See you at rehearsal? What happened to lap dance central? What happened to wanting to sneak away? I try to shake off the sinking feeling of our impending doom as I adjust my hair in my mirror and fix my lip gloss.
There was a reason I cried myself to sleep last night, Porter’s standoffishness says it all.
****
Savannah and Paul are embracing each other as they talk to Savannah’s parents, beers in hand, and smiles on their faces. Porter is nowhere to be seen and I am sitting on a hay bale, by myself, watching everyone else have a good time at the rehearsal dinner.
Instead of going to a separate venue, we stayed on the farm and helped finish up the reception area, making sure it was perfect to Paul’s standards. Yes, Paul’s, not Savannah’s. Total groom-zilla.
Some family members wave at me, but never come up to talk to me, maintaining a respectable distance. It’s probably because they can smell the fury that is starting to build up inside of me. It was like the minute we parked the RV, Porter shut off and wanted nothing to do with me. Since the wedding party consists of Porter and me, we get to walk together and are forced—yes, forced—to interact. If you weren’t paying attention this whole time, you would have thought Porter absolutely hated me and that it actually causes him physical pain to be near me. Looking at me wasn’t an option and walking down the aisle together, yeah, he didn’t hold out his arm for me to grab. Instead, we walked down side by side looking like two awkward zombies searching for a wet brain to dissect and devour.
I was seconds away from smacking him in the arm after we got down the aisle and asking him what the hell was going on when Aunt Martha came up to me and started gushing over my blog, asking for advice on her ‘style’.
Advice number one, don’t wear neon blue eye shadow if you’re not going to line your eyes with a darker shade of eye liner. Advice number two, lipstick is made for your lips, not the radius around them. Advice number three, mascara is supposed to accentuate your eyes, not turn them into tarantula legs.
But, I keep my mouth shut and talk to her about panty hose and the advantage a control top has to offer to a larger hipped woman.
After that, I saw Porter briefly at dinner, talking to a few family friends, and then he disappeared. Kind of like the time he left me by myself on prom night…
“Hey, Buttons, why aren’t you mingling?” My dad asks, sitting next to me on the hay bale.
My dad is the kind of guy who can take a two minute shower, barely dry off, and dress into nice clothes in a matter of seconds and still look good. That’s why when we got home, he didn’t have to change until five minutes before the rehearsal. His clothes might have stuck to him in a weird way because he didn’t dry off completely, but he was ready, wearing his pressed blue jeans and his favorite blue and green flannel. Not your typical rehearsal dinner outfit, but he’s wearing a suit tomorrow and that’s all they can ask of him.
“Don’t really feel like small talk right now. I sometimes feel out of place when I come back for these family functions.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I live so far away now; you all have inside jokes, it’s hard to keep up.”
“You know that’s not how we see it, right?”
“I know,” I sigh. “But it’s different coming from the outside.”
“Any plans of moving back?” Hope is in his eyes and I hate crushing him, but I would never lie either.
“I don’t think so, Dad. Jamestown was good to me growing up, especially when Mom died, everyone rallied behind us, but I’ve outgrown the town and need more for my life. If I wasn’t living in California, I never would have made those connections and I never would have gained the opportunity to work with the Pederson Group.”
My dad nods. “So this is a really big opportunity for you?”
“Huge, Dad. I’ve been working really hard to gain a following and be respected within the industry. As a blogger, it’s hard to keep a healthy balance of being honest and giving good feedback on products. If you constantly put products down, talking about how bad they suck, no one will ever want to work with you. Yeah, you might have a following for being negative because some people enjoy putting down others, but you’re never really going to go anywhere. Then there is the fact that I want to please people, so they believe in my ability to blog, but I don’t want to mislead my followers either. I would never lie about a product just to gain the likeability from the producer, but I also don’t want to burn bridges.”
“I taught you well.” My dad kisses my head. “I can see how that could be difficult. This blogging thing, it’s really making you a living out there in the sunshine?”
