Mom delivers the wedding details through tight lips, meaning she is not happy about it. Well, is she ever happy, really?
"Right now she's leaning toward a vineyard in Sausalito. Beautiful resort. Marvelous. The place has Victorian-era gingerbread architecture."
"Sounds fancy. How many guests?"
"Not many. Most of Nana's friends are...well—dead."
"When?"
"The middle of June," she says cautiously, cocking one eyebrow to watch my reaction.
My mouth falls open. "I'm graduating the middle of June."
"Well…" Mom clears her throat and plucks at her pastel Ralph Lauren cardigan, removing an invisible lint ball. "There's still time and we'll see how and when and if..."
And if? My family doesn't believe I'll graduate? What the hell? I feel a knot forming in my stomach, but I know debating the point is a waste of breath. My parents made it clear that I entered their shit list the minute I failed a year of college. So I swallow the insult, as bad as it tastes.
"Thanks for stopping by," I say flatly, staring past her and motioning at the door. I can't make eye contact with her right now without exploding into pieces of insecurity.
My mother sighs in exasperation. "Little peanut," she mutters almost silently, before I hear the door shut.
Chapter Five
“Two margaritas and four cosmos coming right up,” I yell from behind the bar to Bree, the waitress on the other side. I’m shaking my ass to a heavy metal version of “Tainted Love.”
Yeah, Ned’s is that kind of neighborhood joint. Lots of 80s and classic-rock music, a little metal and punk, and zero pop and country crap. No jukebox, thank God. I get to pick the music on my shifts, as long as I don't go too loud or too indie, which is a serious plus when you're a music buff like me.
All the waitresses and bartenders are in their mid-thirties at least. Well, other than me. There’s something very family-orientated about this place. Ned’s belongs to a Texas-transplant named Mikey, who is loud and funny and probably the most good-natured guy you’ll ever come across. Mikey surrounds himself with good people, affordable alcohol and great food, which makes Ned’s a perfect combination and one of the best places to visit in Walnut Creek.
“Hurry up, I need to pee.” Bree knits her legs together, dancing in place like a drunken marionette. She’s mid-thirties, African American and a real, classic beauty.
I work fast to prepare the drinks, but I know it’s going to take some time, because the table all went for girlie cocktails with a five-page ingredient list. People rarely order fancy cocktails here—Ned’s is a beer and shots kind of place—so it's not like I'm used to doing this.
“Go ahead to the bathroom.” I quickly line up tall glasses and take out tequila, lemon and cranberry juice, my hands loaded. “I’ll deliver the drinks once I’m done mixing them. What table?”
“Nine. Thanks, Blaire. You can’t miss them. Six loud, blonde girls with air balloons for boobs.”
I nod, blending another cosmo, still singing horribly out of tune. Bree contemplates this for a second before I smack her on the ass with my dishtowel. “Go!”
She hops toward the bathroom, shooting me a relieved smile.
Bree is right. Spotting the blonde girls is not a difficult task. They all have this daddy-didn’t-love-me pout, with extra short skirts, bleached hair and...are those fake eyelashes? Interesting...
When I serve them their drinks, they ignore me and keep talking.
“…so I texted him and said listen, I don’t care who you are, I’m not waiting around here for two hours until you’re done messing around with these three sluts. And he was, like, well, Nicole, no one handcuffed you to my bed—even though he totally did that at one point, if you remember the time we bumped into each other in Tahoe—and I was like, are you serious! Are we actually having this conversation over text? It’s bad enough he’s sleeping around with every single girl I work with! So I called him twice and he didn’t pick up…”
Nicole's story piques my interest and hurts my feminist self at the same time. I decide to stick around and listen to the rest of it. I don't usually bump into juicy relationship stories. All my friends are dudes, and none of them are the type that pull this kind of crap. It's like flipping through the channels and stumbling across an old Ricki Lake rerun. You don't want to be caught looking, but damn if it's not super-fascinating on some screwed-up level.
“So I told him I was done with him. Went to his gym and told him it’s over. Get this—the douchebag didn’t care! I was so, so upset, you guys. I was literally crying, and he just kept training. I actually had my dad pick me up because I couldn’t drive. Fast forward two days later, and the bastard calls me up.”