Always the Last to Know Page 10

  “Thanks for making me do this, Jess.”

  “It’s no problem.” I smile at him, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

  “Jess, I need to tell you something.” Riley says just as I see a short, stocky figure rush out of my apartment building and into a car that looks like the one Evan is borrowing from his mom since his truck is in the shop until at least Friday. The tires on the car squeal and the driver takes off down the street.

  That was definitely Evan.

  “What the hell was that about?” I look at Riley, who is frowning.

  He lets go of my hand and says, quite begrudgingly, “We should probably go check on Carla.”

  Unlike the other day, it’s not Riley rushing up the stairs, but me, my Maid of Honor genes kicking into full gear and pushing me on to achieve a new record time of making it up the stairs.

  I open the door to the apartment, expecting to see Carla balled up in the corner in tears and crying into her wedding dress about how the wedding is off and then taking a gigantic bite out of Snickers bar, something she has sworn off since she got engaged. She has ten Snickers bar waiting for her in the chest Riley and I are giving her, all from me.

  But that’s not what I see when I enter the apartment. Carla is sitting at our little rinky-dink kitchen table, reading a bridal magazine and eating what appears to be a bologna sandwich.

  “Hey guys.” She says casually, flipping to the next page of the magazine.

  “She seems safe. I’m going home.” Riley says and exits quickly, shutting the door behind him harder than is really necessary.

  I sit across the table from her and just stare at her for a minute. She looks completely unmoved and calm as she reads through her magazine. She does seem a little pale, which is odd for Carla whose tan is mostly natural, and she is eating a bologna sandwich. And, okay, it’s on wheat bread and that’s probably light mayo but still, Carla is eating bologna.

  Carla doesn’t eat bologna. Not after she read the ingredients of it in fourth grade anyway.

  “What’s going on?”

  She looks up from the magazine almost reluctantly. “I could ask you the same question. What fire was my brother rushing out of here to fight?”

  “Probably the same one Evan ran out of here for.”

  She still has that calm demeanor but I can’t help but notice that she raises the magazine so that her face is partially shielded from me.

  “You saw that, huh?”

  I nod, but realize that she can’t see me over her magazine. “Yeah, he made a nice exit, burning rubber and all. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. Evan just has some growing up to do.” She says matter-of-factly before lowering the magazine to look at me, “What’s going on with my brother?”

  I ignore her question because a) I’m too concerned about her upcoming marriage and whether or not I need to replace the ‘just married’ banner that I may or may not have thrown away while cleaning my room in preparing for my move to Riley’s and b) I have no clue as to what is going on inside her brother’s little brain.

  Although I do have to wonder what it is that he wanted to tell me. Probably that the washer at his place is on the fritz or that the garbage is picked up on Mondays or something equally unimportant.

  “Seriously, Carla, is everything all right between you and Evan? Did he get cold feet? Do I need to go kick his ass?”

  Carla almost chokes on the bologna sandwich when I suggest the idea of me beating up Evan. I don’t know why it’s so funny. I could totally kick Evan’s ass. He may be buff but I’m taller and have this crazy Maid of Honor adrenaline coursing through me. I could kick Jack Bauer’s ass right now.

  “Evan doesn’t have cold feet, and you don’t need to kick his ass.” She says, trying to keep a straight face on the last part of her sentence. “He just needs some time to think about things, but we’ll be just fine.” She smiles and takes another bite out of her sandwich.

  “If you’re so fine then why are you eating a meat product that contains mechanically separated chicken, turkey, and pork?”

  Carla’s eyes grow wide as she looks at the tiny bite left of her sandwich before shrugging and shoving it in her mouth.

  “You hate bologna.”

  “I missed it is all.”

  I point a finger at her, “Mark my words: you’ll be sick in the morning because of that sandwich.”

  She laughs, almost snorting, before returning to her magazine.

  ***

  I was wrong about Carla getting sick in the morning; she’s throwing up in the bathroom right now.

