Chapter 4
FOUR
Breaking the news to Gia was an absolute nightmare—just like I predicted.
I showed up early so we could have a private moment of chaos before the other bridesmaids arrive, but the mayhem doesn’t show any sign of stopping. Gia is pissed. I can’t even blame her. If Mom had dropped that kind of bomb before my big day, I’d probably be curled up on the floor too.
“Now?!” Gia shrieks, pacing up and down the hallway, her face as red as her short satin dress.
She lets out a loud sob and covers her mouth with a trembling hand.
“She picked now? Four weeks away from my wedding? And she used to call me selfish. This is unbelievable.” She leans against the wall and slides down until she’s cross-legged on the linoleum floor.
“Don’t cry.” I lean down, running a hand across her shoulders.
Gia lets out another wail, her mouth in a jagged O-shape and her eyes squeezed shut, a stream of snot shooting out of her nose.
I grab her a tissue. “She’ll realize her mistake,” I say in a soothing voice that I save for children—and my sister when she’s in moods like this one.
I gesture toward her table, covered with her wedding favors—little teal boxes of chocolates decorated with silver ribbon, arranged in perfect rows beside a vase of white hydrangeas.
“Come sit down. Let’s have a glass of wine.
” It’s not much, but if I can calm her down for a few minutes, maybe we’ll both feel a little less like the world’s falling apart.
“A glass of wine?” Gia repeats, raking her hands through her long blonde hair. “How about a bottle of whiskey? What’s Mom trying to do, turn me into an alcoholic before my wedding day? Mother of the year right there. And she didn’t have the guts to tell me this herself?”
“She was probably worried about how you would react.” Mom usually tasks me with handling Gia’s emotions. She says it’s because I’m so good with her, but really it’s because Mom can’t seem to get through to Gia when she’s angry or upset. It does take a lot of patience. Which our mother doesn’t have.
“How am I supposed to continue planning a wedding with this nonsense going on? And poor Dad! Have you checked on him yet?”
“Not yet. But I will. I was kind of waiting for the dust to settle a little bit.” And honestly, I’m stalling. Talk about emotional overload.
“And you’ll talk some sense into Mom too? God, I hope it works.”
Gia lets out a long breath, stands, brushes off her dress, and takes a seat at the table. She rolls her shoulders and gives her wrists a few brisk shakes, like she’s prepping for some kind of sporting event. Then she begins tying ribbons around wedding favors.
A few minutes pass in quiet focus until Gia lets out a soft whimper. A tear escapes, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of mascara down her cheek.
I scoot my chair closer and put my arm around her. “It’s okay,” I say softly. Gia can be a little much sometimes, but I can’t bear to see my baby sister cry. “This is hard for all of us.”
“I already made the seating plan,” she sniffles.
“I paid three hundred dollars to have it artistically printed on a four-by-four-foot canvas and it has Mom and Dad at the same table. What am I supposed to do now? They can’t sit together anymore.
They’ll probably get into a fight and ruin my whole day. ”
“Oh . . . that’s what you’re upset about?” I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my tone. I think about my HR tactics: remain nonjudgmental, maintain neutral body language, and actively listen.
Gia nods miserably.
“Oh, okay.” I brush her mascara stain away with a napkin. “Well, no worries. We’ll just tell one of them to disregard the seating chart and sit somewhere else. No need to reprint.”
“And number two on the checklist,” Gia says, grabbing handfuls of her hair, her eyes practically bulging out of her skull.
“Oh god, number two.” She lets out an exasperated sigh and marches to the kitchen to grab the list from its place, under an I Love NYC magnet on the center of the fridge door.
She brings it back and jabs at it with her finger.
Gia’s Nonnegotiable Wedding Checklist
For Mark and me to have as close to a perfect day as possible.
To have Mom and Dad walk me down the aisle.
To have Lexi by my side every step of the way. (My rock.)
For family and friends to have the time of their lives.
For all the wedding details to be organized to a T.
For the schedule to run smoothly and on time.
I nod patiently and give her a sympathetic smile.
I have this list memorized. I could stand up and recite it in front of a crowd of people word for word.
I even have nightmares about Gia chasing me with her list in one hand and a machete in the other.
I’d already considered the fact that number two is our biggest obstacle now.
