Home > When the Time Is Right(3)

When the Time Is Right(3)
Author: M. Mabie

As far as I was concerned, I was only looking forward to all of the planning and fittings and rehearsals and showers, ad nauseam, being almost over. I’d spent a small fortune on this fucking dog and pony show and had literally nothing to show for it. The bright, intoxicating light at the end of this long, dark, annoying tunnel was me getting shit-hammered later at their reception.

I deserved an open bar and wasn’t afraid to use it.

I meant that from the bottom of my cold, dead heart.

Okay, so my heart wasn’t really all that cold or dead, but as I stood up front and looked into the congregation, my hooker-painted eyes landing on my date—if you could call him that—I was again reminded of how dumb all of this was.

My feet had started hurting before the ceremony had even begun, but by the time it ended and Hudson and I were paired again to leave the altar, I was preparing for a new life as a double amputee. Only a troll would force her wedding party to wear four-inch stilettos to a Catholic wedding. A fucking troll, I tell you.

“Are you crying?” Hudson asked as I hung my wrist on his tree trunk of a forearm for support.

“No.”

“Yes, you are. You bawl bag.”

I did my best to again offer smiles as we passed row after row of family and attendees. “I think I lost a toe about an hour ago. I’m mourning.”

He stretched his thick neck to the side and tugged at the collar. “I know what you mean. I can’t wait to get out of this fucking thing. It’s choking the shit out of me.”

I laughed, a full belly laugh. What a sucker.

“What?” He glared down at me, his stern brow proof of how serious he was about getting out of the formal wear.

“It’s funny that you think you get to change anytime soon.”

“Oh, I am,” he stated as if he’d gotten permission in writing, which I was certain he had not.

“Dude, we still have pictures and dances and God only knows what else before we’re set free. You’re looking at another few hours.”

“You’ve got to be out of your ever-loving, fu—” Hudson cut himself off as his son ran up to us. Releasing my arm, he picked Jack up in one swift motion. But don’t be mistaken: He silently finished the sentence while staring me down.

“Lex, you look funny.” Jack was seven and spoke nothing but the facts.

“You’re right. I do.” I poked him in the side. “You gonna save me a dance later anyway?”

His eyes lit up, but he argued, “You don’t know my dances.”

Just to prove a point and see the little fart’s reaction, with my bouquet in hand, I gave him a sample of my best Floss moves.

“Dad, she can do it!”

“Alexis,” someone called from near the chapel doors. “We need you, Sugar.”

Sugar. If that wedding planner called me Sugar one more time, I was going to trip her ass the next chance I got. That just goes to show you how well she didn’t know me.

In my best, thick Southern drawl, I called back, “All right, Snickerdoodle. I’ll be there in two shakes of a dog’s tail.”

“Go on, Sugar,” Hudson quipped.

“Yeah, Sugar,” Jack added. Like father, like son.

Dutifully, I did what had been asked of me. Pictures. Train fluffing. Flower holding. Smiling. All the while losing, my best estimate, a pint of blood a minute from the holes worn into my feet. My older brother owed me big time, and I had no issue at all with sending him links to a few high-end thank-you gifts I’d had my eye on.

Besides, he had plenty of money. Hence the Stepford wife he now belonged to. Dr. Calvin Lawson could afford to splurge on the Kate Spade purse I had in my online Nordstrom cart—and the matching wallet. The Lord knew I wasn’t going to be dropping that kind of money for a while.

I’d only recently regained employment when one of my old waitressing friends moved back to town, and I was about a month into my new job at Warren and Warren Consulting. Sure, it was an entry-level position, mostly doing administrative work. Assistant stuff. Running errands. Still, it was good experience and any marketing knowledge I gained wouldn’t hurt. But with both Warrens expecting their first child and opening a new office in Atlanta, my need for employment couldn’t have come at a better time for all of us.

So, as the afternoon went on, I kept my mouth shut and fulfilled my sisterly obligations. The second I got to the reception venue, I limped my saintly ass up to the bar with my stupid date trailing behind me.

Normally, I wouldn’t have brought Craig—or even dated him for that matter. We’d only been out a handful of times, but his family knew my mom and she’d basically invited him after our second date.

Don’t get me wrong. Craig was an okay guy. Nothing special, but I supposed, with also still being single as fuck at twenty-eight, I was no prize peach, either.

“Two Captain and Cokes, please,” I ordered at the first port-a-bar I came to.

“Oh, no, thanks, Alexis,” Craig said after catching up to me, waving off the first cocktail that was set in front of us.

“These are both mine,” I explained.

He didn’t look impressed, but that would only cushion the blow when I let him down gently, probably the next day on the phone. It didn’t bother me one iota if he thought I was being a bad date.

I was a bad date, but that wasn’t anything new.

I was simply one of those people who knew what they liked and what they didn’t. If and when the right guy came along again, I’d know right away. Although I wasn’t holding my breath. Mostly because I didn’t really care about many people, except the ones I chose to keep around me.

They were irreplaceable.

Besides, I had more important things to worry about. A new job that was going to run me ragged over the coming weeks, two fur balls that demanded my unwavering devotion, and a small starter house I’d bought just before I’d been laid off a few months ago. Without much income, my savings—which I’d planned on spending on renovations and some other now sidelined plans—had dwindled. So I would have to be creative with my budget.

Like, pronto.

Because the leaks in my guest bathroom weren’t getting fixed by a plumber. The low-hanging tree branch and overgrown bushes out front wouldn’t be touched by a professional landscaper, and the drywall and paint the walls needed were probably going to be poorly repaired and only slightly improved by yours truly.

I wasn’t afraid of the challenge though, and I wasn’t scared to get my hands dirty. Hell, I’d grown up in the Georgian dirt with my brother, playing with bugs and chasing snakes with the neighborhood kids. Granted, our neighborhood was pretty tame, and we weren’t trudging through any wild forests, but rather a creek bed that ran through the adjacent golf course.

Regardless, I could take care of myself.

Plus, you could learn how to do just about anything on YouTube. So that left me no time or interest in a love life. Then again, everyone gets a scratch they can’t itch themselves from time to time.

I’d let Craig give me a scratching the weekend before and it had left a lot to be desired. A whole lot.

From then on, with regard to me, Craig wasn’t going to be itching anything other than the flaky, mysterious skin thing he had going on. Maybe I’d mention it when I called him the next day. I didn’t want to date him, but sometimes a guy needed a friend to nudge him in the right direction. And the only helpful direction I could point him was to a good dermatologist.

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