When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (27 page)

So I come right out and just spill it. “Oliver thinks John’s gay.”

Okay. It was definitely spilled.
So
not smooth. In my defense, I’m not used to these kinds of situations. How do you tell your best friend that you think her brother’s gay? I guess you could do it the way I just did.

As taken aback as I was by Oliver’s reaction last night when I told him I was pretty certain John didn’t swing that way, I am surprised by Sophie’s rejoinder of, “Oliver probably
hopes
John’s gay.”

“What?” I say, confused.

 
Through a chortle she says, “John’s always had that metrosexual vibe going on, you know?” She looks at me briefly before returning to her work. “He dresses well, has coiffed hair. He’s handsome, but in that very metro way.”

“Aren’t you a little, oh, I don’t know…confirmed?” The words didn’t come out right. What I meant to say—

“Confirmed?” Sophie repeats. “Oh you mean because I thought that maybe John
was
gay?”
 

I nod.

“Oh, that was just me being daft.” She begins to roll her first croissant—so elegant and with precision. “He’s seeing a new girl, actually. Gemma or Gena or—it starts with a G.”

“Aww, well… Okay then...”

“Claire, you’re so funny.” She gives me a nudge with a soft swing of her hips. “I’m pretty sure John’s straight.”

“But all of a sudden? Just yesterday he was as gay as a fruit basket and now he’s straight?” I pull a twisted face.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs off. “Maybe a little part inside of me hopes he isn’t gay, so this new Gemma or Gena is an extra sliver of hope.”

“Does it really matter, though?” I lazily roll the dough, paying no attention to what I’m doing. “You certainly can’t care either way, Sophie; your parents are progressive; San Francisco is probably the ideal place to be if you
are
gay, I imagine…”

“I look at it this way,” she says with a straight face, “and it’s a totally selfish way to look at it. If John’s gay then that means Mom and Dad look to
me
to produce the Wharton grandchildren. Mom’s already got the ridiculous itch to diaper something.” She shakes her head, her loose bun starting to fall from atop the crown of her head. “John’s my only hope to beat me to the nursery line. Let’s be honest, Claire, you think
I
am anywhere
near
that line?”

“Any nearer than John?” I query matter-of-factly.

“True,” Sophie says with a smirk. “Whatevs. Anyway, whatever John is, or isn’t, doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. I only want him happy in the end.”

“And for him to provide that first grandchild,” I add in with a wide grin.

“Psh. Yeah!”

I giggle. “Okay, so you’ve decided John’s not gay. And Oliver?”

Sophie belts out one loud laugh. “Oliver! He’s as straight as a rainbow, honey. Love him to pieces, but he’s definitely gay and John’s
just
his type. I can see how Oliver would take a liking to him. His last boyfriend could be John’s long-lost brother.”

I give a little laugh to the situation, too. I look at Sophie’s workstation where she has half a dozen croissants all rolled out perfectly, ready to be baked. Then I look at mine. I haven’t even started one.

“Of course,” I say. “How cool would it be to set them up on a date? Oh, Sophie, playing matchmaker can be so much fun! I mean,
if
John was gay, you know? They’d fit well together, don’t you think?” I bite my lower lip through a thick grin and look over at her as I prepare to roll my first pastry. She’s still chuckling, lightly dusting her fingertips with flour. “Oh, Claire…” she says. “Claire, Claire… I love you…”

***

I can hardly contain my excitement. Not regarding the meeting that I’m about to go into with Melissa at one of the many Starbucks located downtown; I’m ecstatic because tomorrow is my dress fitting! I’ve even managed to rally
all
of the girls for this moment, except for Mom. I wish she could join, but at least she got to come to one of the dress trials.

With my usual armload of magazines in tow, I rush through the café doors and make a beeline for the
To Order
line. I have to be at the hospital by eleven today, so that means this is an early and quick meeting with Melissa. Oh, there’s never enough time in a day!

I was in such a rush this morning that I almost forgot all about Schnickerdoodle. The poor puppy was so hungry and whining at my feet as I was about to bound out the door. Then it clicked: He needs his breakfast! I don’t know why I assumed Conner did it, because he was out of the house in a stressed hurry before half past seven. Something about a monthly reporting tool falling by the wayside and the jeopardy of scores of clients’ financials. He’d barely showered and dressed in his usual suit pants and dress shirt before he was in his truck and barreling down the sleepy neighborhood road
well
before he usually does.

