Page 28 of Man Cuffed
“Challenge accepted!” Meg bounces off toward a section marked “vaisselle,” whatever the fuck that is. In fact, the whole store is in French.
Just take my service revolver and shoot me.
Luckily, Meg beckons only moments later. “Found it!” she says. “And it’s only two hundred dollars.”
Considering how badly I want to get out of here, that doesn’t sound so bad. “What is it?”
“Ooh, mademoiselle has fine taste,” the salesman says. “The cocktail cart istrès populaire!”
“What is a cocktail cart?” I bark. I see some shelves on wheels. And an ice bucket.
“It’s a shelf on wheels, with an ice bucket,” Meg says. “Perfect for entertaining. The hostess can move around on the patio.”
“But…” What planet is this? “I wanted to get her something she can use. Like, more than once a year.”
“Sure,” Meg says, and her tone suggests that’s a weird idea. “You could do that. But weddings aren’t about reality. They’re about being a princess for a little while. The cocktail cart is glamorous, it says: I live to enjoy elegant cocktails with my friends. But if you don’t like it, there’s always thebrosse de toilette.”
Beaten, I just hand over my credit card.
* * *
Fifteen minuteslater I’m standing in my sister’s kitchen, shoving big bites of chicken salad in my facehole while a dozen women coo over a cocktail cart. In between bites, I take longing glances at Meg. Specifically her legs. And cleavage. That yellow dress is killing me. Every time she laughs, her chest bounces pleasantly...
“We have to talk,” Rosie hisses in my ear.
“About what? I thought you liked the cocktail cart.”
“J’adorethe cocktail cart,” she says. “I fuckin’ love it. But we have to talk abouther.”
Uh-oh. I look quickly out onto the patio. But the woman I’m so eager to avoid is nowhere in evidence.
“Mac,” my sister says, her voice softening. “I didn’t mean Julie. They’re not here today.”
“Oh?” I try and fail to sound casual. The “they” she’s referring to are my brother and his wife.
“They’re not. They’re in Chicago for the weekend. He has a work thing. That’s why I insisted you cometoday.”
“Oh.” Now I feel like an idiot. But I always feel a little idiotic around my family.
“I meant, we have to talk abouther,” she whispers, her eyes flickering toward Meg. “You suddenly have a date for my shower? And I haven’t heard her name before? How is that possible?”
“Well…” I hesitate, wondering what to say to my clever sister. I glance in Meg’s direction to see how she’s holding up. She’s somehow the center of attention, talking and gesturing wildly. The women around her burst into laughter. Seems Meg is just fine.
“Who is she?” my sister whispers. “How long have you been dating? And when is the wedding?”
I can’t process any of that. Too much too fast. “Say again?”
Rosie puts her hands on her hips. “Just who is Meg to you?”
“She’s my neighbor. Don’t get so excited.”
Her eyes narrow. “Just a neighbor? I hope not.”
I don’t get a chance to answer, though. The kitchen door flies open, and a tornado whirls inside. “Rosie! Macklin! Help me with this thing!” There is a swirl of color, like a bunch of colorful scarves caught in a windstorm. Looks like she picked up another Dress Of Many Colors at an art fair or something. She’s also wearing big earrings that she fashioned out of tin cans.Reuse! Recycle! And Redazzle!she likes to say.
Our mother has arrived.
And somewhere in the near distance is Dad. Wearing a handknit sweater that mom made for him. My dad’s a fucking saint to wear that thing. First off, the arms are different lengths. Secondly, it’s summertime.
