Rosie snorted into the back of her wrist. “Knew it.”
“What?” Georgie sputtered, before falling silent for a moment. “Details, please.” She shifted on her stool. “You know . . . so I can say no. Firmly.”
Bethany smiled into a sip of champagne. “You won’t say no.”
Her certainty wasn’t unfounded. As a professional house stager for her family’s company, Brick & Morty, planning, executing, and beautifying was Bethany’s purpose on this earth. When presented with a blank canvas, she took light, shadow, spacing, practicality, and wow factor into account—and she turned an empty shell into a home. No stitch out of place or book spine askew. Perfection. Something inside her never stopped yearning for that tip-top mountain peak. That awed reaction she received at the end of her stages. That rush of accomplishment.
At some point that quest for perfection had bled into every other aspect of her life and continued to bleed, and bleed, but that was a positive thing. Right?
When she realized her hand was curled too tightly around the champagne flute, she set it down with a flourish and smiled. “We’re starting with brunch at the Four Seasons, moving on to an afternoon of pampering—you’ll be getting married hairless and shiny, you’re welcome—and we’ll round the night out with a harmless orgy. What’s not to love?”
“Stop. Oh God.” Georgie coughed, eyes tearing. “Champagne. Burning the insides of my nose. So painful.”
“Tell her the real plan, you evil woman,” Rosie scolded, biting back a smile.
Bethany rolled her eyes. “Fine. We’re ending the night with a combined bachelor-bachelorette dinner at Buena Onda. Mom and Dad will be there, too. I knew that’s what you’d want. Travis and Georgie forever. Yada yada. You make me sick.”
Georgie jumped off her stool and threw her arms around Bethany’s middle. “I love it. I can commit to this.” She squealed and attempted to crush Bethany’s ribs. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
Bethany kissed her cheek and waved her off. “You’re welcome.”
The doorbell rang. Bethany picked up her champagne flute again, holding it with a loose wrist, and put on a bright hostess smile on her way to the door. Details mattered. Every detail mattered. When she opened the door with a flick of her wrist, leaned a hand high on the doorframe, and tossed her hair, taking a dramatic sip of champagne, the women on her porch saw exactly what she wanted them to see. A woman who had it all together.
A woman who made everything look effortless.
Ten minutes later, two dozen women were settled in, some on the couch, others sitting cross-legged on the floor or even standing. Bethany took her place in front of the whiteboard and picked up her marker, twirling it between her fingers and giving the room a sly look.
“Shall we open with our song?”
A cheer lifted the already-joyful atmosphere. Their theme song was totally ridiculous, had been cobbled together after way too many drinks, and was sung to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” but it was theirs. This club was theirs. It was hard to believe they’d grown from three members who’d had the misfortune of being early to Zumba class . . . into this.
That night, she’d been good and fed up with the male population, having been cheated on by a community theater director. She’d noticed her friends were in similar situations and decided to bolster her journey to a man-free lifestyle with a club where women supported women. Now they were a veritable faction of ass kickers who met weekly to discuss their goals and support one another in that journey. She’d watched the meek grow mighty in this very room, witnessed her own sister and best friend reach for their professional dreams.
Each week, Bethany stood at the whiteboard and listed accomplishments so they could be seen in black and white. Or gold metallic, as it were.
If she continued to razzle-dazzle them with proof of their own amazingness, maybe they wouldn’t realize she was long overdue to add her own triumph to the board. Oh, she’d made a lot of noise about branching out from the family business on her own.
I want to swing a sledgehammer.
At the time, she’d meant it. Even now, she meant it. The actual swinging was yet to happen.
Bethany clicked her heels together, holding the marker like a mic. “I’ll start.” She made a show of clearing her throat, garnering a few chuckles from the room. “Lady balls, lady balls, we’re not on short supply . . .”
Everyone picked up where she left off. “If a challenge seems too tough, just poke it in the eye!”
“Olé!” Georgie finished.
With the notes still hanging in the air, Bethany tapped her fingernails on the whiteboard. “Who would like to go first?” She squinted at Cheryl, who’d been struggling with her new job hunt. “How did the interview go this week?”
“Well.” Cheryl pressed her lips together. “Very well, actually. The firm made me an offer and I used it to leverage a raise from my current employer. So . . . I booked a trip to Barbados.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Is that crazy? I haven’t had a vacation in four years.”
“Not crazy!” Georgie called on her trip back from the fridge, a fresh bottle of chilled champagne in her hand. “You’ve definitely earned the right to lounge on the beach and drink rum out of a coconut. Or a scuba instructor’s navel. Dealer’s choice! Three cheers for Cheryl.”
Clapping and whistling filled the room.
Bethany wrote “leverage/Barbados/navel drinking” on the board and turned back to the room. “Who is nex—”
“What about you, Bethany?” Cheryl asked, still flushed from the applause. “You were so excited to try and flip a house by yourself, without your family breathing down your neck. You applied for those construction permits months ago, right? Have they come through?”
Bethany retained her wide smile, but a screw seemed to loosen in her belly button, dropping her stomach to the carpet. In her mind’s eye, she could see the thick envelope where she’d stashed it inside her suitcase and shoved it to the back of her closet. It had been there for weeks, taunting her.
What were you thinking, striking off on your own?
Since graduating college, Bethany had been staging houses for Brick & Morty, but there was a part of her that had grown restless with paint swatches and shiplap and tasteful greenery, while having no say on layout.
She’d been so sure she wanted that to change.
“No, I haven’t received the permits yet,” she breathed, her thumb biting into the dry-erase marker when her voice didn’t sound quite natural enough. “But you better believe I’ll hear back soon. I didn’t want to resort to calling in favors, but desperate times . . .”
A bead of perspiration slid down her spine.
“Would someone else like to—”
“It’s a little odd, isn’t it? Stephen seems to get his permits so fast,” Cheryl continued, referring to Bethany’s older brother. Also known as the CEO of Brick & Morty, who wanted to keep everything—including Bethany—in her place. Cheryl gestured toward the front window. “The house across the street only went on sale last month. I heard they’re already starting demo on Monday! He must be bribing someone at the permit office.”