“Do you think you’ll be able to get through to Mom?” Gia asks, widening her blue eyes.
“I’m gonna try my hardest.” I grab her hand and squeeze it.
I fill her in on my plan to track Mom down on her date.
“Do you want to come with me? We could make it a full-on stakeout with disguises, snacks, maybe even some Pink Panther music.” I’m trying to make this whole thing less terrible, a little more fun, but I’m failing miserably.
Gia wrinkles her nose. “Stakeouts aren’t really my thing. Maybe ask someone else . . . ? Like, Maren?”
That actually sounds like the best possible way to turn a horrible situation into something bearable.
Maren loves the idea of spying. The last time we went on a stakeout, we followed her now-ex-boyfriend around all night—only to catch him making out with some other woman.
That part wasn’t fun but all the driving around and ducking . . . ? That part was awesome.
“She might be up for that,” I admit.
“Thanks,” Gia says. “You know I’d love to help you with this, but I just have so much on my plate right now.”
That isn’t quite true, since Gia has me handling all the difficult tasks, but I bite my tongue. No need to add insult to injury.
I send a quick text to Maren.
Stakeout tonight. I’ll explain later. You in?
Her reply comes almost instantaneously.
Yes! C u soon.
“Well, if I’m going to handle this, I’ll have to miss the meeting,” I tell Gia, standing and giving her a bear hug that’s fueled by adrenaline. “Prepare to have everything go back to normal. Maren and I are on it.”
Two hours and twenty minutes later, Maren and I are in her Honda Civic, parked right outside the front window of Imperial.
She’s wearing jean shorts and a brown shirt—unlike her usual brightly patterned outfits—and oversized sunglasses, like she’s ready to get down to some serious sleuthing business.
We have a semi-decent view of the people inside, which unfortunately means that I have a great view of my mother cozying up to Nicholas.
She’s practically sitting in his lap. Barf.
My stomach twists. It’s not just the PDA—it’s seeing her so wrapped up in someone who isn’t Dad.
The waitress brings them their meals and Mom finally stops hanging all over Nicholas to eat.
The two of them smile and laugh, feeding each other bites from their plates.
“Ugh,” I sigh. “What the hell does she see in him?”
Maren shoots me a sympathetic look. “This is a sucky situation, I get it, but . . . can I be honest with you?”
Maren’s honesty is more like a brutal attack on the psyche, but I often find it oddly refreshing. “Hit me.”
“He’s hot. For his age.”
“Ew. He is not.”
“For his age. I mean, look at him.” Her lips curve into a mischievous half-smile and her eyes glaze over a little bit. “Not. Bad. And who knows? Maybe he has a big dick.” She holds up an index finger on each hand and then slowly spreads them apart like she’s measuring a foot-long sandwich.
“Maren!” I shout, batting her hands away. “That’s my mom!”
“Yeah, and your mom’s a human being with needs. Maybe your dad was having erectile dysfunction issues.”
I cover my face with both of my hands and shake my head. “I absolutely cannot have this conversation.”
“Sorry.” I open my eyes and peek at Maren through my fingers. She shrugs and shoots me an apologetic smile. “Any idea what his sign is?”
I wouldn’t expect anything different from Maren, a self-proclaimed astrology pro. I don’t even need to pull up Nicholas’s Facebook profile because I knew she’d ask and did a little research ahead of time.
“Gemini.”
Maren’s eyebrows knit together and she massages her temples. “Oh boy,” she says. “That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”
“It isn’t that bad, is it?”
“Your mom’s an Aquarius and he’s a Gemini, and you don’t think that’s bad?!”
“Wait, what part of that is bad?” I say, trying not to freak out. “You know I don’t know shit about astrology, Maren!”
She blinks quickly like she’s surprised this information isn’t common knowledge, even though we’ve been best friends for eighteen years.
“Well, for starters, they’re both adventure seekers. They usually have great conversations. And their sex life? Just . . . please don’t even ask me to comment on that. But I will say this—it’s kinky.” She almost says more, but instead just cringes and rubs the back of her neck.
“I see,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “Well, I hope your astrological reading is very wrong this time.”
Maren sighs quietly. “When is it ever wrong though, Lexi? It’s not my interpretation—these are facts. The laws of astrology. It’s literally written in the stars.”
