4. Paisley
Everyone is hammered drunk,including my mom. They’re talking about the next place they want to go, but I’m dreaming of returning to the hotel. Comfortable sweats, a glass of rosé, and a remote control sound like my idea of a perfect Friday night. I also would not like to waste the luxurious suite my mother shelled out for. The robe hanging in the hotel closet is softer than newborn kitten fur, and coincidentally has my name on it.
I’ve stuck around the restaurant to pay the bill using the credit card I placed on file to hold the table. I’m supposed to meet the rest of the party out front, but what are the chances they’ll be too drunk to remember my instructions and wander off to the next destination without me? Pretty high, considering I feel extemporaneous to the group as it is.
Just like in the hotel room earlier, they’re not intentionally placing me on the outskirts, but it’s where I am. I don’t have funny or cute stories to share about Sienna and Shane, like the other four women in our party. I fake smile and laugh my way through their tellings, but otherwise I’m quiet.
The server, Lexi, brings me the receipt to sign. Gratuity is included, but I add one hundred dollars and total out the bill. Somebody might as well have something good happen to them tonight.
I knew this weekend would be the ultimate test in my patience, but it’s already more difficult than I thought it would be. If it’s not the bridesmaids and how they’re hanging on every word my sister speaks that’s obnoxious, it’s my sister and the way she won’t stop gushing over Shane. I tuned her out halfway through dinner, then finished her chile-dusted fries out of spite while she recounted the time she was sick and he brought her soup and crackers and sparkling water.
Making my way across the restaurant, I march into the women’s room and slip into the only available stall in the middle.
Two doors on either side of me open, heels smack the tile, and sink water runs.
A voice rings out. “It’s pathetic, right?”
A second voice sounds in response. “Oh, totally.”
I freeze. I know those voices. It’s two of my sister’s bridesmaids, but I’m uncertain which two.
“I mean, how is she even surviving tonight? I thought she was going to die when Sienna said Shane’s nickname for her is ‘Blondie’.
My elbows hit my knees, and my head drops into my hands. They’re talking about me. How embarrassing.
For what it’s worth, they’re wrong. I did not feel like dying when Sienna said Shane’s nickname for her is the very same nickname he gave me. What I really wanted to do was land a punch on that smooth jaw of his. Not because it hurts my feelings, but because my little sister deserves better than my nickname leftovers.
The shrill sound of a zipper fills the air, followed by the noise of rifling through something. A purse, probably. I stare at the honeycomb-shaped tile, waiting for them to finish and leave.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead throwing my sister a bachelorette party when she’s marrying my ex.”
“I know, right? Sienna said she’s not bringing a date to the wedding, either.”
A pause follows, and I’m imagining an expression of shock and horror.
“Ouch.”
“I think she works all the time and doesn’t have a life.”
“Did Sienna say that to you?”
“It was more that I was hearing what she wasn’t saying.”
My head snaps up. My hands shake and my face heats, Paloma’s words from earlier mixing with this current gossip. I might let my family walk all over me, but that’s where I draw the line. I’m going to step out of the stall and watch those girls’ mouths drop open when they realize I’ve heard every word.
Except I had three glasses of water with dinner, and this is taking too long. As soon as I’m done I hustle through adjusting my dress, taking one precious second to twist my gaze around and make sure my dress isn’t tucked into my underwear. A wardrobe malfunction would be icing on the shit cake that is this night.
Taking a quick, deep breath, I throw open the door, poised to deliver the biggest shock of their week.
They’re gone.
I meet my gaze in the mirror above one of the sinks. My dress is as short and tight as the event and local trends necessitate. My hair is blown out and curled, my makeup is on point. From the outside I appear young and carefree. On the inside, I feel emotionally haggard, a person who’s had too much asked of them.
I finish washing my hands as a buzzing comes from inside my purse.
My sister texts.
We left a few minutes ago, meet us at the next spot. Love you!
Exiting the bathroom, I make my way toward the front of the restaurant. I glance left, and in a split-second decision, decide to steal an open seat at the bar. I just cannot anymore. I’ve reached my limit of being the sad sack on the periphery of the night.
I adjust my dress as I settle on the stool, tossing my purse on the bar top. The crowd is thinning, which is perfect because it’s way easier to people-watch when I can see out.
