“You can be my plus one,” I remind Paloma, but we’ve been through this already. Twice I’ve begged Paloma to be my guest at this sham of a bachelorette party, but it’s her dad’s sixty-fifth birthday today. She has strict instructions to be on a video call with her family at eight p.m. Also, she doesn’t want to go, and unlike me, Paloma is excellent at boundary setting and enforcing.
She plucks her purse from the side table near the hotel suite door, ignoring my offer and hitting me with a one-two punch instead. “Speaking of plus ones, you need a date to the wedding.”
I’m shaking my head before she finishes her sentence. “Who’s going to be my date to a wedding on the other side of the country? On an island. For a week?”
Paloma frowns, acknowledging the uphill battle I’m facing. “You’re screwed.”
“Exactly. So I’ll go alone”—cue internal cringe—“and I’ll play up the independent woman schtick. I own a booming marketing company that was recently featured in the ‘companies to watch’ section of Young Entrepreneur magazine. I bought a house last year. I wear high heels every day, dammit.”
Paloma snort-laughs. “High heels?”
“When I was younger, I thought if you wore high heels to work it meant you were someone important.”
“Strippers wear high heels to work.”
“Shut up,” I groan, but I’m laughing.
“Ok, Miss Independent.” Paloma opens the door and sashays out, blowing me a kiss as she goes. “Send pictures of you and the inflatable dong.”
The door swings shut, and my best friend disappears, taking all the good energy with her.
Heavy dread settles into me. Paloma is right. I’m the worst kind of doormat, the kind who knows what they are but doesn’t fix it. It’s my job to keep everyone in my family happy, because I’m a part of why my parents are no longer together. I didn’t keep my father’s lie, and it cost our family.
As much as I feel responsible for the general climate of my family, this bachelorette weekend was not my idea.
It was my mom who arranged that I would be the hostess, and good luck to anybody who goes up against Robyn Royce. She can talk anyone into anything. She’ll take your argument, which you’d previously believed was solid, and tear it to shreds until you’re unsure of what you were refusing to begin with. All it took was a five-minute phone call where my mom lamented I missed the bridal shower due to distance, then claimed Scottsdale was recently named the most popular destination for bachelorette parties and Sienna wouldjust loveto have it here. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
Sienna called later that night, gushing about how sweet it is that I offered to plan her epic weekend of bride-to-be bliss. Then she sent me a picture of our mom’s credit card. Her instruction tokeep it classywent through my resentment-soaked listening filtration system, and…here we are.
Dick city, baby.
The theme is ‘Last Rodeo, but make it phallic’. Lined up on the table in the common area are pink fluffy cowgirl hats, the one in the center bedazzled with rhinestones spelling out ‘Bride’. A large sparkly banner announces ‘Let’s Go Girls’ on a cow print background. Six cowgirl boot shaped cups hold six penis shaped straws. The banner over the mylar background reads ‘Same Penis Forever’.
Honestly, it’s amazing what you can find on the internet.
After the bar is set up (rosé, champagne, vodka, and sugar-free mixers), I take a shower and get myself ready. I’m shaking, either from lack of food or the stress of the day, so I mow down a protein bar I threw in my purse before I left my house this morning.
I have done a good (scratch that,great) job of pretending the whole situation is fine with me. My acting skills were good enough that I led my family to this point. If I’d been honest even once about how I felt about my sister dating my ex, I wouldn’t be in this Spanish-tiled bathroom with the lighted mirror, holding back tears while I apply more eyeliner than I usually wear. My olive skin wouldn’t be this pale. Thank goodness for bronzer and blush.
Gripping the edge of the marble countertop, I stare at my reflection and see Sienna by my side. We share the same shade of blonde hair, though hers is highlighted brighter than mine. Our eye color is different; mine a blue-green, hers a toffee brown. She got my father’s round face and prominent eyebrows. My face is heart-shaped, my nose straight and pert, gifted to me by my maternal grandmother.
Sienna and I look alike, but there are differences. It makes me feel a smidge better. Shane is not dating my carbon copy.
I do not still love Shane, but once upon a time I believed I did. He broke up with me because he said I wasn’t the right woman for him (his words). Not thatweweren’t right for each other.Iwasn’t right forhim.
For me, it was out of the blue. He claimed he’d been wanting to do it for five months. I was flabbergasted. He stayed in a relationship with me for five months without actually wanting to be in a relationship with me? That was worse than him realizing I wasn’t the one for him and ripping off the bandage. I felt pathetic.
Shortly after, he was offered a job in my hometown of Raleigh, of all places. He moved. I buried my nose in my work, and I’ve hardly looked up since. I have a lot to show for it, too. Professionally, at least. My personal life resembles the desert in which I reside.
And now, because my sister is not in possession of a fully functioning frontal lobe, and I’m lacking a backbone, soon Shane will be my brother-in-law.
My mother,Sienna, and her flock of three bridesmaids arrive at five p.m. precisely. I hear them in the hall, inserting a key card and shuffling their luggage. Two of the bridesmaids are friends from childhood, one isa college roommate, and all I’ve met at least once but don’t remember with much detail. I’m four years older than Sienna, but it felt like light years when we were growing up. She entered high school, and I was leaving it. She started college, and I had recently graduated. The gap is even bigger for my brother, born three years after Sienna. Spencer feels like a distant relative sometimes. I’ve lived across the country from him for almost half his life. That’s a lot, considering he doesn’t remember his first five years.
I’m waiting a few feet inside the hotel room when the door swings open. Sienna is first, striding in looking fresh from a runway, not a four-hour flight. Her recently highlighted blonde hair is wound in the most depressingly perfect messy bun. Her black silk romper is probably soft but also makes it impossible to use the plane’s lavatory. A white sash wound around her body reads ‘Bride’ in gold lettering.
Classy.
My mom and the rest of the ‘I do’ crew file in behind her. We hug, kiss cheeks, re-introduce (Wren, Maren, and Farhana), and then I watch with bated breath as Sienna steps into the living room. The suite has a view of Camelback Mountain and the waning sun, but she’s staring at the décor. The moment, horror mixed with disgust, is camera-worthy, but I’ve left my phone in the bedroom. Paloma will be pissed I didn’t capture the reaction for her to cackle over.