There’s no point in arguing with her about this—I’ve tried before with zero success—so I don’t bother replying. I just go back to spying.
A few minutes of silence pass as we watch them finish their meals and start the cuddling and caressing again, talking constantly like they’ve known each other forever, until I finally ask, “What do you think they’re saying to each other?”
“Hmmm,” Maren pulls her long curls into a bun on top of her head and watches them for a few seconds before grimacing slightly. “I just upset you . . . are you sure you want me to guess?”
I nod solemnly. “I can take it.”
Nicholas drapes an arm around my mom.
“Baby, I can’t wait until not just my arm is around you but my legs are straddling you too, if you know what I mean,” Maren says in a deep husky voice, kind of like what you may expect if you were feeling lonely one night and called a phone sex line, which is how I also would expect sleazy-looking Nicholas to sound.
“Oh honey buns, I can’t wait,” Maren says in a high-pitched voice, which sounds a lot like my mom when she’s excited about something—like half-price paper towels or new episodes of a gardening show.
I watch in horror as my mom slides off her chair and onto his lap. Maybe Maren has some spot-on lipreading skills that I didn’t know about.
“I don’t think I can wait until we get to the car,” Maren continues squeakily. “Take me right here, big boy, right now. Whip it out.”
“Okay!” I cry, nudging her. “I get it.”
“I knew you weren’t ready for it,” Maren says softly, shooting me an apologetic glance. “I probably should have done the PG version.”
We watch in silence for another twenty painful minutes, observing their playful and seriously flirtatious body language, until they finally signal for the bill and Nicholas pays.
They stand and amble toward the door, hand in hand.
“Quick,” I say, and Maren and I duck down in our seats, which we probably don’t have to do because Nicholas hasn’t met me, and my mom has the observational skills of a goldfish.
I wait a few seconds, then peek out the window and see Mom and Nicholas strap on helmets and get on his motorcycle.
She’s seated behind him, with her hands gripping his waist and a goofy grin on her face.
My parents’ Toyota Camry stays behind, parked near the road, like a forgotten hunk of metal.
“I hope they’re going to see a movie,” I groan.
“I’m sorry, Lexi, but I doubt it.” Maren starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, staying a few cars behind Nicholas’s ride.
On Cedar Glen Road, Nicholas turns on his left blinker and bile instantly rises in my throat.
“Oh shit,” I whisper at the sight of the flashing neon sign down the road.
They’re heading for Heart Hotel. The pink building is an eyesore in the otherwise respectable neighborhood.
It’s the sleaziest hotel I’ve ever seen.
Think rent by the hour, with rose petals on the bed, mirrors on the ceiling, and a heart-shaped Jacuzzi tub.
I know because I used to go get action there the summer after high school when I first lost my virginity.
No one goes to Heart Hotel for anything other than getting laid.
“Sorry,” Maren says softly, resting a warm hand on my forearm. “This looks like a sealed deal.”
Nicholas goes to the front office and comes back with a key, and Mom follows him—practically skipping like a child on her way to a birthday party—to a room on the second level. Talk about sex-hungry. This is mortifying in every sense of the word.
Maren and I listen to Nirvana’s entire Nevermind album and Maren downs the Stakeout Stash: three 7-UPs, a bag of gummy bears, four chocolate bars, and two packages of Twizzlers.
I would have joined her in the feast, but my appetite vanished right around when my mom and Nicholas started feeding each other at the restaurant.
I search Spotify for Limp Bizkit and grunt along with “Break Stuff,” getting more and more amped up for The Confrontation.
When Mom and Nicholas are done acting like horny teenagers and finally leave the room, they better be ready for the wrath of Lexi.
I’m going to read them the list I made in my phone’s notes app: Twenty Ways That You’re Ruining Lives.
By the time the door actually opens, my willingness to confront them fades because they come out wrapped up in each other’s arms—all smiles and slowly ambling across the parking lot.
Mom’s glowing as brightly as the hotel’s gaudy sign, and her grin lights up her entire face.
I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t think she could smile that much—and just like that, all my anger gives way to this hollowness, this realization that things really might never go back to how they used to be.
Maren squeezes my hand and lets out a low sigh.
She sees it too.