“It is,” I laugh. “It took me some time, and like I said, I have to be honest, which sucks because I don’t want to piss people off, but to me, I would rather showcase a good product than a bad one, just so a company seeks me out.”
“Interesting.” Grabbing my hand, he holds onto it tight. “I should talk to you more about your beauty blog. I’m sorry if I haven’t shown interest. It’s just hard being so far away from you and seeing you be successful and happy out in California. You’re happy, right?”
I look down at the ground and hide the disappointment in my eyes that has surfaced since we arrived at the farm. Lying through my teeth, I say. “Very happy, Dad. Couldn’t be happier with my decision. Yes, I miss you, but that’s what planes are for, right? Plus, come on, I live in the land of In-N-Out. How can one not be happy about that?”
“In-N-Out is good, but I don’t think it will ever beat that Chicago dog we had.”
“Aw, the Chicago dog,” I reminisce. “I think we were so caught up with memories of Mom, we never rated the dog. So, you think it was the best hot dog you ever had?”
Pausing, my dad thinks about my question. I can see him mentally think about all the hot dogs he’s had over the years in each state.
“That Hawaiian dog was interesting, you know the one we had in Maui? And New York City with their sauerkraut dogs made me want to sing praises to all the presidents, but that Chicago dog with the celery salt and relish. Nothing beats that, or the memory of completing your mom’s dream for her family. It might have been a silly one, to eat a hot dog in every state, but it was her silly idea. I will always love her for that.”
“Me too. I had a great time, Dad. Thank you for making sure we ended that part of our life. It always seemed like something was missing. Even though it was rough saying goodbye, I feel a little lighter, knowing what we accomplished.”
“I agree.” He kisses me head and then pulls away. “What are you going to do with all those photos? Make a scrapbook?”
“I don’t know. I might add onto what Mom already has, finish things out for her.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” We share a loving smile but then are rudely interrupted by what sounds like a crow losing its leg.
“What the hell is going on here?” Paul shouts from across the tent that is set up in the middle of our front yard, a crop of corn in the background. Did I mention it’s a real country type wedding? “Are these the tablecloths we are using for the wedding?” His voice is shrieking to decibels only dogs can hear.
Exchanging glances, my dad and I rush over to where Paul is freaking out about a giant stain on one of the tablecloths.
“We decided to recycle the tablecloths for both events; we didn’t think it would be a big deal,” one of their friends says, who has been helping Paul with the planning.
“You didn’t think it would be a big deal?” Paul is screaming and tossing his beer around. “We are having a country wedding with a bunch of people who don’t know their ass from their own head. Do you really think they would be able to shovel pulled pork sandwiches into their wide open traps without getting food everywhere? Are you insane?” Paul pulls up the tablecloth and practically faints into a pulled out chair. “Look at this! It’s stained as if someone shit on the table.” Looking around, Paul rises and holds the cloth in the
air. “Who shit on the table? I will give you ten seconds to confess, and then I’m going to start sniffing underwear.”
To see Paul ramming his nose up guests’ cracks like a pooch at a dog park is tempting but I decide to be a good sister and diffuse the situation.
Carefully, I walk over to Paul, grab the tablecloth from him and lower it. Speaking in a very calm voice, I say, “Paul, big brother, no one shit on the table. It’s just a little stain…”
“Little stain? This little stain is the size of my penis if it was bitten by a diseased, mangy rat that carried Elephantitis and transferred it to my dick. Look at it.”
Keeping a calming tone, I respond, “Yes, I see. That’s elephant dick size for sure. But it’s nothing a little bleach and clean won’t get rid of. Why don’t you grab a tranquilizer, give me the cloth, and go have fun with Dad and Porter while I take care of this.”
The fury roaring through Paul simmers and he tilts his head and asks, “You would do that for me? You would take care of the shit the size of an elephant dick cloth?”
“I would,” I smile, wondering why his eye is twitching uncontrollably.
