The One
“Mom. You aren’t even looking.” I reach up to slide the hangers apart between the six bridesmaids’ dresses. “Is one of these going to work? Or do you want me to buy something?”
Her wedding is tomorrow, and she just sprung the news on me last night. I may be only twenty-five and have more than three bank accounts with over six figures, but I’m still cheap when it comes to certain things.
I’ve already bought six bridesmaids dresses in the last two years. Living in New York, it was like everyone wanted to have six thousand bridesmaids. So, I got invited to be in so many weddings by co-workers and friends that my wardrobe ballooned. They were more like what I’d call acquaintances really, but I guess when you’re slumming for bridesmaids, you up the significance of relationships.
Stupid though. You wear it once; it’s a waste. I’m trying to convince my mom to recycle one of these for me to be her maid of honor tomorrow.
“I like the green one,” she says, tossing a handful of M&M’s into her mouth and throwing her head back to receive them.
“Really?” I squinch up my face and slide the hanger holding the horrid green monstrosity to the right, then hold it up in front of me giving her a disgusted look. “This one?”
Layers of lime green chiffon cascade to the floor with a bodice of puke green satin that looks like someone got drunk with a Bedazzler and went to town. Another of our contrasts. She’s rhinestones and low cut everything. I’m buttoned up and Burberry.
She shrugs, going back to her magazine. “I like green. You sure like green too.” She gives me a sly smile. “You know I’m proud of you, Issi. Just, well, money and success, they don’t warm your bed.”
“Not a priority for me, Mom.”
“You’re never going to get a husband if you don’t bait the hook.” She sits up and draws her shoulders back, fluttering her eyelashes at me.
“Mom.” I hang the dress back and cross my arms, stepping out of the closet. “I love you, but I’m never getting married. I’ve told you that about a gazillion times. Not. My. Bag.”
“Fine.” She closes the magazine and reaches to my nightstand to pull the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos closer. “You and your new step-brother are two peas in a pod from what Hamilton tells me about his son.”
She grabs her phone from where it sits next to her knee and with the other hand shoves some of the chips into her mouth.
One thing we do both have in common is an uncanny ability to live on junk food. We’re both a little north of what most would call an ideal weight too, but I like to think of us as more burlesque than Victoria’s Secret.
Certainly has never hurt my mother’s ability to attract men, they seem to go ass over teakettle for her curves. If I was interested in that sort of thing, I suppose I could garner the same reaction, but it is of zero interest to me.
I watched my mom go from relationship to relationship when I was growing up, trying her darnedest to keep the financial wheels on the bus of single motherhood. None of them were monsters, but watching her sell herself in her own way, in order to be sure the bills were paid, set me up to make sure I had a different life.
“Come here.” She pats the bed next to her as she looks at her phone.
I groan and walk over and toss myself on the bed, looking up at the ceiling as the thought of the investor’s meeting I have tomorrow at Synergy Venture Capital Partners intrudes into my thoughts.
It’s one of the top five VC firms in the country, and I’m lucky to be in there, but meetings are never fun. I’ve taken a job as a Senior VC Investment Associate, and I hope to make partner within two years, which will make me the youngest partner in the history of the company.
Mom picks up some Doritos and pushes them to my lips, and I open with a smile, crunching into them while planning my Board of Directors meeting next Monday.
“Look.” She holds her phone over my face, and I reach up to push it back to my eyes can focus. “Hamilton just sent me this.”
On the screen is a photo of a man.
Heat cascades over my skin. He’s not looking at the camera. It’s as though someone stole a moment of time from him. His red plaid shirt is hanging open, and there’s what looks like an oil derrick rig in the distance. He’s holding a phone to his ear, his other hand resting on the side of his neck, and I swear he’s as solid as the steel rig I see in the background.