Page 34 of Best Woman
In no time at all, Kim is opening my door in yet another strip mall parking lot as a burning-ozone sunset lights up the palm trees across the horizon. She walks behind me and, when I turn to make some joke about the name of our destination—Kiln Me Softly—her guilty eyes snap up from where they have been, dare I say it, ogling my leather-clad ass. I somehow manage notto punch the air in triumph and settle for a knowing smirk. But this is Kim Cameron, so all she does is gaze back at me, unbothered, and place a hand at my back to guide me through the door. The touch lights something up inside me, and I can feel the static electricity crackling between us.
Oh, it’s on.
“Kimmy!” shrieks a gorgeous blonde surrounded by five nearly identical white women, all looking like they just finished a round of pumpkin spice lattes.
“Kimmy?” I mutter into Kim’s ear.
“She will be dealt with.”
Hugs are exchanged alongside names, none of which I have any plan to keep track of. Instead, I decide to give them numbers: Rachel 2, in the miniskirt, greeted us. Rachel 3 is wearing a hat so wide brimmed that no one can get closer than two feet from her. Rachel 4 has lips so freshly filled with Juvéderm the bruises are peeking through her matte lipstick. Rachel 5 has glasses and reallyisalso named Rachel and seems nice, greeting Kim with a long, sweet hug. Rachel 6 looks like a real bitch, if I’m being honest, giving me a smile so forced she looks constipated.
“And this is Aiden’s sister, Julia,” Kim says, her hand still warm at my back.
“Ohmygod,Julia,” says Rachel 4, gripping my arms tight enough to hurt. “We’ve heardsomuch about you.”
“Your shoes areincredible,” gushes Rachel 2.
“You’re so brave,” gasps Rachel 3, wide-eyed.
“I am?” I ask. Cis peoplelovecalling trans people brave, usually concerning our incrediblejourneys.
“Yes! I’d be so worried about getting clay on those amazing pants!”
Oh. Am I being an asshole assumingthey’regoing to be assholes? Am I such a jaded New Yorker, so insulated in my bubble of coastal elites that I just assume anyone who’s chosen to live in Florida must be some well-meaning yet still subtly transphobic hick? Maybe I should be a little kinder, less judgmental, and give these girls a chance to prove me wrong.
Rachel 6 looks me up and down as if assessing a threat. “We thought it would be just us…bridesmaids tonight,” she says, and the emphasis on bridesmaids feels loaded. “But it’s so…funthat you’re here.”
Or perhaps they’ll prove me right.
The tension is swiftly broken by theactualRachel arriving with Rachel 7, a curvy childhood friend I’ve met before who was narrowly beat out by Kim for replacement maid of honor and still looks a bit salty about it. She overcompensates by making it clear she was the one who organized the evening’s festivities, greeting the woman behind the counter by name. Stephanie has dark-brown skin and an adorable gap between her two front teeth and is far too beautiful to be working at a tipsy pottery studio in South Florida, but she’s friendly and patient as she uncorks our first bottle of the night, an orangey skin contact wine. We all sip and murmur appreciatively as she leads us to a large table toward the back of the warmly lit studio. Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You” is playing softly from well-hidden speakers, and the whole vibe is extremely cozy. If this place were a coffee shop, I’d want to spend all day here reading…or playing a game on my phone while my book sat untouched.
There are big lumps of clay waiting for each of us at the large farmhouse table, and Stephanie walks us through dividing them and measuring out balls that will become the base of our vases. The idea is that each bridesmaid will save a single bud from their wedding bouquet and keep it in the vase as a treasured keepsake from the special day. I have to admit, it’s a thoughtful little memento. Hopefully my mom enjoys it.
“Now you’ll be able to save your boutonniere, Julia.” Rachel6 looks wide-eyed and earnest, but I’m not buying that for a second.
“I’m wearing a corsage, actually.” I will not sink to her level. “I haven’t had a facial in forever, maybe I can use this as a face mask.” I turn to Stephanie, whose own clay ball is so perfectly spherical it looks 3D-printed, and raise my clay-covered hands to my face. “Is this stuff good for your pores? Or am I going to wind up with lead poisoning?”
She laughs, somewhat generously considering the obvious tension and the fact that my joke wasn’t funny enough to break it. “You might want to stick with something from Sephora.”
Rachel Prime shoots her wily bridesmaid a cautioning look before giving me a little smile. “I’ll make sure to save you a bud from my bouquet, Jules.”
“You can have one from mine too,” Kim says from next to me. I’ve been very emphaticallynotlooking at the way her strong hands are working at the clay, and have to bite back a whimper as I sneak a glance and imagine how they might look flexed around something much more skin-like. My skin, to be precise.
“I’m so excited for Saturday, Rach. Your parents’ country club is gorgeous.” Rachel 3’s hat keeps slipping off and is already caked in clay from her repeated attempts to secure it. “Which ballroom is it in?”
“The main one,” Rachel answers, looking somewhat sheepish. If I remember correctly from the year I turned thirteen and attended a bar or bat mitzvah every single weekend, that ballroom is the kind reserved for New Year’s Eve parties and presidential visits.
Rachel 4 looks impressed. “That must have beenexpensive.”
“Only the best for his only daughter,” says Number 6, “and it’s not like he can’t afford it. What are they shelling out for this wedding, a hundred grand? A hundred fifty?”
“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question to ask.” Number5 seems scandalized that we’d do something so crass as to talk about the gross capitalism of the wedding industrial complex over wine and DIY crafts.
“Really, though, it’ssogenerous of your parents,” says Number6, steamrolling right through the awkwardness. We’re all two glasses in at this point, but I don’t think this is a girl who needs alcohol in her system to say things she shouldn’t. “Especially considering Aiden’s family and their…limitations.” She eyes me with faux sympathy plastered over obvious scorn, as if those limitations encompass everything from my family’s lack of staggering wealth to, you know,me.
“Aiden’s family has been very involved andverysupportive,” Rachel says through gritted teeth, hands squeezing her clay a little tighter than they probably need to be.
“Oh, of course,” Number 6 says with wide, innocent eyes. “But still, I know it must be difficult, considering how many more resources your parents have.” That’s a very diplomatic way of sayingYou’re rich and he’s solidly middle class at best,but we all hear her real meaning nonetheless.
