I'll Be Damned (Anna Wolfe Series) (2 page)

“Janie, seriously?” Cara growls, glaring at her. “You can’t listen to me for one minute?”

Janie wipes the grin from her face. “Cara I’m listening. Let’s see… you were just telling us your ‘aisle’ song,” Janie responds, placing air quotes around the word aisle. “I believe it’s ‘Christmas Cannon,’ right?”

Cara stares at her indignantly and Janie smiles in response. “Don’t worry. You only told us a dozen times. I think we got it,” she finishes with a snicker.

The whole table erupts into giggles, excluding Cara. After spearing Janie with another sideways glance, she continues her wedding monologue, sending me into a blank trance. Time must’ve snuck by quickly because now we’re between the appetizers and entrees. A pile of empty wine bottles assembled in the middle of the table becomes an appropriate centerpiece. Three more bottles magically appear, and soon Cara's wedding plans are lost to everyone's intoxicated chatter on unrelated topics. It’s always a challenge to listen and try to follow my family's conversations when alcohol is the ringleader. Janie looks bored to death with Cara’s rant about designer clothing; while Jack and the boys discuss do-it-yourself Home Depot projects. I cringe. I hate hardware stores and their lack of décor. Their unwelcoming colors and dingy floors remind me of a gynecologist office – boring, but necessary. There are too many options for one thing, like screws for example. Finding the perfect screw is impossible. There are infinite shapes and sizes, and all overflowing their containers. To make matters worse, they're all different: shiny, dull, long, short, smooth or rough. Couldn't I have one without the other? A woman's mission to the hardware store can get rather personal! I laugh inwardly at the thought of finding the perfect screw.

Cara's irritating voice clashes in my head. “Forsyth Park is the ideal backdrop with its spectacular fountain. As you know, the reception will be here,” she says pointing to the table excitedly. Then she looks directly at me. “You know, Anna, it really is a shame you didn’t get married,” she smirks as she bats her wicked eyelashes.

Anger rises in me. “No worries, Cara, I’m sure you’ll do me a solid and get divorced within a year,” I retort coldly.

“Now, now, children,” my mother interjects nicely. She hates it when we go at each other.

Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention elsewhere. Cara brings out my inner child. Janie changes the subject just to avoid the awkward silence that now threatens to overtake the table. My cheeks are flushed, but I can’t tell if it’s from the wine or Cara’s infuriating comment. I stare out the window, swallowing long, deep breaths to calm down. She’s more than aware that less than six months ago, I was planning my own wedding. I found a special someone too, the one Hallmark cards are written about. Stephen was the center of my world. His parents own the BB&T bank in Savannah and he happened to be my loan officer. He helped me get a business loan for my coffeehouse, Déjà Brew. I chose a charming location across from Madison Square, directly off Bull Street. The converted, ancient Victorian home proudly boasts its past with decorative taupe shingles, circular, off-centered windows, and an elaborate wraparound terrace that invites passersby with a Southern welcome. It’s not particularly sleek, but it carries itself with enduring grace and poise.

I sigh inwardly. Stephen was supposed to be on a business trip the day I visited the bank. I never knew fate had such an elaborate sense of humor. Shortly thereafter, Stephen became a daily visitor, ordering his vanilla latte with no whip. After a year, we were engaged and began making plans for the future. Looking back, I think I must’ve imagined the
we
part. Before I knew it, Stephen traded me in for a newer and sleeker model - his young secretary, whose waist was only as big as her IQ. After his rejection, I spiraled into a hole of self-doubt. I tortured myself with horrible questions for weeks, never liking or accepting the answers. What does she have that I don’t?
A six-year age gap and bigger boobs
. Why do I feel like this was my fault? 
Because I wasn't home enough
. Am I not pretty enough?
That’s questionable.
Did I eat too many Kit Kats?
Yes
. Beauty lies in a person’s history, not in their vanity, but it was easy for me to feel insecure after his affair. The only consolation was that his newer model had more mileage, if you know what I mean. Her name is Lola, which even sounds effortless and easy.   