My eyes rove around the horseshoe-shaped bar, landing on a man coming around the bottom curve. He’s dressed in black jeans and a gray T-shirt with sleeves that stretch, straining against his biceps. He is tall, trim, his jeans doing something to his thigh muscles that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.
My gaze finds his, and I gasp.
I know that guy.
I despise that guy.
Klein Madigan.
Indignation heats my fingertips, spreading up my arms and over my chest. My pulse skitters, galloping away like a horse in a tornado. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, a welcome pain spreading. I never got the chance to tell him off. To look him in his (annoyingly beautiful) green eyes and tell him how bad he made me feel. This guy is the reason I ever fell for Shane in the first place.
Which led to me introducing him to my sister.
Which led me to here, this night, this moment.
Everything wrong with my life is Klein Madigan’s fault.
Yes! That’s right!
A tiny voice inside me rejoices at having discovered the source of all my current problems. A gift, if you think about it.
Recognition flares on Klein’s face, and he stops in his tracks.
My fight or flight alarm bells ring in my head.
Run. Now.
I’m reaching for my purse, calf muscles tense as I prepare to flee, when someone pops into my field of vision.
“What can I get you to drink?” she asks. Her magenta hair is parted down the middle and slicked back into a severe bun. On her it works, especially with those woven gold hoops in her ears.
This is it. Stay or go? My gaze flickers to Klein, but he’s gone. I didn’t imagine him, did I? It’s not without possibility. There are times when I’m alone, when my thoughts turn to daydreams, that I see his face. But that’s my little secret.
“A glass of rosé, please?” The part of me that says to run has been superseded by my curiosity.
“Be right back,” she announces, turning on her heel and extracting a wineglass from a shelf above her head.
I watch her pour the wine, appreciating the shapely gold-rimmed glass, the laser-cut on the body. I have a thing for pretty stemware.
My phone rings at the same time the bartender sets my wine in front of me. I nod my thanks and pull my phone from my purse, assuming it’s Sienna or my mother.
Shit. No no no no.
It’s Shane.
My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at the screen, my brain scrambling for what to do.
Ignore. He’s the last person I want to speak with.
Wait! Does ignoring him communicate something silently? Would he perceive it as something it’s not? That I’m nervous? Overwhelmed?
That’s the last thing I want him to think.
I take a healthy gulp of wine and answer before I can talk myself out of it. Here goes nothing.
“Hey,” I answer, but it’s almost a bark and comes off as defensive. Really not the impression I’d want to give if I’d had any warning about his call and could’ve had the chance to prepare.
“Pais,” he says, his voice smooth, shortening my name like we saw each other last week.
“What’s going on?” It’s suddenly occurring to me there might be a problem with Sienna. But if there were, wouldn’t my mom have called me?
“Don’t worry, everything is fine.” He chuckles warmly, like worrying is just so me, like he remembers this detail about my personality and finds it endearing.
I want to smack him.
“I talked to Sienna a few minutes ago. She’s having a great time. I thought I’d call and say thank you for throwing her this bachelorette party.” He sounds so high and mighty, like he’s reaching down from his bejeweled throne and patting the top of my peasant head. Tap, tap. “It was big of you.”
“Big of me?” I parrot. The audacity has me flummoxed and unable to form my own coherent thoughts.
A second chuckle rumbles over the line, and I have a second urge to inflict bodily harm on him. “Yeah, you know, because we used to be a thing.”
I’m two seconds from hanging up when Klein strides back around the bar. His green eyes zero in on me, affixing me to this moment, tethering me to the center of the emotional hurricane swirling around me. He hesitates, and then, despite me being on the phone, comes closer.
My heart batters my breast bone. Why do I have to like the way he walks? Who does that?
Attempting to get my bearings (and failing), I make the asinine choice to once again repeat Shane’s last words. “We used to be a thing,” I say slowly. Great. Shane probably thinks I’m so overcome by his phone call I cannot form original thought.
What’s keeping me from using my brainpower is, unironically, the same person who caused me angst a long time ago. Klein stops directly in front of me, and he’s all bronze with forearms that have the right amount of hair and corded muscle. His T-shirt dips and swells with his muscled chest. He is not supposed to have aged this well. Does he not know the rule of hated persons? Why is he not less attractive than he was the night I pulled him into my bathroom and attacked his face?
