2. Hug Re-Do
EVA
It takes forever to deplane, but once we do, a crowd behind the corded rope at baggage claim anxiously awaits the arrival of their lucky-to-be-alive loved ones. No one is picking me up, so I need to bust through the bodies and book an Uber. But I’m trapped behind a crowd who’s laughing and pointing at someone holding a sign that says, Stay calm, I brought Imodium.
I smile. That’s exactly like the antics West would do, and I miss that. But then I squint and… holy crap.
That is West.
My stomach drops, and I need another hit of my inhaler. This time, I can’t blame turbulence because I’m standing on solid ground.
West looks different, better. Definitely better. He’s ditched the glasses, his hair is gelled in a funky style, and he’s way more muscular and fit. The dimpled, million-watt smile he’s flashing is all him.
And that ridiculous sign is for me.
West is here… and making a diarrhea joke. So he got my text? Oh, God! And that’s just like him—his sense of humor is off-the-wall. He loves making an ass of himself—and me—in public for shits and giggles. No pun intended.
According to Paige’s wedding itinerary, West is supposed to be getting ready for his golf game with the groom this afternoon, but he came to pick me up anyway. He’s so sweet.
Does this mean we’re past the weirdness? I laugh nervously and say, “You’re such a bonehead.”
The text.
Should I pretend I didn’t send it? Or say I don’t remember sending it because I was in a state of panic? Tell him it was a joke?
As I approach him, he runs a hand through his wavy brown hair. I can’t get over how different he looks since I saw him last, but I’m glad he’s still wearing his standard vintage T-shirt and indigo jeans, which isn’t a fashion statement. He dressed like that long before it was en vogue. West isn’t like the guys I grew up with. He listens to the beat of his own drum and doesn’t follow everyone else, even after taking shit for it. Riley, West’s cousin and one of my best friends, told me all about how West landed a software engineering job on his own merit, not because his father pulled strings. Unlike mine, who told me where I was going—Columbia, his alma mater—then helped me get in and damn near walked me to the door. I was happy to escape New York so my dad could only mildly puppeteer my life.
Tanned and all smiles, West seems happy. Maybe he’s glad about the text? Or what if he’s trying to let me down easy? He’d never be rude.
But look at his face, that smile. He’s here to pick me up…with that ridiculous sign! God, I’ve missed this guy. Apparently, staring down my own fragile mortality has made it worse. By West’s expression, he’s missed me too. I mean, come on.
The text.
We’re now face to face, and West shifts on his feet. “Hey. A little birdie who wears muumuus and chants to the moon might’ve told me what time your flight was coming.”
He’s talking about my ex-stepmom, Skye, knower of everything. “I’ll have to thank her because this is awesome.” I blow out a whoosh of air. “And, phew, I’m alive.” I study his expression to see if he knows what I’m talking about. He looks confused, so maybe he didn’t get the text? I say, “You came to pick me up. Thank you.”
“Of course. Paige was going to send a driver, so Skye and I volunteered to come. We figured you wouldn’t be up for small talk with a random dude after flying.”
“Thank you. You were so right.” That’s not surprising—the two of them get me.
He nods, clearly uncomfortable. “Um, can I hug you?”
Ugh—we used to fall straight into a bear hug and seamlessly jump in right where we left off, but clearly, we’re not past the weirdness. “Of course!” We go in for one, but he’s stiff and keeps his distance from me, like we’re assigned seventh-grade dance partners. I pat his back but then wonder if that was too intimate, so I pull away.
His Apple watch gets tangled in my hair, and he mumbles, “Whoops, sorry,” as he tugs his wrist.
It stays stuck, hurting as he pulls. I grab his hand to stop it from taking out a patch of hair as I say, “It’s okay, but hold on.” He stops moving while I undo the strands wrapped around his band’s enclosure hook.
When my hair is free, he backs up, and now we’re standing face to face—again. “So.” He puffs out a huge breath of air. “That sucked.”
