A Destination Pre-Wedding
Emma
Half a dozen conversations around the hall drowned out the tinny music played through the speakers in the corners. A small mercy. Bagpipe music might have been as traditional as the kilts draped around every man in the room, at least the locals, but that didn’t make it any more enjoyable as a soundtrack. Especially not after being dragged 5,000 miles to attend a wedding almost nobody wanted me at.
“You should mingle, Emma,” my mother whispered in my ear, loud enough to hear over the din. “This is your father’s family and friends. I think those are your cousins over there.”
Her bronzed arm rose, a blood-red talon of a fingernail pointed across the packed hall. Eyes fell on us, more than the occasional look and whisper my mere appearance had brought. An older man close by frowned at my mother. His eyes narrowed when they fell on me.
I challenged his gaze but Mom had brought it on herself. Her love of the tanning bed made her stand out in Seattle, even in its less sun-starved summers. Judging from the locals, it seemed the sun never showed its face here in Glasgow. I’d asked her to go easy before we left but ‘she had to look her best.’ Her dress matched the nail color and clung tight to her curves – at least those it covered.
“I told you that dress wasn’t appropriate,” I replied, not even blinking as I stared the man down.
His shoulders set, eyes hardened. Like the other men in the hall, he wore a kilt, complete with the furry little purse hanging in front. The vest of the tuxedo top bulged around his gut. Well past his prime, he didn’t back down. Not to a bastard girl like me.
“Your mom just wants to look her best,” my stepfather butted in from her other side. His hand slipped around her back and he squeezed her close, earning a well-rehearsed giggle from my mother. “How do you think she caught my eye in the first place?”
Sal looked as out of place as my mom, though his swarthy complexion came from his Italian heritage and not a tanning bed. As always, he dressed loudly. A gold chain hung over his colorful silk shirt. A matching Rolex wrapped around his wrist just below the pinstriped cuff of his jacket. In her short heels, my mom matched his height of five seven… in the two-inch lifts wedged into those shiny loafers. The other men in the hall had him by several inches.
So did I, but that wasn’t anything new. A growth spurt when I was 13 had put me at his eye level. I’d taken to heels soon after, even though it only poked at his Napoleon complex. A child should be allowed to be childish. Now, at 19, I just liked the view from up here.
The old man finally looked away but I couldn’t notch it as a victory. He shook his head and chuckled quietly before chatting with another man at his table. I wasn’t worth the effort to him.
As much as that stung, I shrugged it off. Given the life I had led, my entire body was covered in metaphorical callouses. Little barbs like that never poked through but there’d be more before the day was done – hopefully only little annoyances.
“We both know that story,” whined Sal Jr., my half-brother. “It’s not appropriate.”
Now that little annoyance stung. Maybe it was the screech to his voice? He’d inherited his father’s lack of height among other things and was a late bloomer, with barely even a crack to his voice at 15. Merely sharing the same words as him had me cringing.
“There’s nothing wrong with dancing,” said my mom. “I never would have met your father if I hadn’t been working at his club. That’s where I caught your father’s eye too, Emma.”
Sal Jr. sighed dramatically and stared at his phone, cheeks dusted red. His father patted my mother on the back as she talked about meeting him. His smile turned brittle at the mention of my father. Those beady little eyes of his found mine.
“You could make a lot of money in one of my clubs,” he said, eyes dropping lower. “You look so much like your mom back then, but with longer legs.”
“Sal!” my mom hissed. “I thought we weren’t going to bring that up until we got back home.”
My little brother almost dropped his phone. The little pest bit his lips to keep from laughing. If only I’d mingled with the cousins who wanted nothing to do with me, I’d have avoided this conversation… for a while, at least.
“Let me save you some time.” My voice sounded dead, even in my own head. “I’m not going to strip in one of your clubs, Salvatore.”
His mouth opened, but he hesitated, shook his head. His hand rose to point but he went still. Finally, he looked up at me with a half-smile.
“I really wish you’d just call me Dad,” he said, palms out, “I started seeing your mom before you were born, after all.”
At that, Sal Jr.’s phone did clatter against the floor. He scrambled to pick it up and shook his head, eyes on his father. The kid had to have inherited at least a little sense from our mother. It certainly didn’t come from his father.
“You want me to strip at one of your clubs and call you Daddy?” I replied in a deadpan.
I rolled onto my tippy toes, stretching muscles I hadn’t used since I’d quit ballet. It gave me another inch to tower over him. Like the old man earlier, Sal didn’t back down. He might have been short, but he wasn’t past his prime.
“I’m going to go powder my nose,” muttered my mom.
The click of her heels faded as she fled. I loved the woman, knew she loved me back, but we were both realists. She’d started with those important instructions before I could even read. She wouldn’t risk her meal ticket – the clothes, the tanning, the McMansion that Sal provided her – by challenging him. I didn’t begrudge her that, annoying as it was.
My little brother wandered away, staring at his recovered phone. Him, I would have glared at out of pure habit, but I kept my ire on his father.
“You’re the one who keeps bitching about college, Emma. And art school?” Sal said. He tugged at his tie and shrugged. “That costs money, money you could earn like that.” He snapped his fingers.