Like Miss America winning the crown for the first time, Paul waves his hand in front of his face, beer still gripped by forefinger and thumb. “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. After everything I’ve done to you on the trip, you’re going to…wait a second.”
Before I can tell what he’s going to do, he turns me around, bends me at the waist, and sniffs my ass in front of the entire family, as if we are two dogs meeting each other for the first time. If I wasn’t so mortified, I would try to blow one hard enough to singe his eyebrows.
“What are you doing?” I squeal, pressing the dress of my skirt down so no one sees the Hello Kitty underwear I’m wearing—it’s the end of a road trip, slim pickings.
“Paul, for the love of Lyndon B. Johnson, stop sniffing your sister’s butt,” my dad calls out, mortified.
“I smell poop! You shit on my tablecloth.”
I see Porter walk up to the conversation just as Paul claims my ass smells like crap. Yup, feeling real good right about now.
“I did not shit on your tablecloth. Christ, I have better things to do than go around, laying a fatty on your table and taking off.”
“It’s the perfect crime,” Paul goes off, holding his head now and pacing. “When everyone is mingling and having a good time, you lower the tablecloth to chair level, you pull your panties to the side, wearing a dress makes this easier, and then you shit. Did you take a laxative beforehand? Or did you swipe the chunks somewhere else? Oh, my God, where did you put your poop chunks?” Paul looks around frantically, lifting tablecloths and shoving people to the side so he can find the little nuggets he’s hoping to locate.
Calming breaths, just take calming breaths, I tell myself. Paul is a drama queen, he gets stressed out quickly; there is no need to choke him with your thighs while you use his head as a conga drum and hammers as drumsticks.
“Where are the poop chunks?” he screams.
That’s it, my will has been tested, and guess what? It’s not strong at all; it’s actually wafer thin.
“You want poop chunks, I’ll give you poop chunks!” I slam into Paul, pushing him to the ground, and without a second thought, I sit on his head.
I know what you’re thinking, you sit on your brother’s head, isn’t that a little perverted? Nope, not when my ass is clenching his forehead, trying to pluck off his eyebrows and my vagina is nowhere near his nose. It’s okay, well, it’s not, but at the moment, I don’t care.
From behind me, I take the tablecloth and wrap it around his head so it’s pulling on his chin and I’m gripping the cloth from behind me.
“Sniff it, sniff my ass again, and tell me you want poop chunks. That pulled pork is starting to churn. Do you really think Savannah will want to marry you after your sister shits on your face?”
“Get off me, you wench!” Paul pushes me off him so my body goes flying into the buffet of pulled pork and beans, ass up and dress flipped for everyone to see a little white pussy…I mean kitty…you know, Hello Kitty.
Crash after crash of food hits the ground, drawing the attention from every party goer in the vicinity, as if we didn’t already captivate everyone’s attention.
You can hear a pin drop until my dad steps up. I look back to see him breathing heavily, arms twitching at his sides, and eyebrows in full on kill mode. “Jesus Christ! What the JFK are you doing?” Looking to the side, he throws his hand at the food, and says, “We can’t eat this anymore!”
Mind you, I’m bruised, folded over a table, pulled pork in my hair, and pasty butt out for everyone to see, and my dad is worried about the food…
“Dad…”
He holds his hand up, stopping me from apologizing. With eyebrows in full force, both Paul and I shrivel in place and join sides, scared for our lives. “I will not have my kids shitting on each other’s faces or blaming each other for crapping on a table. Paul, you know your sister better than that, she shits in toilets; she has class. Marley, you know your brother, don’t encourage the hysteria. Embrace it and move on. Now, we are going to take the shit-stained tablecloth, wash it, and dry it out for tomorrow. It will be fine. Paul, say goodnight to Savannah and kiss her before she changes her mind about tomorrow, and join Porter and me at his place for some drinks. Everyone else, clean up this mess and go home. I love you all, but I’m just one man; I can’t deal with a son who cries like Kim Kardashian and throw a wedding at the same time.”