I laugh. “It did. How about we try again?”
“Definitely.”
This time he goes for it, pulling me in tight, and I’m thrilled to let him linger as his warm breath tickles the point right below my earlobe. When the tip of his nose brushes the side of my neck, it takes every bit of my resolve not to purr. I rub his back, and he squeezes tighter, so close I can feel every inch of his well-defined pecs. He’s so much more toned than he used to be, which means he’s been working out, because he spends his days sitting in front of a computer. This time, when he pulls away, he kisses the top of my head, and my skin goes tingly.
So he got the text? And maybe I meant it?
Or maybe it was trauma induced. After all, everyone around me is crying, laughing, and kissing the ground. I step away then immediately want to leap back into his arms, but I stop myself.
He exhales. “Much better. So—scared on the plane again?”
“No, no, no. You don’t understand. This time it was bad. Legit.”
So, he didn’t get the text?
He flashes me a sly smile. “I’m sure it was a close one, Manhattan,” he says with a wink, his tone now playful. West nicknamed me Manhattan after I asked where the neighborhood bodega was. Apparently, they’re called convenience stores everywhere besides New York.
Things are normalizing, thank God, but I can’t take not knowing anymore. As I’m about to ask whether he got the text, he says, “So, here’s my face.”
I blink. Okie doke. He got it, then. Shit.
“Huh?” Yes, I’m playing dumb to buy myself time.
“Here’s my face—if you want to kiss it off.” He winks.
I let out a squawkish laugh. “I typed, ‘kiss?’ It was supposed to be ‘I want to diss your face off. You know, like, ‘A salad dresses better than you.’”
Ugh, good one, Eva.
West laughs. “Oh, okay, gotcha. Well, you must’ve been born on a highway because that’s where most accidents happen.”
This time, we both bust up.
Then his face goes serious. “But I still think you want to kiss my face off.”
I just shrug.
Oh my God. Does that mean I actually want to kiss him?
I think it does.
I don’t know. I really don’t know. This is all happening too fast! I mean, we just had to re-do a hug. I need time to think and process this very new, very raw realization, and see if it’s real. Everything is so weird between us now. Is there such a thing as waiting too long to have a snog with a friend?
Trying to switch subjects, I blurt, “I was hoping we could stop for a bagel on the way out of the airport. I’m starved.”
He reaches into his computer bag and pulls one out. “One sesame seed bagel with double cream cheese and cucumbers—right here.”
I exhale. “You’re amazing,” I say, because he is.
As West and I walk to baggage carousel number three, I chow down a few bites of my bagel before I say, “So, how have things been? You look great.” It’s been two months since we’ve seen each other. A fan favorite, West traveled a lot after Bridesmaid to Bride aired, doing press tours and PR events. But deep down, I know that was only part of the reason. We needed time away from each other after he went on my sister’s show, kissed her, then left, which embarrassed Paige no matter how much she tells me it didn’t.
He flashes me a smile. “Things are really good. Actually, I have some possible great news.”
My stomach does an icky turn, and I’m not sure why. I paint on a smile and say, “And what is it?”
“They’re considering making me the next Groomsman to Groom.”
“No way!” I feign excitement. Groomsman to Groom is the male star version of Bridesmaid to Bride, and I should be happy for him. I mean, now he’ll get to date thirty women and find his person on TV, just like Paige did. This is great news, right? Yes, it absolutely is! “That’s amazing.”
“It is. But this wedding is a test to see how I do with ratings. If I pass, then I’m on.”
“Well, then. Bring in those ratings.”
“Right? Plus, the sponsorship money can help save my parents’ store.”
“That’s right. That’d be amazing if you could help them.” With brick-and-mortar shops struggling, West’s parents’ sex toy store is going under. They’re wonderful people, their store is awesome, and I love how West looks after them. He and I definitely share that in common, among countless other things.
