When Size Matters. Carly Laine
Daddy to dance, heels together, arms extended. My last head shake kind of morphed into a nod, and I heard myself saying, “Yeah, okay, I guess.” I tried not to feel that sizzle of fear in my veins after opening myself up like that. I smoothed my face into complacency so he wouldn’t think I was flaky, or rather, wouldn’t know that I was.
As I looked for Matt, my head kept asking me, How are you gonna pull this one off? Without lying? And then he found me.
“Dyl, are you okay? You want to go home?” he asked, putting his arm around my shoulders as though he was protecting me from physical blows, not just more prurient stares. I saw again what they’d seen, an upside down me, leg waving in the breeze. Stop thinking about it! I snuck a peek at Matt. There was no anger evident in him, no sign he was bothered that I’d run off to talk to Brad. Matt and I had been friends a long time. Of course he’d understand. Matt was a practical guy. And careful. If Matt were a girl, his name would be Prudence.
“Yeah, I guess maybe I do.” I sounded fairly pitiful. Poor Dylan, ready to go home and lick her wounds. Liar!
“You want me to drive you? We could always come back and get your car tomorrow.” We each had our own cars because I’d spent the night before at the bride’s house, playing lady-in-waiting. Is there just no end to bridesmaid fun?
So there was Prudence, the most serious, dependable guy on earth, caring about me. I hated myself. But apparently not enough to find my way back to the path of righteousness. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.” I stared at the grass, avoiding his eyes.
“Are you sure?” he asked, turning to look at my face.
By now I’m thinking, Yes, already! “I’m sure. Really.” We went back and forth a few more times. He seemed truly, genuinely concerned. But it came down to this: I couldn’t stand not being with Brad more than I could stand being deceitful to Matt. Where was the guarded Dylan I used to know?
Meanwhile, my second first date that day had already been arranged. The Magnet had agreed to meet me at Skinny’s after I’d extricated myself from the festivities. We both knew that would take some time. I was in the bridal party, after all.
I was home in twenty minutes. I’d no sooner gotten the words “better go” out of my mouth than the bride had me air-kissed, hugged and sent me on my way to the parking area with an escort. I felt like a fart being fanned out of the room with a towel. I knew the entire Groom Daddy incident would be all my fault!
The phone was ringing as I unlocked the door to my little detached apartment. I kicked off the satin pumps and ran to answer it, guilt propelling me forward, knowing for sure it was Matt, dear Prudence, calling to make sure I was okay. All the way home, I’d been feeling kind of heartsick about the whole thing. I’d messed up again. Why, Dylan? Why run from such a decent guy as Matt? And to what? A good-ol-boy chick magnet? G.U., financially U., and—if I had to venture a guess—commitment challenged to boot.
I held on to the wall, did a quick spin around the corner on the hardwood floors, was almost to the phone in the kitchen, when wham! I tripped right over the top of my oversize chocolate Lab bounding around the corner from the other way. Guinness was always late, a burglar alarm on a sixty-second delay. I actually felt myself horizontally airborne a blink before I crashed to the floor.
The orange pouf, with all its unflattering layers of tulle underskirts, saved me, cushioning the blow. “See,” I could hear my sunny-side-up mom say as my knees banged into the floor, “Nothing’s all bad.” Not true. The pouf was bad, all bad.
The phone was still ringing. I’d programmed my answering machine to pick up after nine rings. It helped eliminate all but the most ardent of callers. How many is that? I couldn’t say; I’d lost count while falling. Hang on, Matt, I’m coming. I crawled on stinging knees over to the counter, fighting the dress every tangled-up inch of the way.
guilt = incredible motivator
I reached up to the counter and grabbed the phone. “Hello?” I didn’t sound half-bad…considering.
“Hello, little one,” my grandma sang out of the earpiece.
I adored my grandma. I can’t think of a time when I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to her. Except maybe right then. It took me a second to switch gears, to turn off all the what-am-I-going-to-say buzz whizzing around in my head. Maybe it was a good thing, though, that it wasn’t Prudence. The whizzing hadn’t come up with anything.
“Grandma Frank!” I sang back, trying to sound easy, relaxed. I didn’t want to get into it right then, to try to explain my situation to her. First, I had to explain it to me.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. I should have known. Grandma Frank could read vibes before they happened.
“Nothing, Grandma. I just tripped over Guinness and I’m really in a hurry. That’s all,” I said. It was the truth. I had another first date to screw up.
“Speak quickly, then.”
“There’s nothing. Really. At all. Nothing’s the matter.” How lame was that? I didn’t even believe me.
“And the truth is…?” she asked, patiently.
Grandma Frank was my mom’s mom. She lived in a rambling old adobe in Socorro, a dusty little town in the center of New Mexico, famous for its green chile burgers and for having the most powerful radio telescope in the world. Grandma Frank was eighty, lived alone, wove expensive hand-dyed shawls on giant looms, read people’s minds and occasionally answered the door to her little hacienda stark naked—spare yourself, don’t visualize it. And she was the stable one in my family.
“I don’t know, Grandma Frank,” I said, sighing, giving up, letting her suck me in. “Maybe you could tell me. Because I can’t seem to figure it out.”
“You have a date tonight.” She didn’t ask it like a question. She already knew. “That’s good? You’re pleased?”
“Well, it’s not really a date. A date is something you plan. In advance. This is more like a—”
“Sky, darling,” she interrupted. I loved it that she called me that. It meant I was someone else in Grandma-world. “Maybe you’re too rational,” she said, chuckling to herself. “It’s important also to listen to your heart.”
“Yeah? What? And end up like my mom?” I asked her, sounding a little harder than I’d intended.
“But your mother’s very happy.”
“Yeah.” I tried laughing but it came out like a snort. Note to self: You might want to work on that ironic laugh. “She makes damn sure of that. Nothing else matters. If happiness was a church, she’d be kneeling at the altar.”
It sounded so harsh in my head when I did the instant replay. Wow, Dylan, I thought. Where’d that come from?
“From deep inside,” my grandma said. “Sometimes it’s good to hear what you think. Helps you decide if it’s true. Happiness is good, too, Sky.” She continued speaking, not waiting for my comment. Or maybe not wanting to risk another snort. “What is it going to take to make you happy?”
“I don’t know,” I said. But I did. Someone who would always be there. With or without the diamonds.
“Ah, yes, if only it were that easy,” she whispered. “You go now. You’re in a hurry. I love you.” Then she was gone.
The wood floor was hurting my knees. I settled onto my butt. The bridesmaid dress puffed up in front like a just-landed parachute. Guinness came and sat on his haunches beside me. Maybe I wouldn’t go, instead just stay here with Guinness, in my hideout, where things were uncomplicated and I was safe. I put my head against his. “No offense, Guinness, but I like it that you’re so simple.” He jerked away. Offense apparently taken.
I took his big head in my hands and looked him right in the eye. “So, my little pet,” I told him nose-to-wet-nose. “What’s it going to take to make you happy?”