Page 67 of Blindsided
“Lying cunt!” Allie says again, and this time, Sloan joins in.
Poppy then adds, “Twins are really fucking hard, and I think I might be a horrible mum.”
“Lying cunt!” Allie, Sloan, and Leslie bellow.
“I hate my hips,” Belle says, propping her elbows on the table. “And they only got bigger after I had Baby Joey. I think my body is revolting.”
“Lying cunt!” Allie, Sloan, Leslie, and Poppy chant.
Indie chirps in next. “My pregnancy with Bex gave me angry red stretch marks that make me never want to take my shirt off in front of Camden ever again. He tells me my marks gave him the best gift of all, and he loves them, but I can’t help but feel self-conscious all the time.”
“Lying cunt!”
Everyone turns their focus to Vi, who’s the only one who hasn’t said anything through all of this. She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes as she stares back at all of us. Her voice wobbles when she says, “I’m terrified that I’m not enough to keep Hayden happy and that no matter how hard I try, he could attempt suicide again.”
The room goes quiet as everyone stares at Vi, who’s just dropped some serious perspective on all of us. I shake my head, shocked and dismayed that all these stunning, strong, successful women have opened their souls to me and revealed dark parts of their inner fears that they believe to be true.
No one is perfect.
And everyone is a liar.
“Lying. Cunt.” I reach out and grab Vi’s hand.
She nods, tears slipping out down her cheeks as she smiles back at me. “Lying cunt.”
Allie lifts her flute of champagne and holds it out to all of us. “Let’s drink to all of us shutting up those lies we tell ourselves and going out there and living the lives we deserve!”
“Here, here,” I state with a smile.
“Cheers!”
Who knew my outfit for the Dundonald Highland Games would have made me this nervous?I fret to myself as I smooth out my flirty skirt while riding with the girls in a large van to the Royal Dundonald Castle, where the guys are meeting us.
They’ve been busy all morning with a 10km road race, that apparently ends with whisky drinking. I can’t imagine the state of them if they’ve been drinking since ten.
Although, if I’m being honest, I’m feeling a little loose myself. The ladies and I polished off several bottles of champagne while we got ready, and it’s just barely noon when we pull up in front of the castle, so we’re in for a long day ahead.
We make our way out of the car, and Sloan and Leslie smile knowingly at me.
“You look so damn cute,” Leslie says, shaking her head. “The pockets are a perfect touch.”
She’s commenting on the dress I made for the day’s festivities. It’s a full fifties-style swing dress with a flirty skirt, crew neck top, and three-quarter sleeves. It cinches in tight around my waist and has several large pleats at the hips and down the centre. It’s a classic design that isn’t necessarily a showstopper on its own, but I made it entirely out of the Clan Logan tartan left over from the bolt of fabric Mac brought into the shop. The gorgeous green plaid makes it a statement piece, to be sure.
I thought it would be a fun joke after Mac made such a big deal out of the kilts being perfect. The girls all ooh’d and ahh’d when they saw what I’d made and began making more assumptions about our relationship. But I assured them my dress was just made for a laugh.
We make our way through the crowd in the parking lot and head across the grass towards the castle. In the distance, I can see all the guys sitting at several picnic tables with plastic cups of what I can only assume is whisky. They’re surrounded by other men in kilts, and it’s clearly a big booze-fest happening.
Regardless of their varying states of inebriation, they all look seriously handsome in their various colours of kilts with rugged boots and socks on. I note mud splattered up around their legs and flecks of dirt staining their T-shirts, likely from the run this morning.
This look here is what Mac refers to as “casual kilt”, which is an apparently very different look from “formal kilt”. Having seen photos of formal kilts and now getting a good look at real-live Scots all mussed up and dirty from their day’s activities, I can say without a doubt that casual kilt is my preference.
I search the crowd for Mac and puzzle over where he could be when, suddenly, he comes around the corner with a couple of guys who must be local. They all have whiskies in hand and are sipping them while talking.
“Looking good, guys!” Allie shouts as we approach, turning everyone’s attention to us.
The men abandon their whisky to greet their ladies with big, proud smiles. Mac and I connect eyes, and I assume he’s going to start laughing once he sees my dress.
But he’s not laughing.