“Anna, are you thinking about Stephen?” Cara asks huffily, slamming my self-pity like a bowling ball. 

Of course I was, seeing how she had the nerve to bring him up. I decide, however, that it’s better to lie than admit she struck a chord. I swallow hard. “No, I'm tired. I was up late last night, trying to make some headway on the new marketing campaign, along with the preparations for your wedding,” I reply indifferently. Only the beginning of my sentence is true.

“Okay, that’s good, because we don’t want you to sulk over him now, do we?” she asks in a patronizing tone.

Obviously it’s a rhetorical question. I sink further into my chair like a reprimanded toddler. Cara thinks I’m trying to steal her spotlight, as apparently, I’ve been doing for months now. I sigh, thoroughly frustrated with the way she thinks and acts. If I have one pet peeve, it's selfish people. I've met plenty of folks in my life who believe they can say and act however they choose. Consequences are irrelevant and hurt feelings are just a bore. People like that, Cara included, always end up alone. I'm pretty sure I’ll be alone too, but at least, my reason is by default. I never found love's good side, and now, at the age of twenty-nine, I’m convinced it doesn't have one.

Janie leans over, resting her head on my shoulder. "She can be such a bitch sometimes, can't she?" she whispers, not expecting an answer. The shared amusement in our eyes says enough. 

"She’s exhausting. I can't wait until this show is over." Janie nods in agreement. I know I’m more vulnerable than usual, so every jab at my confidence is a knockout. I hate it when I can’t shield myself from her words and my own self-deprecating thoughts. No one understands my grief. Okay, grief is a bit dramatic. The worst part of the healing process is it’s lengthy. Or maybe it’s that fixing the pain has to be a solo job. 

“So, Anna, what's going on in your job that makes you so busy you can’t return my calls?” Cara asks, batting her eyelashes passive-aggressively again.

How can someone look so innocent while spitting venom? “Since you’re so interested, I’m working on a marketing campaign geared towards the older generation here in Savannah,” I answer assertively. It's somewhat true, but my job is suffering. I’m a hard worker, but lately, it’s been the complete opposite. There’s a mountain of material that I can’t seem to find the motivation to climb. I feel restless, misplaced and frightened without any explanation.

“Anna, you don’t seem very enthusiastic about my wedding,” Cara states, deaf to every word I just said. She tilts her head like a confused puppy, but an evil one.

The table hushes as all eyes land on me. I hate silence during difficult moments. I try to say something heartfelt, but I tend to choke on lies. The muscles throughout my body contract and the echo of my pounding heart throbs in my ears. “Well,” I reply, clearing my throat, “I am happy for you.” I smile as genuinely as my simmering anger allows. My response is automated and fake, but Cara doesn’t want the truth. She prefers pretty, little lies wrapped up in pretty, little bows.

“I wish you would be majorly excited for me. I'm getting married... me!” she says, placing her palms on her chest dramatically. “Your younger sister is getting married!”

I grunt silently. Those three words hit me like a baseball bat.
Younger sister married
. I don’t need the reminder. “I’m happy, Cara. It just seems so sudden and everything is moving so fast,” I finish. My muscles are still contracting, making me flinch. I inhale deeply, trying to ease the persistent discomfort.

“Anna, it’s going to be amazing. After all, we’re getting married in the city you love. All of this will be part of my special day,” Cara says, extending her arms outward.

