“Does everything look okay?” I ask Chelsea, as I critically eye the tent.
Chelsea smooths her hand over a white tablecloth covering one of the fifteen round tables I’d rented. “It looks amazing, Tay. Don’t worry about anything. Your mom and my dad will love everything.”
I scrape my teeth over my lower lip while turning my head this way and that. “I hope so. I want everything to be perfect for them, you know?”
“It couldn’t be any more perfect if we’d hired a professional wedding organizer,” she reassures me.
For months I’d worked on the color scheme, seating arrangements, accessories, and layout. Since tomorrow’s ceremony is being held on the beach, a few feet from the house, I went with neutrals, blues, and greens.
The centerpieces are cylindrical vases filled with shells and sand. Every shell was hand-picked by yours truly during walks along the beach. Each shell is the perfect shape with no cracks or breaks.
The chalk-white chairs have organza bows tied to the seat backs and are held in place with fraying sisal rope.
I devised the weekend’s menu with my mom. For tonight’s dinner, we went with a BBQ theme—the usual burgers and hot dogs, watermelon and potato salad, but tomorrow we’re going with fresh oysters on ice, seared tuna bites, a lobster buffet, and bite-sized shrimp and grits. We also have steak and chicken for anyone who isn’t a fan of seafood.
The invitations and place cards were handmade by me. They’re folded ivory cardstock embossed on the front with seashells and decorated with twine, starfish, and pearls. Burn marks from the glue gun still cover the insides of my fingers.
Because Chelsea is the more outgoing of the two of us, and because we’re joined at the hip, everyone has been congratulating her for the wonderful job she’s done. She’s been sweet enough to say it was all my doing, but Chelsea getting all the credit is the story of my life.
I’m not jealous by any means. She had a hard time after her mom died, and her dad got way overprotective, which meant she couldn’t breathe the wrong way without him coming down on her.
Two years ago, after a huge family fight, Chelsea’s brother, aka he who shall not be named, aka the guy who fucked me then forgot me walked away from his family for good.
He hasn’t RSVP’d, and I’m glad he isn’t coming. Sort of.
“You all ready for your new job?” Chelsea asks.
“All packed and raring to go.” For the first time since we met, we’re spending the summer apart. The day after the wedding, I leave for my nannying job. For the next two months, I’ll be living in New York looking after a six-year-old girl and a four-year-old boy. Usually, I’m a camp counselor for Camp Breakout—a getaway for underprivileged kids—with Chelsea, but one of my mom’s friends in the Hamptons was desperate for a nanny, so I said I’d help her out.
Wesley is taking my place at the camp this year. I’ll miss Camp Breakout and the kids, but I’m looking forward to a summer at the pool and at the beach with two kids to care for instead of ten at a time.
I’m also ready to be known for who I am and not just as Chelsea’s best friend.
I glance in her direction. Her head is buried in her phone, and she’s giggling to herself. I wouldn’t be surprised if Wesley sent her a dick pic—another one. He sends at least one every day—two on holidays. I think she’s considering making herself a calendar for Christmas.
Wesley and the other Wildcats are on the beach setting up the chairs for tomorrow’s ceremony. This time last year, had Coach Thompson known his new quarterback was dating his daughter (and by dating, I mean screwing), he would have blown a gasket, but Wesley is one of the good guys. He proved that.
A lot of things happened last year with the Wild Cats, especially when a trouble-making player named Christian went crazy, but Wesley helped smooth everything over. After that, Coach accepted that Wesley was good enough for his daughter. They make a cute if a somewhat puke-inducing couple.
I can’t believe tomorrow we’ll become sisters. Even though we’ve been inseparable since we were kids, she’ll officially be my family, and sometimes we fight like sisters do, but we always make up.
Without her by my side over the years pushing and encouraging me, I would’ve become a nerd with no friends. My mom even calls Chelsea her fourth daughter.
Tomorrow, me, both of my sisters— Shayla and Becca— and my sister from another mister, Chelsea, are all part of the wedding party.
My younger sisters are bridesmaids, with Chelsea taking on the role of maid of honor, and because my mom’s dad passed away a few years ago, Mom asked me to give her away.
Walking her down the aisle without bawling my eyes out will be next to impossible. For so long—too long—it’s been me, my sisters and our mom. The four musketeers—one for all and all for one. I’m happy for her, truly I am. God knows she deserves someone who loves her.
I remember little about my dad, but I do remember him yelling at us all the time and making us cry.
The last day I saw him, he told me I was a useless mistake. Something I’ve spent my entire life proving wrong by overachieving in every area of my life. There’s only one time when I’ve truly fucked up, and that was with Chelsea’s brother.
Mom didn’t date much when we were growing up, and if she did, she kept her boyfriends away from us. She didn’t have to do that, but her life was all about protecting her girls.
I glance at the table reserved for immediate family. Maybe I should make a space for Aaron just in case. Before I can stop myself, the words are out of my mouth.
“Anything from Aaron?” Even saying his name gives me butterflies, but I swallow hard and kill each and every one of them.
I don’t want to think about him. I don’t want to remember how his body felt against mine. I don’t want to remember how his tongue felt between my legs. How it felt when I screamed his name. How it felt when he gave me my first orgasm.
I busy my shaking hands by wiping imaginary grains of sand from the tables. I might not want to think about all those things, but I do--and often.