The corner of his mouth quirks, and oh great he thinks he’s caught me ogling. It matters not that I was, in fact, ogling him. I cannot have him convinced of it. To rectify this, I shoot him a dirty look.
He snaps his fingers and points. “Now I remember you.”
Channeling my inner six-year-old, I stick out my tongue. His eyes squint, like really?
Shane’s voice breaks through. Whoops. He’d been speaking and I hadn’t noticed. “...I think it’s great you’re coming to the wedding. I know things could be weird, but we don’t have to let them be that way. It’s all up to us, you know? We are the masters of our destiny.”
Something tells me his shelves are still crammed with books about mindset mastery.
“Right,” I agree, my gaze locked on Klein, but I’m not sure I fully understand what I’m agreeing to. My past has come hurtling at me from different directions and I’m busy drowning in the convergence.
Music from the DJ in the corner wraps around me, the sound breaking the spell. I blink twice, grasping at my loosely tethered bearings. Klein turns to go but I hold out one finger, imploring him to wait. I don’t know why. It shouldn’t matter to me if he stays or goes.
Shane drones on. “It would be great if you could bring someone with you, but Sienna said you aren’t seeing anybody?” The inference hangs, heavy and irritating. Poor, sad Paisley. “Don’t worry, Pais, you’ll find someone.”
The unwelcome platitude, offered with a tone of patronizing comfort, is the last straw for me. My molars grind. Angling the phone away from my mouth, I lean over the bar and curl my finger at Klein. He sends me a quizzical look but comes closer.
His nearness almost derails my thoughts, stopping my idea in its tracks, but I hold tight to my resolve and say, “On three, will you please say something a boyfriend would say to me?”
He makes a face. “What?”
“Please, just do it. You owe me.” I give him an imploring look, but truth be told this is the boldest request I’ve ever made in my life.
He stares long enough I’m certain he’s going to deny me, but then a little twinkle flits across his eyes. I’ll take that as acquiescence.
Placing the phone back at my mouth, I say in a louder voice, “I must’ve forgotten to tell Sienna I’m seeing someone. He’s here with me now.”
I count off on my fingers and hold out the phone. Klein’s lips hover an inch from my screen. His green-eyed gaze grips me as he says, “Paisley, baby, get off the phone. I’m done sharing you.”
I swallow. Hard.
Did Paisley baby get off the phone I’m done sharing you just become my favorite ten words in the English language? Yes, but I’ll never admit it out loud.
“Oh,” Shane replies, and I detest how surprised he sounds. “I didn’t realize?—”
“Ok, bye now.” I hang up, covering my mouth as I cackle from sheer relief at the severing of the connection with Shane. Klein looms in front of me. Another ghost from college past. Shoving the phone in my purse, I begrudgingly mutter, “Thank you.”
A small machine on my right prints a drink order, and he jumps into action. He reads the paper for three seconds before laying it on the bar and preparing the drinks.
“You’re welcome,” he returns with his own mutter.
I’m quiet, sipping my wine as I watch the way he moves, confident in his maneuvering in the small space. He tilts a glass at an angle and pulls the lever on the tap. Amber beer spills into the cup.
A memory hits me. The edge of the counter digs into my lower back as our mouths collide. The kisses are sloppy, hasty, the alcohol elongating our limbs and rubberizing our lips. Someone bangs on the door, breaking the spell.
It was objectively the worst kiss of my life. But we were young, and sweet, and handsy, and for these reasons I look back on it fondly. When I pressed my nose to his neck, he smelled like spiced apples and something I couldn’t name but immediately made me a different kind of drunk.
Impossible though it seemed, I felt a deep and immediate connection to Klein. It sounded crazy, and felt even crazier, but when I looked in his eyes there was a future. It didn’t have form or shape, but it was there. It was Klein by my side. My friend, my partner, my lover. By then I’d spent the better part of two years hurting following the break up of my family, and Klein’s smile was like spreading magic salve on a wound.
The connection was one-sided. He didn’t use the number I put in his phone. Then he took my short story, which wasn’t fictional like the assignment was supposed to be, and ripped it to shreds.