She reminds me of the Red Queen from
Alice in Wonderland
, pompously offering the rights to her kingdom, but only if Alice bows down and worships her. Sometimes, I think she's only getting married in Savannah to piss me off. I quickly stand, grasping my clutch before rushing to the bathroom without a word. I fly through the door, stopping in front of the sink. Clasping its white porcelain sides, I lean over it like I had one too many. I dip my head down to lessen the pain. This cramping has been happening for a while now, but getting much worse over the past few months. I focus on my breathing, and wish the pain away. It turns into a dull throb before dissipating. I reach for the faucet, turning the brushed nickel knob once. Cold water flows freely over my wrist. Gently, I pat my cheeks, trying to dissolve the splotchy redness on them. I raise my head and stare at my reflection with a scowl. My straight, black hair picked up a thick wave; and my usually vivid green eyes are muted and outlined with puffiness above my too slender nose. I inspect my full lips. They’re dotted with white specks that stick up like jagged glass begging for a swipe of Chap Stick. I grasp my hair and twirl it into a tight bun, securing it with the handy hair-tie I always carry around my wrist. After patting beneath my eyes with my fingers, I generously swipe Chap Stick on my lips. A few minutes later, I start to recognize myself, and exit the bathroom, so relieved the cramping is finally gone.

I walk back to the table in a daze, avoiding the hostess area. I’m not in the mood for a stare down. I reach the table, hoping no one noticed my absence. I slide in my chair amongst the oblivious people, and feel Janie’s hand on my knee as she gently squeezes it. I nod my head, letting her know I’m okay without looking at her. I rearrange my napkin and take a stab at unraveling my mind. Catching the tail end of Cara's conversation, I notice she's still discussing Savannah like she lives here. She barely knows this city, let alone had any interest in it when she visited me all of two times. She still bends and twists the truth to fit her own interpretation. She wasn’t this bad as a child; it became something she grew into. Even her physical characteristics mimic a woman who gets what she wants. Her pin-straight blond hair is effortlessly coiffed, not like she just rolled out of bed. She looks perfect and her pale blue eyes accentuate her petite features. She has an athletic build without having to earn it, yet constantly complains about being fat.
Woe is me
, according to Cara.  

“Cara, your mother and I have an idea. Why don’t you stay here in Savannah for a long vacation? Maybe a week before or after your wedding? What do you think?” Jack suggests. 

“Perfect idea! A whole week in celebration of my, I mean,
our
wedding," Cara gasps, as she grabs Mike's arm, trying to hide her Freudian slip.

“I’ll look into homes for you two,” Jack answers, winking at her.

I throw Janie a sarcastic expression, which Jack intercepts with a frown. He adores Cara and she knows it. He gives her whatever she wants. A knot forms in my stomach, as I think how long a week can seem with someone you can’t stand. Cara staying in Savannah for more than a few days is too much for me to bear. My mind races with images of the tyrannical wedding procedures I’ll have to endure and the time I must sacrifice. It doesn’t take long for my heart to sink, considering it was already half submerged for some time now. Janie and I roll our eyes in unison. We’ve never been close to Cara. Maybe it was Cara’s superficial views on world issues; or the way she views life as her own personal shopping mall. Either way, her manner of living never coincided with ours.

Janie and I were always the rational, study-work types, who believed achievement is the greatest reward in life, not a new designer bag. Throughout college, Janie and I were busy finding ways to continuously prolong our academics, while planning our futures and relishing the thought of being career-driven women. Cara on the other hand, was filling her future with men and money. She met Mike by sheer luck three years after she graduated from NYU, at a Starbucks off Madison Avenue. She bumped into him while exiting the store, and spilled her skinny caramel latte all over the front of his Fendi leather jacket. As soon as she found out he worked on Wall Street, she was determined to marry him. Mike’s a decent man, who prefers to listen rather than speak, which any woman can appreciate. Sometimes, I feel bad because he never knew what hit him.

I cut off my inner tangent. “Your work will let you off that long?” I reply, sounding like an overprotective mother afraid of letting her daughter enter the world. The difference being, I’m praying the world will swallow her. 

“Anna, stop overanalyzing my life. If I need another vacation, I’ll take it without pay. We aren’t struggling for money,” she snaps with a snide grin. “I don’t need to work if I don’t want to.”