  I hate vomit. Well, actually, who likes it? It’s disgusting. But I still tap on the bathroom door and ask Carla if she needs anything. I mean, she’s my friend and I’ve seen her throw up before. Granted the last time I saw her throw up, she had drank a lot of Rum and Cokes and I had my fair share of gin and tonics and was too drunk to be scarred by the experience. But still, I think I can handle the experience sober.

  She croaks, “Crackers. And my phone.”

  I get her necessities, plus a can of Sprite that had somehow ended up in our refrigerator, and take it to the bathroom where I can hear her heaving through the closed door.

  Eww.

  I tap on the door again and Carla tells me to come in. I take a deep breath and walk inside the bathroom. Carla is leaning against the bathtub looking like death warmed over. Her hair is matted down to her forehead and her face is red and blotchy and she’s definitely been crying.

  I forget about the vomit and rush to her side. I hand her the crackers and her phone as I put a hand to her forehead, which is burning hot.

  “It’s not a fever.” She assures me and takes the Sprite can and puts it to her forehead before swatting me away. “I’m fine, Jess. Just a little sick is all.”

  “Do you need to go to the hospital? I’ll drive you. Where’s your insurance card at?”

  “I’m fine. Calm down Florence Nightingale.”

  You know, when Carla’s sick, she can act an awfully lot like her brother.

  “I just don’t want you to be sick on your wedding day, Carla.”

  She shakes her head, “I’ll be fine. You were right; that damn bologna sandwich got to me. I’m going to call Evan and have him come over.”

  “Carla, I don’t mind to sit up with you. Really.”

  “No, it’s fine. Evan and I need to talk anyway.”

  Good luck doing that with your head in the toilet.

  Eight

  Monday, June 29th

  “Is Thursday really your last day?” Annie asks as I walk behind the tellers’ window after my exit of the bank manager’s office.

  How does she know? I just put in my two weeks’ notice literally fifteen seconds ago. The bank manager told me to finish up this week. Actually, he told Jennifer to finish up this week; I just assume he meant me. When I told him that I had already put in a request to have this Friday off in order to put the finishing touches on Carla’s wedding (not that she’ll let me help), he just ushered me toward the door and said that Thursday would make a good quitting day too. Then he slammed his door shut behind me.

  You know, I don’t think that I’m going to miss him one little bit.

  “Yes, Thursday is my last day.” I answer her question. “But I’m working for a few hours on Wednesday to make up some of the time.”

  Annie snorts, “You look thrilled.” She nudges me, “What is with you anyway? You look sad as a nun.”

  Annie is SO going to Hell.

  “I’m fine Annie, I’m just a little confused. And, before you even say it, no, I’m not confused in a sexual way.”

  Annie scoots her stool closer to me and pulls out a notepad and paper. “Spill.”

  “I don’t like Matt. And that’s weird. He is what I’ve always wanted. He’s nice, he’s funny, he’s smart, and ridiculously attractive and, you know what? I don’t like him one bit.” At least not in a romantic sense. Platonically, yeah, he’s fun to be ar
ound. Except when playing board games. I don’t like to play board games in a civilized manner like he does. I mean, it’s called Battleship for a reason.

  “You don’t like Matt? I thought you were just upset by my novel.”

  “No, I haven’t even had a chance to read any of your nov. . . why would I be upset by your novel?”

  “No reason.” Annie sits the pen down and slides it and the notepad away from her. “So, you’re saying that you really don’t like Matt?”

  I shake my head sadly.

  “Has he asked you to the wedding?”

  “No. Which is good since I’ll have to decline.”

  Annie’s mouth falls open and it takes her longer to recover than it should. “What do you mean you’ll have to decline?”

  “Annie, I don’t like him.”

  “You don’t have to marry him and have six kids with him, just go to the wedding with him. Don’t you know that nothing looks worse than a Maid of Honor with no date?”

  I sigh, defeated. Even though there are totally worse things than a Maid of Honor showing up stag to a wedding. Ten car pile-ups, for example, are way worse than me not having a date for Carla’s wedding. It doesn’t matter though, Annie is never going to believe otherwise.

