to Petey’s upper-thigh tattoo?”
A derisive laugh spews from my mouth. I try to cover it with a cough but it’s too late. “No,” I say honestly. “I didn’t know about that one. I swear.”
“Is this funny to you? This is my wedding. You invited yourself to my wedding and didn’t bring anything to wear.”
“I didn’t think…” That it was actually happening. I stop myself from saying it, but she sees the words written all over my face.
“I knew it.” My bag shakes in her hands. “I wanted to think I was being crazy, and that maybe, for once, you could support me without needing to control everything. But no. You’ve been trying to corner me since the second you showed up here, because you don’t want me to be happy.”
“Of course I want you to be happy! But are you sure this wedding’s a good idea?” I hate myself for the way her face falls. “It’s just that…you don’t exactly have the best track record with guys.”
“Peter’s not a guy ,” she argues.
“No, he’s just the guy you were reeling from when I drove eight hours to rescue you from a Petco in Winnipeg.”
My sister’s jaw clenches. “You couldn’t wait to throw Petco in my face.”
“I was searched at the border at two in the morning. That’s not when the nice customs agents are on shift, in case you were curious.”
Harlow moves her lips but ultimately deserts our battleground without a word.
“That was eight years ago,” Laurel yells, throwing up her hands as though I’m the ridiculous one in this situation. “Move on!”
“Oh, I get it.” Blood boils up into my ears. I’m absolutely seething. “Because you gave me a Target gift card with thirty-three dollars left on it, I’m supposed to be over that by now?”
This is the scorched-earth way Laurel and I always fight each other.
Nothing’s off-limits. Every artifact of our childhood is primed to be excavated.
Every argument is about everything , which means everything can hinge on the smallest bit of nothing.
When you share a life with someone, it’s impossible to let go of all the tiny little nothings when it counts.
“I’m not that person anymore. People change, Charley. Maybe you don’t change, but other people do. I see it every time you look at me. You’re waiting for me to—”
“To do something crazy and dramatic like marry your high school boyfriend in the woods?” My question is rhetorical. And cold-blooded. But I can’t help myself. Fighting with my family always throws me into a fugue state of immature, unbridled bitchiness.
“No. You’re waiting for me to be a mess. I think you’re hoping for it. If I’m the mess and you’re not, then we all fit into the same neat little piles we have since we were kids and you never have to question anything about your life.”
I look around for someone to jump in and referee, but everyone’s very busy pretending to be very busy.
“I’m not…That’s not…” I breathe in deep.
I need to de-escalate this if I’m going to have any shot of getting through to her.
“I don’t think you’re a mess, Laur. I think this is a mess. It’s messy.”
“You think Peter and I are messy? You and Ethan just rebuilt your friendship, and last night you were screwing each other in the back of a van! Now that’s messy.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I fire back, swallowing the scream attempting to break free from my throat.
She’s so off base. She’s deflecting. She always does this.
It’s why fighting with her is infuriating.
She’s infuriating. How did this flip-turn into a dressing-down of me and my life choices?
“Oh, so you’re not going to cut him off again when he starts being honest with you?”
“That’s not…” Her accusation leaves me speechless. My fingers tingle with a mixture of white-hot rage and panic. I’m terrified, I’m rabid, and she’s calm in the most maddening way. “This isn’t about me and Ethan. This is about you and—”
“Do you seriously think I don’t know Ethan’s side of everything? Your bachelorette party? The wedding?”
Ethan’s side of everything. The fragment worms its way inside my brain and burrows through all rational thought. The world pulses. My eyes dart to Ethan, but he’s glaring at Laurel.
“Lo,” he cautions her, coming around from the other side of the tent. He and Petey have been right there this whole time, within earshot. The whole Superior National Forest is within earshot the way we’re shouting. “Stop. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I don’t? You really think this time she’s going to give up her life and move into your van with you?” She’s refusing to let up, unrelenting, as each question presses against my breastbone like a forty-pound weight.
“That’s enough, Lo.” Ethan holds up a hand.
“Babe,” Petey starts, seeming to recognize his fiancé at risk of going too far.
She throws up her arms. “Forget it. I need to clear my head.” I watch Laurel march to the edge of the lake and plop herself into a kayak.
“Seriously?” My hands find my hips as we continue to devolve into our teenage selves. This argument might as well be a time machine. “Very mature, Laurel.”
I look frantically between Ethan and Laurel, not sure where the most immediate damage lies. “I’m sorry. She just—”
He pulls his arms across his chest. “It’s okay. Go. We can talk later.” His voice isn’t remotely reassuring, but for now, it’s enough encouragement for me to do what I need to do.
I grab an empty kayak and paddle after my sister.
—
“Where are you going?” I yell once I’m finally within shouting distance. My shoulders are burning from the water’s resistance and we’ve barely been at this for a few minutes.
Her gaze shoots over her shoulder. The paddle she’s wielding almost drops into the water. “Jesus! You scared me.”
“You can’t row away from me,” I call out. “We were talking.”
“ You were talking.”
“You had a lot to say about me too, if you recall.” Frustrated breaths expel from my throat with each stroke. “Can you stop? I’ve already lost one person this year over a particularly revelatory rowing incident and it’s not happening again.”
“This is a kayak.”
She turns herself around to better berate me, paddling backward without missing a stroke, leading me to wonder if this is something she does recreationally. Does my sister like to kayak now? Why didn’t she tell me about it? Or did she tell me and I wasn’t listening?
“Why can’t you be happy for me?” Her question skitters across the water.
“Happy for what? I just got divorced. The ink is barely dry, and you wanted to get married without me. You thought I’d be like ‘Cool, Laur. Good for you’?” I gesture with my paddle. The resulting movement sends my boat a little sideways, cutting into its overall effect.
“Oh my god.” Her mouth shakes with quiet rage, and she finally stops paddling. “Who cares about your stupid divorce? Thank god you’re not still married to that boat shoe of a human. No one wanted you to marry Rich.”