“No,” she says with a sigh, “and I don’t expect to. I wish he’d come, but he won’t. He and Dad… well, you know.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Christmas— or was it Thanksgiving? He wasn’t very chatty. Why do you ask?”
“Just want to make sure that my seating plan won’t get messed up if he decides to show.”
Chelsea snorts. “Not going to happen. Trust me. He hasn’t come to a family function since the fight. He’s hardly going to show up for Dad’s wedding.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” I say, doing my best to hide my disappointment.
Chelsea leans her hip against a table and goes back to her phone.
What if he does show up? What then? Ever since that night on the beach, I haven’t slept with another guy. I haven’t even accepted any dates, even though I’ve been asked.
Why? Because, in my experience, men are users. But I can hand-on-heart swear that Aaron didn’t take advantage of me. He might have used me, but I used him too. From the day my hormones kicked in, I’d crushed on him hard. One day he was Chelsea’s annoying older brother. The next day he was the hottest guy in the world.
I spent way too many nights during my teens dreaming about being his girlfriend. And the night after graduation, I went out of my way to flirt with him. I wanted to sleep with him. I wanted him to take my virginity. And he did.
He’d come back for Chelsea’s graduation. He was a college sophomore and was making waves in football. His name was everywhere. Although, some people were still pissed at him for not committing to Calton.
When he showed up, his hair was all sun bleached, his chin scruffy, his skin had a golden hue and as for his muscles— Lord— his biceps strained the stitching on his t-shirt.
Every girl in the graduating class wanted him, but I was the one who got him…and then lost him. Not that he was ever really mine to begin with.
He had no clue I was a virgin when he brought me to the beach. He only realized after he put the condom on and entered me for the first time.
A small groan escapes my lips at the memory of the burning pleasure as he slid in deep, whispering my name.
Afterward, we fell asleep by the fire wrapped in each other’s arms. When I woke the next morning, he was gone. The bastard didn’t even wake me up to say goodbye. What a jerk.
That was the last time I saw or heard from him. Seeing him on TV playing football doesn’t count.
I take the last few wine glasses from the box sitting by the tent flap and set them on the table being used for the bar.
Standing back, I admire my work. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
“Should I let everyone know we’re almost ready?” Chelsea asks, lowering her phone.
“Two more minutes,” I say, once more casting a critical eye around the tent.
Chelsea comes over and wraps her arms around me. “Everything’s great, and everyone’ll love it. Promise me you’re going to allow yourself to relax and enjoy all the work you put in.”
“Am I being overbearing again?” I groan and then grimace. “You can tell me.”
She stands back and places her hands on my shoulders. “You’re being a little OCD and, yes, overbearing.”
“Sorry.”
“You can’t control everything, Tay. Sometimes you gotta let things go.”
“This coming from the woman who throws a hissy fit if anyone gets a routine wrong.”
She laughs hard. “Cheer is very different. It’s life or death. You’d better believe those bitches better not get a routine wrong.” Chelsea’s dream is to cheer for the NFL and if anyone can make it, she can. Nothing gets in her way when it comes to cheerleading. It’s her life. Her passion. Not mine. Not anymore. I don’t think it ever was.
Her phone rings and she immediately answers. I can see from the screensaver, it’s Wesley. God forbid he goes more than ten minutes without hearing her voice.
While I like cheering, and I love the girls, it’s not my life. Recently, I’ve been thinking about what I want to do. Dance and cheer have been part of my life for so long, but I want to find out what else is out there.
I’ve dropped hints to my mom about changing my major from Latin American Literature to interior design, but she’s been so busy that we haven’t talked about it in depth.
If I tell Chelsea I’m ready to quit cheer, she’ll throw a wobbler or break down. My dream is design, but I’m not sure which area I’d like to specialize in.
I have a good eye, or at least I think I do, and I think my mom will support me. The reason I never pursued art and design earlier is because it’s something I got from my dad.
He, from what I remember, was the clichéd tortured artist. Mom said he was frustrated because he wasn’t good enough, and that’s another reason I never pursued it or gave into my need to create. As well as worrying about disappointing my mom, I’m worried I’m not good enough. What if the art department tells me “thanks but no thanks”?
I’m afraid. Everyone would be surprised if they knew how much of a coward I really am. No one would ever guess that by looking at me. To the outside world, I’m an over-achiever, OCD Taylor. Perfect at everything she does. The reason I’m perfect at everything I do is because I never try something I know I won’t be good at. If I did and failed, people would see me for the fraud I really am.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no angel and have done some stupid and crazy things when my mom wasn’t around. Like inviting the entire high school football team and cheer squad over for a kegger. That stunt cost me my car for the entire summer and a ten o’clock curfew the whole way through senior year.
Other than stupid stuff like that when I was younger, I pretty much did, and still do, toe the line. I don’t party, do drugs, or sleep around.
Chelsea hangs up her phone. “Ready?”
“Hold on.” I pick up a wine glass and hold it up to the light. “This has a smudge. Crap.”
The tent flaps open, and both Chelsea and I look to see who’s dared come into the tent without my say so.
The glass I’m holding falls to the floor and shatters.
“No fucking way,” Chelsea screams, glee filling her voice, and she barrels forward.
My nipples harden, and my panties dampen.
No fucking way is right.