Page 36 of Best Woman
That is…information. Information I am not equipped to process. “Our clay is probably dry by now,” I say dumbly. She leans back, looking for the first time uncertain. “It’s not that I don’t want to keep doing…this.” I’m pretty sure it’s obvious from how close we are just how much I want to keep doingthis,every part of my body feels like it’s vibrating, straining toward her. “But we are at a bachelorette party for which you are the maid of honor.”
She pouts. “But I don’twanna.” A hand traces up my sideand lingers against one of my breasts. “I’d much rather have my hands on you than some overpriced organic clay.”
And I’d like to agree, and let her mold me into whatever she wants, something or someone new, indelibly marked by her. I’d like her to carve her initials into me and get me hot enough that they’d fix and never fade. But she knows I’m right, so she pulls away and helps me fix the hair she’d put so much effort into mussing. She opens the door for me, and just before we walk back inside she kisses the corner of my jaw. “Later,” she promises. And I let myself believe her.
“Wake up, we’regoing to the mall!”
“Five more minutes,” I mumble out.
It takes me a long moment to realize I am not, in fact, sixteen years old. Yes, I’m in my old room at my mother’s house and that very same mother is shouting at me through the door. Yes, I fell asleep thinking about Kim Cameron. Yes, I’ve somehow managed to displace the duvet, sheets, and pillows while sleeping and am lying in a bare bed with sunlight pouring in the window like a personal attack.
But I also have a throbbing headache from all the wine I drank last night, and I detested wine as a teenager, much more likely to get a buzz from a few Smirnoff Ices. Also, I’m wearing a set of silky pajamas pilfered from a pop star’s PR pile that I would never have allowed myself to covet when I lived here. And most important, Kim Cameron kissed me last night. Not in a fantasy, but in real life. In a smelly, muggy parking lot behind a noveltypottery studio while my future sister-in-law and her clones got drunk on rosé and made commemorative vases.
“Julia, are you up?” my mother asks through the closed door, despite knowing from years of experience that I’m still horizontal, if not unconscious. Thank god I locked the door when I came home last night, otherwise, she’d be dragging me out of bed by my feet. That’s not an exaggeration: it’s how she woke me up through most of middle school.
“Yes, Mother.” She hates when I call her that. “Give me half an hour.”
“Twenty minutes,” she shouts back, voice fading. “I need a Diet Coke ASAP.”
Groaning, I roll out of bed and into the bathroom, wincing at my reflection. Despite how often my mother has drilled into me over the past few years that you shouldnevergo to bed without washing your makeup off, I look like I’ve just come out of the pool at the end ofRocky Horror. I switch on the shower, thankful for the giant suburban water heater downstairs when it instantly turns scorching hot. As I rinse off my makeup and, hopefully, some of the hangover, I puzzle out the rest of last night.
After our still-shocking encounter behind Kiln Me Softly, Kim and I rejoined the group to knowing looks from Rachels 1–5 and an apology from a chastised Rachel 6. I never managed to transform my lump of clay into anything more than, well, a lump of clay, but everyone else was so wasted by the time the eponymous kiln was fired up that it didn’t matter. The midnight movie screening was torturous, both because I had to listen as a group of drunk women talked about how bad they wanted to fuck Adam Sandlerandbecause Kim kept her leg pressed tightlyagainst mine in the dark theater for the entire movie, occasionally tracing her fingers along my leather-clad thigh. We’d both been sloppy and exhausted by the time the movie ended, but had made plans to “hang out” this evening after the rehearsal dinner. The dinner was at a restaurant conveniently located in the very hotel where Kim was staying, and she’d suggested we get a drink at the bar afterward. “Or just hang out in my room,” she’d said, uncharacteristically bashful. I’m cautiously optimistic that means what I think it means, and hope the dress I’m wearing tonight is easy to get quickly in and out of.
An hour and a quick stop at the McDonald’s drive-thru later, Mom and I are marching through Bloomingdale’s toward the shoe department because she’s decided she simplymusthave a new pair of shoes for tonight despite owning a collection that would rival Carrie Bradshaw’s—if Carrie Bradshaw were really into Tory Burch. I think she’s also realized that we haven’t had much mother-daughter time this week.
“You could use something like this,” she says, pointing at a pair of hideous Michael Kors wedges. “A nice, feminine, everyday shoe. Those”—she looks toward my beat-up black boots (the only pair of my own shoes River let me pack), nose scrunched in disdain—“have got to go.”
“As I have no plans to visit a yacht club or a white nationalist rally anytime soon, I’ll pass.”
“I have them in beige.”
“Of course you do.”
Thankfully, a smiling sales associate interrupts us. “Can I help you?” She’s an older woman, around my mom’s age, and already looks tired at 11a.m.I can relate.
“Yes,” says my mother, “mydaughterand I are looking forshoes for an event tonight. My son’s rehearsal dinner. He’s gettingmarriedtomorrow.”
She does this a lot when we’re out together, emphasizing thedaughter,and telling nail technicians we’re having agirl’s day. I’m sure she does it unconsciously, but a small, nasty part of me worries it’s because she’s sure something about me—my low voice or my wide shoulders—will give me away.
And if that’s true, if she believes that’s how other people will see me…is that howshesees me?
I squash the doubt down, and make it as small as possible.I’ve always wanted a daughter,I remind myself.That’s what she said when you told her.Thatis what matters. That’s real.
“Congratulations,” the sales associate says, managing a smile that looks roughly forty percent sincere. “Were you looking for anything in particular?”
“Something strappy,” says Mom. “And beige. And she’ll”—she points at me—“probably want something in black.”
“You know mesowell,” I say, “but I don’t need shoes. I’m all set for tonight.”
Mom gives me a look. “Sweetie, it’s my treat. And while I’m sure what you brought is…nice, this is your brother’s rehearsal dinner. Let’s get you somethingelegant.” She turns back to the sales associate. “Do you carry larger sizes?”
The headache that’s been rumbling around on a low simmer all morning starts to throb. “Seriously, Mom, I’m good. Remember, River lent me some shoes.”
“I’m sure whatevertheylet you borrow is lovely,” she says, making sure to emphasize the pronoun, “but wouldn’t you like a nice pair of heels you don’t have to give back? Every woman should have a good pair of black pumps. Right?” she asks theassociate, who nods, clearly wanting to be involved in this conversation as little as possible. That makes two of us.
“I’m more of a combat boot girl,” I tell the associate, trying to make the whole thing funny rather than awkward. The pained look on her face says I’m not succeeding.
“You’ve been wearing the same pair of boots since you were fourteen,” says Mom, clearly exasperated. Thewhen you were a boygoes unsaid, but I hear it all the same. It’s like she’s asking me what’s the point, why did I transition if I’m going to leave the house with chipped black nail polish and no bra? How am I a woman if I don’t get a blowout every week and own a pair of pumps?