  Besides, I have bigger fish to fry right now. I have to throw the most boring bachelorette party known to mankind on Friday afternoon for Carla. She’s made a list of things she does NOT want at her bachelorette party. Sadly, alcohol and male strippers are at the top of that list.

  I did talk her into having mimosas and virgin daiquiris. And she doesn’t know it yet but there is definitely going to be phallic-shaped objects around.

  Hey, it’s a bachelorette party. She should expect far worse than what I’m doing. This is the only bachelorette party that I will ever get to throw and I will not have my name dragged through the dull bachelorette party mud puddle. And, okay, both our mothers and her grandmother will be there so I have to be careful.

  But they should know that penis-shaped straws are to be expected.

  While the boring bachelorette party is going on Friday afternoon, Evan and his boys will be sleeping off their hangovers from the bachelor party taking place Thursday night. At a strip club. With alcohol.

  I don’t care about the strippers, but, alcohol? Yes please.

  I was actually asked to go. Not by Evan of course, but by Carla. She wanted me to tag along to make sure that no one in the wedding party got too trashed. Not that it matters since the bachelor party is on a Thursday; the groom will be nice and sober by Saturday. I refused the invite. My self-esteem can’t handle twenty guys all googly-eyed for skinny strippers.

  Annie nudges me, “Look at the Adonis that just walked in.”

  I look at the entrance to the bank and immediately duck beneath the counter at the sight.

  “Jess, what on Earth are you doing?” Annie hisses at me while I’m crouched down to the floor.

  “That’s Matt.” I whisper. My God, what is he doing here, at my place of work? This is not right at all. It’s almost like he wants to see me or something.

  Oh no. What if he rushed over to confess his undying love for me?

  What is wrong with me? This boy is like walking sex and I’m terrified that he loves me. Not only am I terrified of him loving me, I am also delusional enough to think that he could love me.

  “Welcome to Country Town Bank. I’m Annie. How can I help you today, sir?”

  Even on the floor, I can tell that Annie is laying it on thick for Matt.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Jess Reynolds. Is she here?”

  Annie laughs as I stand up quickly and hit my head on the counter.

  “Matt, hey.” I say quietly while rubbing my head.

  “Hi. What were you doing down there?”

  “I was just, um, picking up a pen that Annie dropped.” I lie.

  “Oh, Jess will go down for anyone.” Annie says with a wink at Matt.

  You know, it just dawned on me that I could probably accuse Annie of sexual harassment. And I would have a good case against her, with witnesses and everything.

  “What are you doing here anyway Matt?” I ask nicely. Man, I hope that he is oblivious to the Elevator Eyes that Annie is giving him right now.

  “I was just wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me.”

  Lunch? I can do lunch. As long as he doesn’t ask me to go to the wedding with him. That I can’t handle. I have a problem with confrontation and hurting people.

  Snap out of it, Reynolds. Matt Mancini would never love you.

  “So, you’re Matt?” Annie pushes me out of the way with her hip and leans her upper-body, which is composed primarily of her Dolly Parton boobs, forward to Matt and has this total love struck look on her face.

  This woman is forever sixteen.

  “Matt, this is Annie Connelly. Annie, this is Matt Mancini. Matt is the Best Man in. . .”

  Annie waves a hand at me but never takes her eyes off Matt. “She’s told me all about you Matt, of course. But she didn’t tell me that your shoulders were this broad. And that hair. . . well, she did say it was quite lovely, but those curls. . .”

  Oh my God. I’m mortified. This is me mortified. My head is on the counter and I’m imagining that I’m on a nice sandy beach. Just the sand, the ocean, and Owen Wilson and I rolling around in the waves.

  I hear Matt laugh, “What else has Jess said about me?”

  “Time to go.” I’m on the other side of the windows before Annie has a chance to comment on Matt’s sparkling white teeth.

