Page 9 of Cookout Carnage
Her pointed purple nails dig into the navy-blue jacket of my Sunday suit. I look at her, and she’s wearing what can only be described as the female counterpart to the pinstripe mafia suit I ruined.
She pushes me outside so no one can hear us. Suits me fine.
“You’re wearing the wrong outfit.”
“Why did you want to dress up like mafia Raggedy Ann and Andy?” I shake my head at her. “It ripped.”
I pull out my phone, and she instantly poses. It’s her thing. She’s always ready to be admired. This might be the meanest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but Tabi’s going to need a picture of this outfit.
Tanya’s wearing a shiny bustier that’s half black and half white. Her shoes are sky-high and split black and white. I notice one black earring and one white. All opposite, like a checkerboard. I’m getting a Cruella vibe or possibly a Queen of Hearts thing fromAlice in Wonderland. But it’s the miniature fedora in plum, black and white nestled in her black hair that’s swirled into a giant swinging mass tonight that’s the star of the show.
I’m not sure how I ever thought I couldn’t do better.
Over the last year, she’s cultivated this look of hers. She’s constantly on YouTube and TikTok watching makeup videos. I used to think she was prettier, but her obsession with creating a brand and a look took that away. Or maybe I just like a more natural girl. I’m sure there’s a dude out there who will find her breath-taking. It’s my issue, not hers. I hope she finds him.
There’s a faint line of dark orange where her “tan” is rubbing off on the white part of the bustier. I did think I had affection and attraction for her at one point, but now it’s all dull fuzz like dryer lint.
“HOW did it rip? You knew how important tonight was to me.” She taps her tiny pointed shoe in time with the cicadas.
I put my hand on her shoulders. I have to be considerate that she will lose her mind when I call this charade off.
“Tanya, it doesn’t matter how the suit got ruined. I’m here.”
She pastes on a smile and cozies close to me as people look at us out of the window.
“It was that fucking dumb-ass pig. I hate that thing. Can’t wait to put it in its place.”
“How? Gonna ship her off to boarding school? She’s a pig.”
I shift my weight as another waft of faux flower that’s in her lapel hits my nose and threatens to spill my lunch.
“She was more important than me tonight. You couldn’t even be here on time.”
I walk away from her. “That’s enough. Everyone in that building has known me my whole life. What’s the big deal if I’m late and we’re not dressed like Don Donny and Marie?” This pre-wedding cocktail party is with a bunch of people I saw down the Kroeger earlier, but now we’re uncomfortably dressed.
No one is around, and when she turns to me, she’s hissing, “You will wear what I ask in future.” Her nails dig into my bicep like that’s an ok thing to do.
This is over. I’m a fucking idiot.
I pull my arm away. “I’m going to chalk that up to wedding jitters, honey. My sweet, kind, caring, faithful fiancée.”
Her mother calls her over. Dammit. As she walks away, she waggles her fingers at me as if she’s saying goodbye in a cute way. I roll my eyes. “Tanya, I need to talk to you, honey, when you have a minute.”
I sit down inside on a really flowery couch and pull out my phone.
JONATHAN: Fuck me. It might be easier to marry her.
TRISTAN: Bloke! Don’t. I’ll take this to the group chat, and you’ll have to answer to those nosy women.
JONATHAN: You good tonight?
TRISTAN: Just about.
JONATHAN: Call if you get stuck in the mud. Doing it right now.
TRISTAN: I’m voice to text right now, and it’s reading gibberish, or did you just say you haven’t called off this ridiculous charade yet? Get at it.
JONATHAN: Text you later.
