“Okay, lemon will work.”
“No lemons, either, ma’am.” That gets my attention.
“You’re—are you messing with me?” I plaster on a smile, hoping against hope that this is just a mixologist’s attempt at humor.
“We only use in-season ingredients grown on the property, ma’am.”
“It’s Southern California. Everything is always in season.”
“Limes are a winter fruit. It is June.”
“And y’all couldn’t have gotten some from the grocery store?”
“I take my work very seriously. Some of us care about quality control and our carbon footprints.” It takes him a beat, but he tacks on, “Ma’am.”
That initial flicker of a challenge now roars to life. Ihaveto have a lime. It’s tradition. And not just for the Core Four, but for humanity in general.Salt. Tequila. Lime.It’s practically sacred. I think back to when we arrived at the restaurant, and an idea blossoms. “Isn’t there a giant floral arrangement near the host stand filled with limes?”
A vein above the bartender’s left eyebrow twitches.Victory.
“I have no control over the aesthetic choices of the hotel’s design staff.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to take these glasses of aged jalapeño—”
“Añejo.”
“Aged añejo,” I correct as I clink all four glasses together, “and sip them very slowly. If you could just add this to my tab.”
I’m not about to be bested by some snobby bartender. I’m getting one of those limes.
I turn back toward the table, drinks in hand, to see Sybil perched precariously on the deck railing, chatting with a man who has made his way to our table, drawn like a moth to a flame. He leans in to whisper something in her ear. Sybil tosses her blond hair and shoots him a megawatt smile in response, but then shakes her head and holds up her left hand, the stunning four-carat diamond catching the glow from the bar’s Edison string lights. The man throws a hand to his heart like he’s gutted, and Sybil consoles him, placing her right hand on his shoulder. Which means she now has zero hands on the railing.
“Oh, no, no, no.” My espadrilles are sturdy, but they aren’t built for speed. It’s fifteen feet down to the sand, and a broken-legged Sybil would probably constitute a massive failing of my maid-of-honor duties. The glasses rattle against the slick polished wood of the table as I rush to put them down and reach for Sybil right as she begins to wobble, pulling her back onto the deck.
Sybil’s admirer hovers awkwardly, as if waiting to see if he and Sybil will continue their conversation.
“Great to meet you, Glen,” she says genuinely. “But I’ve got to get back to girls’ night.” The man wanders back to his table, grinning as he reaches his buddies. I’ve seen that look a thousand times before: high off the adrenaline of having mustered up the courage to talk to Sybil in the first place, and feeling like they really hit it off. If only he had gotten to her first,they would have lived happily ever after. Of course, in reality, Sybil could do leagues better than this middle-aged guy with a guacamole stain on his polo, but that’s just how Sybil makes people feel. Special. Chosen. Like her magical light might fall on you, too, if you just stick by her side.
SYBIL ANDIMETin the cafeteria of Eisenhower Elementary. It was a few weeks after my dad left us, and I was the new girl at school—which was pretty much the worst thing you can be as an eight-year-old. On the first day, Mom sent me wearing a bandanna shirt and a pair of thrifted denim shorts that she had “updated” by sewing on a bright trim with dangling rainbow beads. I’d loved the way they rattled together every time I took a step, like just walking was something worth celebrating. But clutching my red plastic tray and looking around for somewhere to sit, I quickly began to regret my one-of-a-kind ensemble. The other girls all wore those cool scrunchy micro T-shirts and a brand of jeans I’d never heard of. They looked like they’d walked off the pages of a Limited Too catalog, while I looked like my mommy’s arts and crafts project. I sat down alone at the end of a table, beads digging into the backs of my legs, and prayed that the next half hour would go by fast. But then, a bright-eyed blond girl plopped down in the empty seat beside me, snapped open her Lisa Frank lunch box, said, “I like your style. My mom never lets me wear anything cool,” and handed me half of a grasshopper brownie. And that was that. It was like she took my insecurities and recast them into something exceptional. Suddenly, I wasn’t a weirdo in handmade clothes,I hadstyle. I wasn’t alone and friendless, I had Sybil. And ever since that day, I’ve kept her close.
WITHSYBIL FIRMLY BACKin her seat, I motion toward the tequila. “I almost had to commit a felony to get these from the bartender, so you better drink up.”
Nikki looks up from her phone and gives the bartender a predatory once-over. “He’s very pretty.”
“Nikki, no.” Nikki has been tearing through men after her recent breakup. “He’s very insufferable. And besides, I told you, you’ve hit your man-bun quota for the month. Now don’t touch these. I have to go grab a lime.”
Willow gives me a salute. “I will guard them.”
I head out of the bar and back through the restaurant, swiping a saltshaker from one of the tables as I go. Like a woman on a mission, I weave through the white linen tablecloths and rattan chairs, hoping that the Pelican Club patrons don’t notice the slightly wild look of determination in my eyes. I hate it when I find myself typifying the “fiery redhead” cliché, but sometimes I just can’t help it. When I commit to something, Icommit. And right now, I’m committed to making sure Sybil’s wedding weekend goes off without a hitch.
I can admit to myself that the maid of honor really should have been Willow. After all, she’s known Sybil the longest—ever since their mothers took a mommy and me music-in-the-park class together twenty-eight years ago. And she’s always so serene and unflappable. She wouldn’t have let her need to best the bartender pull her away from her friends.But the pregnancy hasn’t been easy for her, and I know Sybil didn’t want to add any more stress to her life.
Nikki would have been a great maid of honor, too, or at least pre-breakup Nikki would’ve been. She was there when Sybil first met Jamie and had a front-row seat for all the major milestones in their relationship. But despite the many perfectly posed and flawlessly filtered photos she posts, it’s clear that she’s still hurting from her nationally televised breakup. And still not over Aaron.
In the end, I guess it does make sense that Sybil asked me to be her maid of honor. Our friendship has always functioned on a similar dynamic—Sybil, the glowing star of the show; me, the best friend keeping things on track behind the scenes. I know it might sound like that makes things unbalanced between us, but it’s not like that. She coaxes me out of my comfort zone, and I make sure she has a soft place to land after each wild adventure she embarks on. I take pride in knowing what’s best for Sybil—and all my friends—and making sure she gets it. Right now, what she needs is a lime.
I reach the gorgeous floral arrangement in the entryway. It’s an explosion of greens. Bells of Ireland are a subtle kelly, the magnolia leaves a dark glossy emerald, sprays of eucalyptus are a delicate blue-green pistachio. My mind wanders—could my painter color-match the electric chartreuse of the orchids?—before I remember my mission. There at the bottom of the arrangement, piled high and juicy: limes.
I dart a quick look at the host stand. The woman there smiles back, but the phone rings, and she turns to the tablet in front of her. It’s now or never.