  “You kids have fun now!” Annie shouts as I steer Matt out the front doors of the bank. I am going to kill that woman when I get back in there, I swear I am.

  “Is the diner down the street okay? I don’t think Evan wants me driving his mom’s car around more than I have to. Something about my inability to not hit streetlamps, I don’t know.” Matt is trying to fight the smile on his face, whether from his driving past or what Annie just confessed. Right, he’s totally thinking that I’m some pathetic overweight girl who talks about the gorgeous Italian Best Man to her coworkers. Oh, I am going to have to kill Annie and make it look like an accident. Maybe if I accidentally-on-purpose drop a change drawer on her head?

  “Yeah, the diner sounds fine. And, about back there,” I try to start to apologize for the fact that Annie was evidently dropped into a box of porno movies when she was a child, but Matt interrupts me.

  “It’s cool. That woman is clearly off her hinges.”

  I laugh, “She’s really not crazy. She’s just too nosey for her own good.”

  Matt nods as he holds the door to the diner open for me. “Whatever you say, Jess. And, by the way, I’m buying your lunch.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Matt.”

  “Yes I do. I stole you away from work, I dragged you out here. I’m buying your food.”

  “You really don’t have to.”

  We sit down at the nearest table, still arguing over who is paying for lunch. I really do enjoy Matt’s company but I just completely lack the desire to jump his bones. We’re joking around and he really is quite funny, especially when complaining about Evan’s football player roommates, and it’s during my third chicken tender when Matt mentions the topic of the wedding.

  “So, how’s the Maid of Honor stuff going?”

  I shrug, spinning my straw around in my drink. I can’t tell him about Evan practically sprinting out of the apartment last night. I can’t tell him that Carla keeps getting sick. And I definitely can’t tell him that me not having a date is evidently going to throw off the aesthetics of the wedding.

  “It’s all right.” This seems like a reasonable answer to me, but Matt continues to stare at me, waiting for an actual answer. “It’s all going fine. I mean, yeah, Carla’s gone a little nuts and the groom doesn’t like me but, really, in the big scheme of things, it’s all going fine.”

  “What do you mean the groom doesn’t like you?”

 
Dammit. Why do I lack the ability to just shut up?

  “Evan thinks you’re great.” Matt gives me a look. “Why wouldn’t he like you? Everyone likes you.”

  Yeah, everyone likes me all right. Except for any male between the ages of 21 and 27 - my absolute cut-off age, unless Owen Wilson becomes available and decides to love me, that is. For Owen, I’ll make an exception to any rule.

  What were we talking about? Oh, right, Evan actually likes me? He thinks that I’m great? So he doesn’t talk to me because he thinks I’m annoying and constantly in his way? He just doesn’t talk to me because he just doesn’t talk?

  I don’t think I’ve been this happy since the bank unblocked Facebook on all the computers.

  “So, how about you? How’s the Best Man stuff going?”

  Matt laughs, “I found a strip club. My job’s done.”

  Lucky bastard.

  “But,” Matt sighs, “Evan is all of a sudden on my ass about getting a date. I think it’s Carla talking though. No offense.”

  “None taken. Carla just wants to see everyone happy on her big day.”

  He shakes his head as chomps down on a fry, “Yeah, she looked real happy the other day crying over a commercial for Alzheimer’s medication.”

  I don’t tell Matt, but those Alzheimer’s commercials make me bawl like a teething baby wearing a wet diaper. Although, they’ve never seemed to bother Carla that way before. It must have been one of the commercials where the grandpa doesn’t remember his granddaughter. That commercial would make the Grinch cry.

  “I know a lot of the girls going to the wedding stag. Carla’s cousin, Danielle, is single. She’s a senior at U of L, and blonde.”

  Matt takes a swig of soda, “I’m not much for blondes. I’ve always preferred brunettes.”

  Oh my God. I’m a brunette. Well, a light brunette, but still. Is he actually suggesting that he might want to go to wedding with me?

  No, of course not. That’s stupid, Jess, and you know it.