I have to tell you Conner and I have been pretty “off” lately (as if it’s not very apparent). You know that feeling where you’re not quite in sync? Where, instead of completing each others’ sentences or knowing exactly what the other one means, like you usually do, you’re asking questions to be repeated, misinterpreting gestures, and forgetting conversations were ever had.

I chalk it up to the wedding stress, and, judging by Conner’s office emergency today, work stress. Once the wedding’s here and gone, though, we’ll be back to our regular old selves. As comfy as an old shoe—I’m sure of it.

It doesn’t take more than a sweeping glance halfway around the room until I spot Melissa, her hair looking even brighter than usual. Ahh, a touch-up job, no doubt.

“Morning,” I say as I approach her. I want to tell her that I think we should change our meeting location to this really new, unique, and amazing café over in Capitol Hill (you know the one!), but I decide against it. See, I’d already suggested a location change. What was Melissa’s response? I quote, “Starbucks is working
great
for me.” She drew out the “great” part in that familiar valley-girl style. So, here we are, yet again.

“Well,” I say, settling into the cold, wooden seat. “What’s on the agenda today? I’m assuming dress fitting…”

Melissa is busying herself with her new iPad, moving her hot pink acrylic-nailed finger all about the screen in a rapid way that tells me she’s already made herself quite acquainted with its technological possibilities.

“Umm,” I mumble, hoping she’ll stop flipping through what looks like her inbox, then Facebook, then back to her inbox.

“So,” Melissa says suddenly. She looks at me, aglow, and after complimenting my hair (which I know looks like complete crap because I’d only pulled the elastic band from its well-slept-on position in the car ride over here), she suggests we get started.

I sigh and smile, then say stoutly, “The fitting. That is tomorrow, correct?”

“Yes it is.”

“Excellent!” I sip on my coffee, desperate for its magic to do its thing. My eyelids feel so heavy. I bet I have rings under them. If not now, then surely I will by the end of the work day. “What else is on the to-do list?”

“Girl,” Melissa says with a bold air of confidence, “you are
so
set for your dream wedding. Really, there’s not that much left to be done.”

“Great. So…” I let this last word linger, waiting for her to tell me what’s left. What’s next. Why the hell I’m here, actually, if everything’s all set for show time? Which, by the way, I cannot
possibly
believe. Reconfiguring simply because of the new headcount means some amount of work needs to be done, however miniscule. I mean, at least some more invitations have to be ordered and sent out thanks to the ever-growing guest list.

Melissa is sitting there, shoulders back, just the way my mom always told me to hold them (especially because I needed all the help in the world when it came to being vertically challenged). She’s savoring her large iced coffee, and while she drinks she bobs her head to the music playing softly overhead. She has her iPhone in her hand now; it’s white and matches her iPad, as any “I’ve got my act together” girl would have, naturally. Not to sound like a mean girl or anything, but really…Melissa’s as—as coiffed as John’s hair. So pristine, so put-together. It’s kind of annoying, really.

Of course, as I watch her busy herself with her phone, totally ignoring me (which is
very
vexing) and sending what I think, from my nosy glancing, is a text message (a damn text message! During our meeting!), I can’t help but wonder if that tall, froo-froo drink she’s enjoying is an invoiced item. It honestly wouldn’t surprise me. That and the rest of her gear that makes her seem so well put-together and so manicured. Compliments of Mom and Dad Linley, perhaps?

I’m really starting to tread into dangerous worry waters, wondering why this prim and trim girl is making a mess of my wedding. It’s a darn shame Melissa’s not as put together when it comes to planning a wedding as she is when choosing her outfits and accessories.

I won’t lie—part of me really wonders if I have a fitting appointment at all tomorrow. I’ll show up, as Melissa “planned,” and then the boutique will say, “Sorry, Miss Linley, but we just don’t have you on the books.” However! As yoga suggests, and as Conner vociferously insists, I need to relax and let others help me. That’s what I’m—er, my parents are paying Melissa for, after all.

