12. Renee

There are three places in the world that I never want to be again. One of them is jail, for obvious reasons.

The second place is the gynecologist with my mother. I’ve been there, done that, barely survived it. I don’t need to know which bean sprouts will allow me to retain my figure after the baby is born. I’ll be eating pizza dipped in chocolate with marshmallows and sprinkles on top, thank you very much.

The final place, I’m just now discovering, is with my mother and Deacon’s mother, Anastasia Carrington, at the country club.

The difference between dining with them and dining with Weston’s family is stark. I honestly wouldn’t be able to believe that there’s a family like Weston’s in the world who chooses to eat together, who enjoys it, had I not seen them with my own eyes.

This lunch, which is supposed to be a “joyous discussion” of my impending nuptials, is more like an exercise in saintly patience because these women are taking pot shots at me and disguising them as advice.

Anastasia looks at my mother and muses, “How wonderful that makeup does such a good job of hiding the blotchiness in Renee’s skin. Makes things so much easier for the big day.”

Then my mother pokes me in the side and says, “Sit up straight, darling. Your love handles will expand if you don’t train them, and until you can get back in the gym, you have to be very careful.”

In response, I hail the waitress and order a chocolate souffle. My mother gasps; Anastasia tuts her disapproval. But if I can’t drink alcohol, chocolate is the only thing going to save their lives.

Still scowling, my mother turns her attention back to planning. “I was thinking we should book the Beverly Hills Hotel. It won’t be a June wedding, as Renee’s condition means we should move with haste.” She says “condition” as if it’s a communicable disease. I guess, technically, it kinda is. “I do realize the timing is unfortunate, but with the appropriate compensation, I assume we’ll be able to control the narrative, the date, and the discretion of the hotel staff.”

“I’m not engaged yet,” I mumble.

“A matter of time, darling.” She doesn’t even bother looking at me. “And we’ll need a designer with some… flexibility.”

“Mm, yes,” Anastasia agrees. “To let out seams, to increase the amount of fabric required to cover your…” She ogles my stomach. “… burgeoning midsection.”

I wouldn’t mind kicking her in her anti-burgeoning brain cells, but I smile, as demure as I’ve ever been in my life.

I’m doing what I can without imploding.

“I’ve brought along our guest list for the printers.” Anastasia reaches into her bag and pulls out a neatly printed set of pages. “We have three hundred. I’ll expect yours will be about the same?”

I want a small wedding. The smaller the better. As in Deacon, me, an officiant. Deacon doesn’t even have to be there if he doesn’t want to. Hell, maybe I can skip it, too.

My mother whips out her own set. “Oh, we have three-fifty. Should I make cuts or should you increase?”

Seven hundred people is beyond the scope of normalcy.

“I think you should both cut down to about fifty people each.” I say it with as much force as I can muster while looking down at a sandwich consisting of sliced cucumbers slapped between two pieces of bread.

Anastasia and my mother look at one another, tilt their heads as if I’m speaking a language only I know the words to, and then they cackle as much as women of their stature and impressive wealth can. It’s only a slight tinkle of sound, but it’s enough to make me feel as if speaking was a useless proposition. It probably is. For my part, sitting and wishing my souffle was ready is about the most I can do.

The waitress comes floating back over. She has neither my souffle nor the steak and potatoes I tried so hard to order telepathically. Instead, she puts a bowl of limp mixed greens in front of me.

As she hands an identical bowl to Anastasia, I stop her. “I didn’t order this.”

She glances at my mother who pats me on the arm. “I ordered it for you, dear, when you were in the bathroom.”

I try to smile, which ends up looking more like a grimace. “How thoughtful.”

I fork a bite of the lawn clippings into my mouth and try to pretend I’m eating a cheeseburger instead. It does not go well.

Anastasia and Satan’s Mistress go back to talking like I’m not there. They’re still discussing which surgeon is the best choice to laser the birthmark off of my chest so as not to “ruin the aesthetic” as we finish up and go to meet with the dress designer at her shop nearby.

The shop is posh, because duh. As if these women would ever settle for less. They serve champagne in crystal flutes and they sure as hell don’t blow whistles and let loose a disco ball when a bride says yes to the dress.

Angelique, the designer, is on site. She comes out of her room with a tape measure slung around her neck, a pair of Louboutins on her feet, and a couple thousand dollars’ worth of highlights and hair extensions on her head.

She circles me, appraising and clucking her tongue. I want to cringe into a ball and roll on out of here, but I stand still. “Empire waist. Champagne lace.” She turns my chin left and right brusquely. “Call Michele for hair and makeup. And for god’s sake, do something with those eyebrows. You look like you have caterpillars on your face.”

I stiffen, but I don’t say back any of the things I’d dearly love to throw in this bitch’s face. I do what I can do, the only option left to me: I submit.

For your baby’s sake, I tell myself. Do it for your baby.

By the third dress they cram me into, I’m over it. I’ve heard every manner of snide comment, every sort of slam against my “expanding”waistline. I’m ready to explode in a shower of undigested salad and icy anger.

The assistant helping me with the buttons on the back of this gaudy monstrosity must feel me vibrating with rage and anguish, because she lays a cool, gentle hand on my bare shoulder.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

I snort. “Not even one percent.”

She nods thoughtfully. “I thought so. You know… if I was you, I would run. I would get the hell out of here while they’re tinkering on the edge of champagne blackouts.”

She can’t be more than twenty. But by God, she’s fucking brilliant.

“You are absolutely right. If only that were possible.”

The girl laughs quietly, but I can tell in her eyes that she’s not joking. “You wouldn’t be the first bride to make a break for it.”

“You’re serious,” I say, scrutinizing her face for signs that she’s a plant set up by Deacon or my mother to test my loyalty. “You’ll help me?”

She undoes the last button, then nods. “Get dressed.”

I step into my clothes hurriedly and peek through a gap in the curtains. The mothers are in the waiting area, giggling over yet another glass of champagne. The attendant girl holds up a hand for me to wait.

So I wait. Breath caught in my chest.

And I wait.

And I wait.

And then…

“Now.”

I dash for the exit and burst through the door she pointed out at the rear of the shop.

I feel like it’s my first day on Earth. I have my bag and my camera, and it’s a beautiful, unseasonably warm afternoon, ripe for crowd watching. I stroll on the walking path watching a couple girls do yoga while a gaggle of guys fawn from afar. There are mothers with their children on the playground, toddlers happy to be out in the sunshine without anyone telling them not to get dirty.

I make a vow right then: I will never tell my child not to get dirty. I will encourage it instead. Encourage all the things, the discoveries, the imagination, and if that stuff comes with a few extra smudges here and there, so be it.

I’m going to play in the rain with my kid. We’ll make mud pies and splash in puddles and I’ll never, ever say any part of him or her is burgeoning other than his or her heart.

I pick a spot on the grass to sit for a few moments. There’s a crowd near me, close enough for me to eavesdrop on them.

It’s as I’m slipping my shoes off that a man’s voice rises up louder than the others. “Man, Weston Scott is on fire. He scored three goals last night and had three assists. Something must’ve pissed him off, eh?”

I sigh. I should’ve sat somewhere else. But Weston is everywhere. He’s a celebrity in a town with no shortage of them, but this is his time of year.

And doesn’t it figure that, when I look up, I see my mother’s driver stationed at the edge of the park, watching me sit. He beckons me with one crooked finger.

I stand up and dust the grass off my dress, then sigh, pick up my shoes, and walk to the car. The freedom was nice for as long as it lasted.