However, the location is something I can get on board with.
It’s been three years since we left our hometown and a small part of me misses the simplicity of it.
“Great.” I shove a forkful of food into my mouth and swallow. “Let me know when she figures out the date and I’ll make sure to take off work.”
I reach for the bowl of mashed potatoes to give myself a second helping, but she moves them out of my reach. “Third weekend of March.”
“Well, seeing as I’m giving him over a year notice, Mr. Gonzales shouldn’t have a problem with it.”
Then again, he might.
Lord knows my boss can be…difficult. As in—the man is downright certifiable. He also makes the best chicken in town though, so most people turn the other cheek.
“Not next March, silly,” my mom corrects. “This March.”
My dad chokes on his drink. “That’s less than six months away. Why so soon?”
“It’s Catherine’s spring break.”
“Doesn’t that seem like a lot?”
When her eyes sharpen, I add. “It’s just, she’s in her final year of nursing school. Those exams she has to take at the end are no joke. Having a wedding during the last semester of college seems kind of—”
“Crazy,” my father interjects. “Sawyer’s right, Jolene. This is too much. She’s gonna run herself into the ground planning this dang wedding, when she needs to be focusing on passing her classes. Classes that are costing this family an arm and a leg and putting us in the poorhouse.”
True dat. We’re no longer stretching every dime we have…we’re starting to stretch dimes we don’t.
According to the phone conversation I eavesdropped on the other night, my parents’ credit cards are almost maxed out.
I hope for Catherine’s sake Marvin comes from a rich family and is offering to throw down, because I honestly have no idea how they’re going to pay for this wedding.
It’s yet another reason why it’s so important I get a full ride to college.
Not only will my uncle and grandfather’s church suffer when I go off next year because my mom will have to take care of the fundraising and donations all by herself—something she’s admittedly not very good at—but my parents will suffer too.
I don’t want that for them.
My mom tosses her napkin onto her dish. “Catherine has a B average. She’s doing just fine. Besides, I doubt she’ll have to work once they have babies. Marvin really loves—”
“Loves her so much he didn’t have the decency to ask me for her hand in marriage?”
Oh, shit.
Usually my dad is docile and laid back, but like all good fathers, his daughters are his world and have the ability to make him go from zero to sixty.
Marvin not asking for permission before he proposed would be considered an insult to most southern daddies.
“Actually, he did,” my mother states matter-of-factly.
“What?”
Looking down, she fixes the tablecloth. “He called two weeks ago and asked if we would give him our blessing to propose to Catherine.”
The poor man looks like he’s trying his hardest not to pick up the bowl of green beans and toss it across the kitchen. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She waves a hand. “Because I knew you’d have reservations and would ruin everything for her. Just like you ruin everything else.”
Damn. I try my hardest not to take sides when my parents argue, but it was wrong of her not to tell him something so important.
The crushed look on his face as he stands up hurts my heart. “I see.”
Without another word, he walks out of the kitchen.
A moment later, I hear the sound of his car starting. Knowing him, he’s headed to his mechanic shop. It’s not only his business—it’s his happy place.
Where he goes to get away from it all.
“Don’t give me that look, Sawyer.”
I can’t help it. It’s shitty enough when they ignore one another, but it’s even shittier when they hurt each other.
“That wasn’t right, Mama,” I whisper, dragging my fork through the remaining food on my plate. “Catherine’s his daughter too.”
Something she seems to forget a lot lately.
She wrings her hands. “Instead of butting your nose in where it doesn’t belong, you should focus on yourself.”
Before I can ask what she means by that, she hisses, “You’re going to be a bridesmaid.”
Hooray. Not.
I appreciate the sentiment and all, but my older sister and I have never been particularly close. Not only is she five years older, she’s the spitting image of my mom when it comes to her looks and love of pageants and cheerleading.
We couldn’t be more different if we tried.
I’m not really sure how to respond. “Oh…um. Tell her I said thank you?”
Frustration lines her face. “Look, I’m not saying this to be mean, but you’ll stick out like a sore thumb next to Catherine and her friends if you don’t lose some weight before the wedding.” She offers me a small smile that does nothing to soothe the burn. “I just don’t want you to be embarrassed.”
No, she doesn’t want to be embarrassed.
Ever since I can remember, she’s put Catherine on a pedestal for being beautiful and thin.
While I’ve been the fat daughter she’s not-so-secretly ashamed of.
It absolutely kills her that Jolene Church—queen of damn near every pageant there is in North Carolina—made something as imperfect and ugly as me.
Fortunately, my dad’s never made me feel like a mistake.
Getting up from the table, I walk over to the cabinet.
“Catherine’s going to email me a diet plan we think you should try out,” she informs me as I take out the Saran Wrap. “One of her sorority sisters lost twenty pounds in two months on it. I’m sure if you stick to it this time, you could lose forty pounds before the wedding. Maybe even more.”
She might be onto something, because the thought of my perfect sister and mother discussing diet plans and how much weight I need to lose is enough to make me lose my appetite.
I quickly wrap up what’s left of my dad’s plate. “Okay.”
It’s usually easier to agree with her than to protest.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking the rest of Daddy’s dinner to him.”
“Sawyer, you know I don’t say these things to be hurtful. I just want you to be healthy. You know as well as I do you’d feel so much better about yourself if you lost the weight.”
Maybe. But I’d also feel better if she’d learn to accept me the way I am instead of trying to turn me into what she wants.
“Right,” I whisper because I’ve never had the courage to stand up to her.
Probably because deep down, I know she’s right.
It’s not like I’m not aware I could stand to lose forty pounds. Heck, even more if we’re going by a BMI chart, but it’s the way she constantly makes me feel like I’m not good enough that I can’t stand.
Balancing the plate in one hand, I snatch my keys off the counter. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”