“Claire?” Melissa says, finally setting down her cell phone. “Sorry. My boyfriend’s parents.” She rolls her eyes. “Love them so much—they’re really amazing people—but sometimes they don’t understand meetings. I have my own business now.” She flashes a smile. “It’s like, all the time, ‘Oh, don’t mean to interrupt but this is urgent.’” She snickers, and I stare back, willing myself to grin.

“Anyway,” Melissa says, waving about her hands. “Okay. I’m all yours right now. So.”

“So…” I raise my eyebrows, trying to still be nice and polite, but also trying to hint at my frustration. It’s not like I have all day here.

“Oh!” Melissa yelps. “Right! What’s next?” She pushes forward a pink file that has an intricate floral pattern scrawled across it. “We need to polish up your timeline.”

“Timeline?” I ask, puzzled.

“Yeah. You know. When you arrive, when you enter the reception, family portraits, bride and groom shots, cake cutting, first dance, exit. All that stuff.”

“Aww,” I say, perking up at the prospect of actually getting down to some real work.

Before we dive into plotting the perfect time for each event, I ask a question to which I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Will you be joining me at the gown fitting?”

Not that I think I need Melissa there, but if I know anything about wedding planning and coordinators, wouldn’t she
want
to be there? To help in
any
way?

I guess I don’t really know why Melissa would need to come along. I can handle the wedding dress here on out, and I have all of my friends joining me tomorrow.

Still, I’m sure Franck Eggelhoffer would be there for Annie Banks. Franck was there when George Banks needed a suit. And when George went and did it on his own, trying to find any and all ways to save a buck on the exorbitant wedding, look what happened! He was dressed in a navy suit.
Navy!
Can you imagine?

That gets me to thinking. Crap. Conner. The suits. I
know
they already had their fitting, and I am sure his twin brothers are in the know with the arrangements. But Conner and all of his groomsmen
still
have to have the ordered suits tailored. They, like me, are not yet done. Oh no! What if they show up in navy suits? Or black, even? They’ll throw the whole theme off! The wedding design will all be for naught.

The repeated shouting from the barista for a “Gwen!” shakes me from my frightening daydream. I look at Melissa, and she’s saying, “Is that okay?”

“Uh, what was that?” I ask. “Sorry. It’s so loud here.” I give a wrinkled face, thinking, again, that The Cup and the Cake would be a much nicer place to meet.

“You can totally handle this one on your own, girl,” Melissa tells me. She pats my hand. “The appointment is for tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”

“Yeah…” I look out the window as a teenage girl with purple hair is struggling with a tangle of leashes with four—no five—excited dogs on the ends.

“I couldn’t make it for your appointment anyhow. I’m going to be out of town tomorrow,” Melissa says as I look back at her. She makes a closed-mouth grin. “To Santa Fe.”

Now she looks like she’s about to burst with joy. “I’m so excited!” she exclaims. “My boyfriend’s parents are doing a family trip to Santa Fe. That was what that text was about, by the way. It’s like a spa retreat in the mountains kind of thing. Going to be frickin’ a-maaa-zing. Oh, it’ll be
just
what I need.” She dramatically puts three fingers to her forehead. “I am so stressed out. I can really use this week-long spa getaway.”

As Melissa continues to gush about her upcoming trip—her much-needed vaca from the everyday stresses of, oh, I don’t know, doing her
job!
—I smile politely, throw in a few understanding nods, and nurse my coffee, all the while thinking,
Why are we talking about your vacation? I thought we were planning a wedding
?

I keep on nodding, keep on smiling, and keep on drinking the coffee that is the only thing keeping me awake as I listen to how unbelievable the Sangre de Cristo Mountains are.

***

“I don’t think I can take it anymore,” I say, flustered. I’m pacing the living room, rubbing my temples. I don’t know why I’m rubbing them. I don’t have a headache. It just seems the appropriate action when pacing a room, letting off steam about the people who grate on your nerves. “I don’t think I can.”

Conner’s lying on the couch, leisurely flipping through a sports magazine. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a well-worn Hollister t-shirt that I’ve begged him more than once to downgrade as a lawn mower cleaning rag. He’s been such a trooper, listening to me rant and rave about Melissa. Every now and then he mutters an “ah ha” or says, “Yup,” or pulls down his magazine and says something like, “Forget about it,” or “Chill out, babe.”