Page 43 of Best Woman
“Well, you were much handsomer when I married you,” Grandma says, extending her own hand to Kim for a limp little shake.
“When was that again?” I ask them. “Sometime around the fall of Rome?”
“Romulus and Remus attended the ceremony,” Grandpa fires back, not missing a beat. “You be nice to me, doll, or I’ll write you out of the will.”
I give a mock shudder. “Oh no, how will Ieverhope to survive without your stamp collection?”
“Stamps are actually a smart investment,” says Kim. “Better than the stock market.”
Grandpa smiles. “I like this girl,” he tells me, sotto voce, though we all can hear.
“Me too,” I say, more to her than my grandpa. Kim squeezes my waist.
My grandparents soon abandon us for the bar—Grandma sternly reminding Grandpa that he can havetwo martinis and that’s it—and I’m hopeful we might make it to dinner, where I’ll be seated at the center table while Kim dines with the bridal party, without further interruption. I know I should get throughall my awkward family interactions now, before the emotional shitshow I’m sure tomorrow will be, but all I want to do is stay tucked into Kim in this little corner, trading snarky comments about people’s outfits and heated glances heavy with the promise of what might happen after dinner.
Alas, I have never been that lucky.
“Parental unit incoming,” Kim warns.
“Ah, yes, the boss of this level. Hi, Dad.” He’s wearing the suit I unearthed from the depths of the garage, which looks like he took it out of the garment bag and put it straight on without even considering an iron or, god forbid, dry-cleaning. My father has likely never had an item of clothing dry-cleaned in his life. For the thousandth time in my life, I wonder how my mother—a woman so obsessed with order that it borders on OCD—ever married this man.
“Julie,” he crows.
“I have asked you repeatedly not to call me that.”
He rolls his eyes. “Right,anotherthing I’m not supposed to call you.” He holds his hand out for Kim, and winces at her grip. Unlike my grandpa, I don’t think he’s exaggerating. Then she winces, and I follow her gaze to where Rachel is clearly summoning her. “A maid of honor’s duty never ends,” she tells my father apologetically, giving me a final squeeze before leaving to deal with whatever Rachel-shaped emergency had emerged.
“Nice girl,” Dad says. “Pretty, if you like that type.”
“Whattypeis that, exactly?” I say, bristling.
“You know—butch. I guess that was always kind of your thing with girls,” he says, chuckling. “You watchedAlienevery day when you were thirteen and wouldn’t shut up about Sigourney Weaver.”
“I can’t believe you remember that,” I say.
He shakes his head, a little sad. “You’re my kid, I remember a lot of things about you.”
This is true, but doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. One of the reasons I barely talk to my dad is because it never takes long for him to start reminiscing about my childhood, how close we were, that I was hislittle buddy,following him everywhere. He misses that version of me, the one who loved him in a way that was uncomplicated, whowasuncomplicated. A child he understood.
“Really, though,” he says, “she seems great. And I can tell you like her. You look at her the way you used to look at a box of crayons when you were a kid.” He reaches out to lay a hand on my shoulder. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”
My throat feels tight. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Bit out of your league, though,” he says.
“Thanks, Dad.”
A bell rings. We move toward the private event space and find our seats in the cavernous dining room of the snooty Italian restaurant housed in the hotel most of the out-of-town guests are staying at. All around me are cousins and sleepaway camp friends and my mother’s clique of female friends, who are essentially postmenopausal Rachels, each double fisting a cocktail in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. Kim is across the room, walking toward the bridal table with the actual Rachels, sipping from a newly procured scotch like someMad Menlesbian AU fantasy. I need this thing to movequicklyso I can ask to see her hotel room.
The meal passes in a haze of polite conversation, overcooked pasta, and undercooked chicken. There are speeches fromminor players—my own won’t take place until tomorrow night. A photographer floats around capturing the revelry, and I pose with the twins, who flank me on either side.
Later, when I’m sipping espresso and avoiding the cheesecake so my dress fits tomorrow, I suddenly feel hot breath against my ear.
“I’m in room 902,” Kim says. “Be there in twenty.” It’s not phrased even remotely like a question, so I nod my assent like a good girl. Across the table, Aiden rolls his eyes.
…
The carpeted hallways aren’t easy to navigate in my shoes, but every step leads me closer to, I’m pretty sure, a sexual encounter I’ve been fantasizing about for half my life. I’m not sure if that’s fair, if Kim will be able to live up to the ideal of her I’ve been nurturing since I was a hormonal teenager failing algebra, but the woman I’ve spent the past few weeks getting to know is so much different and so much more vivid than the one I’d caught glimpses of when we were both growing up and outgrowing this place day by day.
