Obedient. Graceful. Classy.
Serene. Shy.
Those are only a few of the words that have been used to describe me in the past. Words I’ve come to hate, though none of them are bad.
Witty, clever, independent, funny—those are the words I’d rather be called.
Smart. Resourceful. Creative. Capable.
But Hollis handles being a Westbrooke beautifully. A few years older than me, I’ve always admired her independence. Her drive. Her carefree, self-starting attitude and willingness to do things her way.
Therefore, I too plotted my own course.
My stint in Europe following my master’s program wasn’t to shirk any duty or a lack of work ethic; it was to escape the suffocating influence of my family, escape the pressure and expectation of the job I’ve been raised to step into now that I have two degrees.
I’d rather end up like Hollis than like her brother and sister, Lucien and Fiona.
Yes, I am going to work at the stadium once I’m unpacked and moved into my new house—but I’m doing it on my terms: under a contract that I negotiated, until I no longer love it.
You only have one life to live, and now that I’m an adult, I’m living it for myself.
Sure, the progression to independence has taken me a little longer than my cousin, who said no to everything the family offered straight out of high school—but I’m getting there.
Slowly but surely, I’m becoming my own person, freed from my gilded cage.
My eyes stray to Fiona and Hollis, both holding court at the wine tasting slash sex toy event her best friend Madison arranged, a white BRIDE sash hanging horizontally across her chest. She’s wearing a white long-sleeved jumpsuit, a white wig cut into a flirty, chin-length bob, and a tiara.
The rest of us? Pink.
Pink dresses, pink wigs, pink sashes.
It’s classic bridal party and bachelorette attire, half classy, half trashy—celebratory so it’s all oddly appropriate.
To quote the bride: Wear pink to make the boys wink.
I feel flirty and cute in my platform wedges and blush midi dress that’s far more appropriate for warmer weather. I feel sexy for the first time in who knows how long, but I highly doubt any boys will be winking my way tonight.
I give my light pink Barbie wig a fluff. Despite the playful getup, I still scream “good girl”.
In the center of the room is the hostess, an outgoing saleswoman named Ginger, with a vibrator in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. She’s loud, proud, and not the least bit embarrassed.
“…has stimulation for those of you who can’t climax from penetration, which is between ten and forty percent of you,” she’s saying, and my brows go up. “Fun fact, orgasms get better with age, so if any of you ladies are pushing forty, your best years are yet to come.” She laughs. “Come. Get it?”
Ginger passes the vibrator in her hand to Madison, who looks it over before passing it along to another bridesmaid. The blonde holds down the button and watches as it springs to life, buzzing in her hand and making everyone giggle.
“That model uses a USB to charge so it’s much quieter than the models that use batteries.”
So modern.
I’ve never actually held a vibrator—or had one—so would I know what to do with it if I ordered one tonight?
Ginger goes on, holding up yet another pink, gel, dick-shaped item. Similar yet smaller. “This hot number is called The Quickie, and everyone will receive one in their swag bag tonight, compliments of the maid of honor.”
The ladies in the room hoot and holler.
I blush.
Madison airily raises a hand, waving like the queen, adjusting her neon pink wig and invisible crown. “Do go on, you’re too, too kind. No, no—your praise isn’t necessary, the gratitude is enough. Please, hold your applause.” She’s bowing now, dramatically. “Go forth and orgasm—and remember me fondly.”
Someone in the back of the room catcalls and whistles between her teeth.
Ginger clears her throat. “Now I’ll introduce you to the couples’ toys.” She holds up a blue object shaped like a teardrop with a hole in the center. “This is our most current C ring, the Zing Ring…”
I zone out since I’m not part of a couple and therefore have no need for a couples’ toy, let alone a sex toy to begin with.
I don’t realize I’m standing on the outside looking in until Hollis’s best friend Madison wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a nudge toward the bar.
“You seem quiet. Is everything okay?”
I blush, not wanting to be a spoilsport or a goody two shoes, or the Debbie Downer of the party. “Am I? Sorry, I’ve had a long day,” I explain, somewhat abashedly. “I have to move into my new place this weekend, along with everything else that’s going on with the wedding.”
Madison hugs me. “You must be beat! But I’m glad you came. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”
Yes, it has been. Back when I was in grad school out east, Madison and Hollis flew to visit me a few times and we went out and had ridiculously amazing dinners, shopped, and drank. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a party or the company of friends; it’s just that…I’m so damn tired.
“Do you need help? Moving in I mean?”
“No, I think I have it covered. Or, Hollis does.” I laugh. “She’s arranged to have a truck for me—I have to get stuff out of storage and into my second-story walk-up.” I pull a face.
Madison mimics it, sticking out her tongue. “Second story is bad, but it could be worse. I’m four floors up in an eighty-year-old building, and the elevator never works. It’s horrible—I can never move.” She sips out of her wine glass and watches Ginger. “Whose truck is it?”
“Um…I think Trace is in charge of that?”
Madison’s head tilts. “I don’t think he has a truck—then again, maybe he does. I doubt it would be hard to find one with all those hunky men he’s friends with. Or his brother?”
His brother. Track or Trevor, or another name I can’t remember. The guy I’ll see at the wedding, which, rumor has it, he had to be browbeaten into participating in. Cannot play nice.
Great. I hear he’s a real peach and a bit of an asshole.
Buzz, the groom, adores him.
Hero worship, Hollis said—although Buzz would never admit it. Not to her, not to anyone. He adores his older brother, I’m told. If his brother goes to his parents’, Buzz goes to his parents’. If his brother takes a vacation, Buzz tags along. When his brother moved closer to Chicago, Buzz moved closer to Chicago.
They bicker like crazy. They argue in public. They whine and complain about each other—but that’s the sibling love I would expect from two professional athletes in the same family. It’s what makes them great at their jobs, I would assume.
“Do you need any help?” Madison’s voice interrupts my musing.
“You’re volunteering to help someone move?” Is she crazy? I hate moving and doubt I’d subject myself to it if it could be helped.
“I mean—I could fetch coffee and donuts and pizza for lunch. Refreshments and the like.” Her pink wig gets in her mouth, stuck to her glossy lips, and she sputters. “Moving boxes? Not so much. Food services? Yes.”