I look around baggage claim, and hits me that besides the people on my flight, the place is virtually empty. “Where’s everybody?” I peer around wide-eyed.
West looks at his phone. “Uh, oh. It’s almost nine. I bet everyone’s grabbing breakfast.”
“Huh?” I ask, his words not computing.
He side-eyes me. “That means we’re going to have to wait for our bags until the staff comes back.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Eva.” West begins, speaking to me like I’m drunk. FYI, I’m not. “You can’t get your bags when there are no workers to put them on the conveyor belt. We have to wait for them to return.”
“How can they leave? We’re on a schedule.”
He gives me the stink eye. “Were you lobotomized during that landing?”
“I know people have to eat, West.” I mirror his expression. “It’s just that usually, at airports, workers who go to eat get replaced with other workers who are not eating.”
“Oh, yeah. It doesn’t work like that here. Especially not on a Tuesday morning.”
I give him a thumbs-up. “Gotcha.” Things really do move slower in small towns.
As we wait, we dive into catching up, joking and laughing—and I’m thrilled to have the old West and me back. When the airport staff returns, I pick up my suitcase, and West offers to drag it to the parking lot.
He says, “Just a warning: Skye’s waiting outside in the car. She wanted to do some welcome chant, or was it a prayer?”
I shrug. “Who knows? But I’m sure there’ll be a whole shrine of candles set up on the hood when we get there.”
Sure enough, Skye stands by the car, her turquoise muumuu flapping as she frantically waves us over. My smile spreads ear to ear. She looks exactly the same as always: a heartier, fifty-seven-year-old version of Meryl Streep. I was a teenager when Skye married my dad, which only lasted a month, but from minute one, she treated me like her own. In the first half hour we talked, I’d already told her more things about myself than I’d told people I’d known my whole life. Since then, Skye’s taken me in, West too, since his parents live a few hours away from Atlanta, so the three of us are definitely like family. We’re that way with Skye’s daughter, Sophie, and West’s cousin, Riley, too, but Sophie and Riley aren’t close with Paige, so they’re not coming to the wedding this week.
When West and I get to the car, I go in for a hug. But before I make it, Skye slaps my arms away, and my forehead wrinkles.
“Back, back, back,” she orders. “I’ve heard the passengers talk as they’ve gotten into their cars—you guys were a hair away from being runway grease. I have to cleanse you with dragon blood’s resin and purge all that wild plane out of your system before you smear it all over everyone else.” She pulls a bundle of dried red leaves out of her purse, lights it on fire, and waves it around me. “I would’ve done this on the tarmac, but I’d never get my flame clicker through airport security.”
Smoke and flames dart to the sky. Wearing a bored and unfazed expression, West checks his phone for the fifth time. “How long is this gonna take?”
“Shhh,” Skye puts a finger over her mouth. “No talking. More purging.” While Skye performs her ceremonial smokefest, West groans and I start hacking from the fumes.
When she finishes, West loads my bags into the trunk. “Let’s roll.”
As we scoot into the car, I offer West shotgun, but he sits in the back with me. Inside the enclosed space, I become acutely aware of how rank I smell. Dragon’s blood resin—it makes you smell like you’ve been toking a fruity joint, and it’s potent.
Once we’re buckled in, Skye pulls the car out of the lot. “So I got fired.”
“What?” I say with confused concern. Confession: I didn’t know Skye had a job. After she married a Grammy-winning rockstar, she’s loaded. But I guess she’s working to keep busy? When I look at West, he gives me a wide-eyed look. Apparently, she told us about this, but I have zero recollection. I don’t dare tell Skye this, of course, so I say, “Why did you get fired?”
“Because I did Myrtle’s makeup the way she wanted me to do it.”
“Huh?” I shake my head. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Well, I thought so,” Skye says. “I was supposed to do it based on an old picture of Myrtle where she’s wearing brandy-red rouge, but when I started brushing that on her, she screamed at me.”