I finish my wine, because I don’t know what else to do. I’ve never randomly made out with someone, hated them, and run into them eight years later. Is there a protocol for this sort of thing? A standard operating procedure?
Klein uncorks the rosé bottle and gestures to my glass.
I nod, not because I want another glass of wine, but because I want to keep him here. I haven’t decided if I’m going to let him have it. If he disappears on me now, I won’t get the chance.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” he asks tightly, stowing the bottle in the fridge below.
“You saw us?”
He nods. “You’re hard to miss.”
Flipping the tiny plastic switch on my light-up ring, I lift my right hand in the air. “Was it the flashing penis?”
He grabs my raised hand, holding it still between us. His other hand moves for my elbow, fingertips slowly trailing up the inside of my arm. Goose bumps rise on the sensitive flesh, a ball of heat forming in my stomach. The intensity in his gaze highlights the gold threads in his green irises. The heat in my core blooms, spanning up and out, through my chest and into my arms. I force in a shallow breath, pushing it out with effort. What is Klein doing to me? And why is my body, the treacherous traitor, responding in such a way?
Klein’s touch skims my wrist, bumps over the heel of my palm and, using two fingers, he removes the strobing ring and tosses it in the trash.
Devious! The man used the power of distraction to disarm me.
My annoyance soars as I realize the sizzle of heat between our hands wasn’t attraction. I don’t know what it was, but I know what it wasn’t. I snatch my hand from his grasp. He smirks. It makes him even more attractive, and incenses me.
“I despise those things,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What a grump,” I shoot back. I’m actually glad to be rid of the accessory, which only annoys me further. I bought the rings, but I expected Sienna to refuse them. A couple drinks and she was insisting we all wear them to dinner. We’d ended up turning them off because they cast colors over our faces when we took pictures.
I hold back a sigh and assess Klein. Maybe we should clear the air. Just get it out in the open. Or maybe it doesn’t matter. I can go on my merry way and haul my rear end across the country to an island and fake smile my way through a wedding and never see Klein again.
Also, maybe I’m tipsy. More than tipsy. Topsy-turvy.
“Topsy what?” Klein folds his arms in front of his chest, biceps popping, and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I clamp my mouth shut. The fewer words I say right now, the better. I cannot trust that my inner thoughts will not become audible.
Klein opens his mouth to speak, but a woman comes from out of nowhere and throws her upper half on the bar.
“I’d like to order a desert beetle,” she says breathlessly.
I lean back, but only so I can better take her in. She’s pretty, with brick red nails that match her lip stain. Her dress leaves little to the imagination, but that’s par for the course where we are. Her eyes are imploring, like she’s attempting to communicate something to Klein.
He offers a terse nod. “Coming right up.”
Instead of making a desert beetle (gross), he rounds the end of the bar, stepping out from behind it. He strides our way, and it really is unfair how good he looks. His shoulders stretch on forever. His chest is muscled just right, giving way to a tapered waist. He was handsome back then, but this is... well, this is something else entirely.
“Come on,” he says, stopping beside me and the woman.
“Me?” I ask, pointing back at myself. I am beyond confused. Didn’t this lady just order a drink from him?
Klein makes a face at me, and I shrink back. “No,” he grunts, clearly irritated at my question.
“Oh gee, sorry, I guess you were talking to someone else you drunkenly sucked face with eight years ago.”
He gives me a sharp look. I ignore it. The wine is hitting me now. So is the embarrassment at thinking it was me Klein was inviting to join him to some unknown place.
The woman steps away, and Klein takes her by the elbow. I know this is the least sexual part of the body and so it shouldn’t matter that he’s touching her. It also shouldn’t matter because we hates him, but I can’t help feeling slighted. I was in the middle of verbally sparring and she ruined it.
Wait a damn minute. Is ‘desert beetle’ a bizarre code for a hookup? Is Klein a part of a tawdry club of individuals who order sex acts using code words?
I’m going to be sick.
The pink-haired bartender who I feel too intimidated by to ask her name comes my way. She doesn’t know Klein poured me a second glass, and when she gestures with the bottle I nod my head.
I cannot begin to understand the last thirty minutes of my life. I give up.