“I am not an ugly crier,” Paul defends himself, as Porter helps him up. Porter offers a hand to me as well, but I ignore it and grab the tablecloth. He can’t try to be nice to me now.
From the sullen look on his face, I can tell my rejection hit him. Good, he deserves it.
While the boys go out and have their fun, I spend my night soaking and washing the “shit stain, elephant dick tablecloth” over and over, making sure it’s as pearly white as the other ones. Not because I want to, but because I know if my mom was here, she would do the same thing, despite Paul’s inability to act like a normal human being under stress.
Can’t wait for tomorrow!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
**PORTER**
I’m a little upset with myself, because of my need to avoid Marley after she talked about soap in the competitive market and how happy she was in California—yeah, I overheard that conversation with her dad—I nearly missed quite the spectacle of Marley sitting on Paul’s head.
Marley will be testing Man Soap; not only does she hold my fragile heart in her hands, but she also holds my future. With one sniff, I could be ruined. I’ve thought about telling her I’m the man behind the goat’s milk soap that she doesn’t think will do well, but I also don’t want her having to compromise her review because she’s connected to me. I know if she knew, she would feel obligated to tell the Pederson Group that it was a great product, and she might not think that. It wouldn’t be fair to her.
Instead, I have to sit back and watch her dissect the one thing I’ve been working on for the past few years…the one thing I have hope for to help me move forward in my life. Not the best feeling in the world.
I hate how her comments about my competition keep ringing through my head. She was speaking her honest opinion, I can’t be mad about that, except, I’m fucking terrified, instead. What if she’s right?
On top of having my dreams crushed by her little nail decaled finger, I got to hear her talk to her dad about how happy she is in California and how she would never move back to Jamestown; if that isn’t a kick to the crotch, I don’t know what is. So, I did what I do best, I distanced myself from her. She’s probably fuming, scratch that, I know she’s fuming. She wouldn’t even let me help her up off the ground earlier.
I scrub my hands over my face, wishing I never gave into the temptation during the trip. I was so lost in her; I’ve always been lost in her. I was just stupid enough to finally give in, and what a colo
ssal mistake that was. Before, when we weren’t even talking, at least I didn’t know what it felt like to hold her in my arms or taste her sweet lips. Now, because I’m a jackass, I know what it feels like to intimately be a part of her, and I can’t shake that fucking feeling.
“Knock, knock, we’re here,” Paul says, full of cheer now that his tablecloth is taken care of.
“Come in.” I move my soap boxes out of the way and drape a cloth over them, just in case Marley decides to murder me in the night…at least she won’t see the boxes.
Paul flops on my couch and Bernie takes a seat next to him. I grab beers and a root beer from the fridge, pop the tops, and hand them out. I offer a bag of pretzels, but they both decline. That’s as far as my host skills go.
“Thank God, that tablecloth is being taken care of. What a nightmare.”
I shake my head at Paul. “Yeah, could have been a real disaster.”
“I can’t believe Savannah still wants to marry you after that,” Bernie suggests. “Do you have a nut sac, son? I mean, I know you do, but is there anything inside?”
Paul nods. “There is, Dad. Got myself a bag of semen down there, nothing like a whale’s pint of semen but it will do. And just because I sit while peeing and like frilly lace on top of a buffet table every now and then doesn’t mean I don’t have balls, just means I enjoy the finer things.”
“You sit while you pee?” I ask.
“When I get the chance to, yeah. Why do men have to stand to go to the bathroom? I enjoy the luxury of being able to sit down and pee. There’s nothing like it when the water splashes up on your penis and balls.”
Clearing my throat, I say, “I think we need to be done with this conversation. I love ya, brother, but there are some things you really should keep to yourself.”
Shrugging, he takes a drink of his beer and then asks, “So, you and Marley, huh?”
I practically choke on my beer mid-sip as both Bernie and Paul stare me down, knowledge in their eyes.