“Why did you have to do the makeup based on an old picture?” I tear open a bag of rainbow Goldfish and start stuffing my face.
“Because that’s the mortuary’s standard practice,” West says.
I shoot him a puzzled look, and his gaze lingers on me. Finally, I realize West just said the word “mortuary.” I scrub my forehead. “Wait. What?”
Skye turns back and rolls her eyes so hard it looks painful. “Eves, Myrtle’s dead.”
“As a doornail. Don’t you remember, Eva?” West says. “The Zoom call from Skye?”
I remember the call but not this conversation. In fairness, I was multitasking and getting a client file ready. I cock my head at West to see his hand covering his mouth, but the creases around his eyes give his smile away.
Skye continues, “Last month, I took a job at the mortuary doing makeup for viewings.”
“How did you get that job?”
She inhales sharply, indignant. “I went to cosmetology school.”
“I thought you never graduated,” I say, regretting it the moment it escapes my mouth.
“I don’t have an official piece of paper. I’m a gifted cosmetologist, Eva,” Skye snaps. “They hired me right on the spot.”
“Right. Of course.” I look at Skye in the rearview mirror. “Okay, so what happened, exactly?”
“Myrtle’s spirit told me she absolutely did not want brandy rouge,” Skye says. “Her ex-husband had been the one who liked it. She said, ‘God help me if I have to wear that hooker shade. The last thing I want is to please that sorry excuse of a man for all eternity!’ Then I told her I understood exactly how she felt.”
“Good for you—and poor Myrtle,” I say. West nudges me and holds out his hand. I dump some crackers into it before shoveling a bunch into my mouth.
Skye lifts her chin. “I talked her into a coral shimmer that worked with her skin tone. When I informed the mortuary that I’d done the look the dead client wanted, they told me to get out.” Skye blows out a long breath. “I’m sure they changed it back to brandy. I feel terrible for Myrtle.”
“Yeah, me too.” I don’t know whether she really talked to Myrtle or not, but on the chance she had, wearing the wrong shade of blush forever would be sad.
Skye wags a finger. “Like my Billy says, it’s no good being someone you’re not just to please others.”
“Speaking of Billy—where is he?” I say. Skye says that Billy is her twin flame, and we believe her. They’re both the exact same brand of eccentric.
“He’s on tour this week, so our spirits are teleporting to see each other.” Skye sighs. “So, Eva. What’s the thing you always say to everyone but yourself?”
“Huh?” Maybe I did get lobotomized on the plane.
West answers for me. “You gotta kiss a lot of frogs, so just tell yourself they taste like chicken.”
Skye lets out a snort of laughter. “Classic. And it’s time to follow your own advice. You aren’t kissing any frogs. For hell’s sake, you at least need to get in some mattress rodeo this weekend. That’s what people do at weddings.”
I press my fingers into my temples. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
West twirls an imaginary lasso. “Don’t worry, Skye. Eva’s got it in the bag.”
“Goodie good,” Skye sing-songs. “Who’s your type, Eva? West?”
There’s an unwelcome skitter of electricity across my skin at the thought, but I say, “West is everyone’s type.” I shift in my seat, thinking about the text I sent him, even more aware of his proximity. “I think I might be in the mood for a cowboy,” I joke, scrunching my nose at West to lighten the moment. “The sexy hat, leather-heeled boots, and a honking buckle to show off his man-pride.”
Skye flips her head back. “I wonder if the bigger the buckle, the smaller the package. You may have to do some hands-on research.”
“I’ll take it under due consideration,” I deadpan.
Joking aside, I clearly wouldn’t mind hooking up with West, but here’s the problem: West is a friend because if we were anything more, he’d become my dad’s verbal punching bag. And after that, we’d probably no longer be friends. And there’s no way I’d ever want to lose West. These last months without him have been brutal.
Never again.