“I don’t want to make you sit next to me while I’m all sweaty.”
“Oh, sweetie, don’t worry about it.” She pulls out the chair beside Mr. Rain.
“Yes, we’ll just put you downwind!” Mr. Rain quips.
I’ve always loved Sybil’s dad.
Mrs. Rain, while perfectly pleasant, always seemed less accessible. She was a different kind of mother than the one I grew up with. Playgroups, PTA fundraisers, garden club. There’s no world in which my mom would’ve had time for any of that. Even before my dad left, she worked part-time as a real estate agent, and then after he was gone, she usually had at least two jobs going. Between gigs at the dental office and the day care at the Y, Mom would still list houses on the side. Instead of ballet class or soccer, I spent nearly every Sunday in middle school trying to keep my little sister Liz occupied while my mother talked to strangers about ceiling heights and original hardwoods. Meanwhile, Willow and Sybil drove out to Lake Athens to ride Jet Skis and build bonfires and eat Mrs. Rain’s perfectly baked chocolate peanut butter cookies.
Mr. Rain puts down his coffee and turns to me. “Did you see that Porsche parked out front? It’s a 964 reimagined by Singer.” He is very into cars, and I think has always had a soft spot for me, since I am too.
“Really? That body style is one of my favorites.” I reach fora menu and make a mental note to swing through the parking lot on our way to the spa. “I’ve never seen a Singer in person. Is it one of the wedding guests?”
“I assume it’s one of Jamie’s friends. He tends to run with a flashy crowd, doesn’t he?Californians. You know,” Mr. Rain finishes, as if that explains everything. And it kind of does. Sybil’s family is well-to-do in Dallas, but the difference between being rich in Dallas and rich in LA is $50 million and a private jet. “I’d try to hunt down the owner right now, but we’re off to play a round of golf after this.”
He’s about to continue, but the waiter stops at our table. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Could I have a Bloody Mary?” I ask. “And could you make it very spicy? Maybe not the-surface-of-the-sun hot, but very-close-to-getting-vaporized hot.”
The waiter gives me a long look, and asks, “So, you want it warmed up?”
“I—no.” I have to remember that not everyone is ready for banter at seven thirty in the morning. “I just want it spicy. Thanks.”
The waiter nods and heads back to the kitchen, and I know that I’ll be getting slightly salty tomato juice.
Mr. Rain shoots me a knowing look. “Californians.”
I smile. “You know, Sybil is technically a Californian these days.”
He presses his lips together and gives a reluctant half nod, as if he’s not quite willing to accept that fact.
The waiter returns and sets my Bloody Mary beside me, but before I take a drink, Mrs. Rain asks, “Are you ready for your speech on Saturday, dear?” I nod, though in reality mymaid-of-honor speech is still a bit theoretical at the moment. Snippets of stories and favorite anecdotes swim in my brain alongside an inspirational quote or two. It feels like such a big responsibility, I’ve been avoiding putting pen to paper. People assume because of my debate team days that I’m comfortable speaking in front of a crowd, but I actually hate giving toasts. They completely stress me out for some reason. Just last year at my mom’s birthday I tried to say a few words about how much she means to me and ended up getting so flustered I just mumbled out “Hook ’em!” and threw up the horns hand sign—which would usually be enough to win over any Austin crowd, except for the fact that my mom doesn’t evenlikefootball. Needless to say, the thought of giving a speech in Sybil’s honor two days from now has me slightly freaked.
“He’s been practicing his in the shower,” Mrs. Rain says over her orange juice glass, nodding to her husband.
“Of course I need to practice. This is important. This is my baby.” Mr. Rain clears his throat. “She made me a dad, you know.”
He says it so matter-of-factly. As if all fathers take one look at their baby girl and are instantly and irrevocably wrapped around their finger, when I know that some fathers take one look at their baby girl and then, eight years later, they pick up and move to Arizona with Kimberly from marketing. Mr. Rain’s speech is just one of many classic father-of-the-bride moments I’ll have to witness this weekend. I can’t let them get to me. I take a long sip of my drink so that I have a moment to compose myself. But unlike last night’s tequila snob,thisbartender clearly has no problem with directions. I let out a gasp.
The cayenne from the Bloody Mary has vaporized up mythroat and into my sinuses, and I blink back tears.Perfect.I chug back a few more gulps, then my phone buzzes with one of the many reminder alarms I’ve set for today.
“Our first spa appointment is at eight thirty,” I say, and grab a muffin for the road. “I’m going to find Sybil.”
I make my goodbyes and head back to the cottage.
Sybil’s bedroom door is closed when I arrive, and I don’t hear any signs of life coming from inside. “Sybs! You gotta get up! It’s time for phase one of Sybil’s Ultimate Pamper Sesh.” Nothing. I roll my eyes and head for my own room to take a lightning-fast shower. Afterward, I put on a clean pair of running shorts and a white tank top with tiny black flowers.
Are you suddenly big into florals now?
I could be.
I shake my head, roughly towel drying my hair.
Stop it, Emma. You are not going down that road again.
Meanwhile, Sybil’s door is still closed. “Come on, sleeping beauty,” I say letting myself in. “Time to rise and sh—aghhh!” I trip over a fuchsia stiletto and barely catch myself on the pencil-reed credenza to the right of the door. The blast radius from Sybil’s suitcase has extended out another six feet since last night.
But wait a minute.
