19. In the Bag #3
Just got here. Looking for parking.
Silver Prius. In front of the tax office.
A gust of dry wind blows hair across my eyes as I scan the parking lot. I sneak a glance back at the cafe, hoping that Rhys hadn’t seated himself by the front windows.
From what I can see, he’s finally ordering his drink at the counter, his back mercifully turned. Making haste, I jog over to my parked car and wait for Michelle. She joins me seconds later, dressed in an all-black workout set, her hair bunched into a sweaty ponytail.
She looks aggressively casual, not dressed for a date at all.
I’m annoyed. Rhys spent hours overthinking his date outfit, only to settle on that navy waffle sweater over jeans.
I’ve witnessed the excruciating attention to detail, not to mention the unquantifiable mental anguish he exerted to impress her…
All for what? For her to waltz in, twenty-minutes late, in a sweaty sports bra and matching black leggings.
It almost feels like a slap in the face.
Given that I exerted just as much effort prepping Rhys for this date, I take this insult personally.
The least she could do was put on a shirt. Wipe the sweat off her face...
Still, despite literally coming out of the gym make-up free, Michelle had the dewy glow of someone who doesn’t need to try. Even with sweaty hair and a breakout on her chin, she has the bone structure and the curves to make up for it.
“Sorry.” Michelle takes a swig from her water bottle. “Pilates class went over, and then I hit the treadmill.”
“You couldn’t have showered first?”
“Urgh,” Michelle rolls her eyes. “I tried. But there was a weird smell coming out of the pipes.” She slips off her sunglasses and nods toward the trunk of my car. “So, do you have it?”
Glancing from side to side, I pop the trunk and hand her the goods.
Michelle smiles. “Come to Mama,” she practically purrs as she peels off the cloth cover and reverently runs her hand over the caviar leather of my exclusive Ainsley Mills baguette bag. “It’s more beautiful than I imagined. Where’s the—”
“The certificate of authenticity is inside,” I say, reading her mind. “I’ve never worn it, so it’s practically brand new.”
I school my features into a stoic mask, swallowing the sacrifice of a $1500 bag. I was planning to wear it for a special occasion, except no special occasions ever came up.
Okay, so I hadn’t been completely honest with Rhys.
Is it any surprise, given my track record?
Michelle didn’t agree to give him a second chance purely due to my powers of persuasion.
She agreed in exchange for a luxury handbag.
So there was a teeny-tiny bribe involved. I call it ‘sweetening the pot.’
Before you judge, Cinderella’s fairy godmother rigged the game with a wave of her magic wand, and nobody cried, “Fake pumpkin! Fake coachmen!”
Naturally, given Rhys’ teetering self-esteem, he never needs to know.
Once Michelle sees how much Rhys has changed, they’ll go on a second date, then a third…
And one day, fingers crossed, I’ll get an invitation to their wedding and perhaps be asked to give a toast. “It’s a funny story how these two lovebirds met… ”
My point is:
Does it really matter how we arrived at the finish line, so long as the race ends in happily ever after?
Michelle beams as she slings the bag over her shoulder, checking the fit and her reflection in my passenger-side window. “I’d say I’m getting the better end of the deal,” she says, checking out her profile, “but then I remember I have to have coffee with him.”
“He’s new and improved. Give him five minutes. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
She sighs and stuffs the bag carefully back into its cover. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”
“You can try to have a little more enthusiasm.”
“Oh, I will,” Michelle says, walking with me to the cafe. “I’m just psyching myself up for the second-worst date ever.” Suddenly she halts and smacks me lightly on the arm. “Remember your promise?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I hold up my phone. “I’ll be right there, just a text away, chaperoning the whole thing.”
“Good,” she nods, satisfied. “I’m holding you to your wingman duties.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, opting to hold up my hands in an oath. “Scout’s honor.”
This may be hard to believe, but I was a Girl Scout…
Until I got caught inflating my cookie sales and was, to my family’s shame, dishonorably discharged.
I’m still traumatized to this day. It’s not like I wanted to lie about my profits, but my mom was always comparing my lackluster sales to my cousin Mia’s record-breaking sales year after year after year.
I’m never cute enough or extend as much effort soliciting door-to-door sales.
My display table outside the grocery store was shoddily decorated.
There’s only so much one could take before one snapped.
I couldn’t handle another year of losing.
You want me to sell these Thin Mints? I’ll sell a hundred boxes of Thin Mints.
How about three dozen cases of Samoas for our dead neighbor, Mr. Fletcher?
Michelle knows the story of my dishonorable discharge from the Girl Scouts.
She was there. We weren’t friends then, but she saw me stripped of my badges.
The scout leader practically ripped the green sash off my chest and chucked it in the trash.
I cried buckets while my mom scowled at me from the sidelines.
It was the most horrible day of my ten-year-old life.
Michelle brings it up often at my old job, and we all have a laugh about it, except I’m not laughing on the inside.
I’m shamed. In hindsight, I was overzealous in how many boxes I claimed to have sold.
I lied badly and paid the price. I won’t make the same mistake again.
Lying badly, that is, not lying in general.
I’m still a firm believer that a little white lie can’t hurt.
Knowing me well, Michelle shakes her head at my bullshit oath. “Girl, get that oath out of your mouth. We all remember the disgrace you brought upon our chapter.”
I lower my hand and sheepishly uncross my heart.
“You’ll have a good time, I promise. I want this to work out just as much as anybody else.
Plus, I’m out an Ainsley Mills bag so I’m just as invested in this.
I’m going to do everything within my power to make sure you finish your coffee and enjoy his company. ”
She narrows her eyes. “Ever thought about just hiring a hooker for him?” Michelle asks dryly. “It’ll be cheaper and less of a hassle for you.”
“He doesn’t want a hooker,” I say without missing a beat, “he wants you.”
I manage to pull a smile from her. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not sleeping with him over a bag.”
“Of course not. No one is expecting you to. But…”
She arches an eyebrow. “But?”
“Should you want to at some later point in time, nobody’s stopping you.”
“I’m good with just coffee.” Michelle sighs, though her tone makes it clear she already plans to leave after three sips. “If he calls me fat again,” she wags her freshly manicured finger at me, “I’m walking.”
“He won’t call you ‘fat,’” I snap. “He’s very into you. And I expect you not to be glued to your phone texting me the whole time. I don’t know how I got talked into this...”
From both of them, no less.
Michelle and Rhys have more in common than they think: they’re fearful, needy people who can’t go on an adult date without me. How did I suddenly become a modern-day governess?
This time I make sure Michelle sees my eye roll. “This is a one-time thing. Don’t think I’m going to chaperone your second date.”
“There won’t be a second date,” she says airily.
“You say that now. Wait until you see my work.”