>>Chapter Six

Don’t you love it when things get boring? When all the constant drama you’ve been complaining about for so long just comes to a stop and you feel like the only thing that’s scary when you wake up in the morning is that assignment or this speech or a bad hair day or talking to somebody you’ve never.

A rut – that’s what they call it right?

I don’t know how it’s possible, but the rut has arrived and knocked on our door in this little cottage in Hawaii, and slept and then died there, next to me in the bed.

Does that give you a picture?

If you’re getting an image of a rotting corpse, ripped of its humanity and an unmistakable stench, stop right there – ’cause you’re almost making things sound exciting or at least intriguing again.

“One-hundred twenty-four, one-hundred twenty-five, twenty-six, one-hundred twenty-seven –”

“You’re boring me,” Sara with the fifth pillow in three days groans.

I raise my voice a little. “ – twenty-eight, one-hundred twenty-nine, one-hundred thirta-ay –”

“You’re killing me,” she moans.

“ – hundred thirty-one, one-hundred thirty-two, thirty three –”

“This is disgusting,” she spits.

“She groans, she moans, she spits,” I recite, rolling my eyes. Oh, shoot. “Er… hundred… thirtay… thirty… thirteeeeee –”

“Thirty-four, for Christ’s sake!” she whines, throwing her hands up. “See? SEE? You’ve got the numbers up in my head! Nooo!”

I abandon the carved, wooden beads on the table, scribbling down 134 on the Post-it I stuck on the corner of the little glass box that came with it. I join Sara who’s on the bed – with the dead rut – and put my arm around her shoulders, giving her a little rub and squeeze.

“Honey, I think I remember that your papa said we have to have dinner together tonight?” I ask kindly.

She grumbles, her thoughts unintelligible.

The morning – well, noon – after our knock-out two days ago, a message arrived with an extravagant brunch at the door, written in handwriting only someone who deliberately trained for could have – which is probably the case here – on a stiff cream-colored card.

Sara, dearest:

We would like to have dinner together on Tuesday night – that’s two days from now. I should think you wouldn’t turn down this old man’s request. Look forward to seeing you at the ballroom at 18^th floor of the main building.

Papa

She trembled, and then in a fit, screamed and shredded the card better than a machine would’ve done. And that was the end of the drama. The next two days we spent on the beach, back and forth from little stores, sightseeing – well, no, that was me.

Sara spent the two days drinking by the beach, letting me drag her back, slurring at muscled surfers and only me stopping her from hooking up. Anyone who doesn’t know her could probably swear that she’s just a bimbo slut, with her blondeness, hazed golden glow, drunkenness and sudden snide slang. Lots of dirty looks were thrown and I’m pretty sure a good brawl or two involving other bikini clad California chicks and local, brawny surfers would’ve happened if I wasn’t there to step in.

Today, I managed to her trap her in the cottage and attempted to keep a lock on her trap. It’s only eleven in the morning but I see her slowly dying on the inside –

“I wanna be a chain smoker,” she muses, out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah,” I mutter and rub the tip of my nose. Pause. I round on her. “What. Sara?”

She looks utterly serious and stares off into space. “Seriously.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!” She looks at me and it’s hair-raising to see the way her face lights up after being so immensely dark these days – and the idea in her head!

“Smoking – really?” I reflect a look of skepticism. I dodge her shadow and look at the bathroom which is located directly through a closet, behind a hidden slide door which I found only after Sara was squeaking at the top of her pitch and voice that “I have to peeeeeee!”

“I mean…” Then Sara comes home. “It’ll be so freakin’ cool! Y’know, like those twisted heroines – ”

There’s no stopping her, on her imagination roll.

“Quote, twisted,” I repeat.

“Aw, c’mon –”

“Please, Sara,” I sigh, on the edge of aggravation. “We’ve been through all your silly games and plans and twisted ideas before –”

“Can’t we bend the established rules? It’d be so cool!”

“Now you just sound like a sixteen year-old.” And look like one, I make a mental note. She’s in her begging pose – the puppy dog eyes, hands intertwined and puckered lips. “Babe, you’ve gotta get a better hold on yourself! You can’t go thinking every little thing that might give off some sort of extreme eye-catching image – that most of the time, is bad, may I remind you – and get yourself into the same old warped troubles – which I know you can solve, but still – don’t you understand how living with a psycho like you effects me –”

“No one asked you to stay with me,” she retorts, dismayed.

I roll my eyes. “Forget it – what brought this up anyway?”

“It’d really mess up the devils,” she murmurs, visibly actually thoughtful.

“Aw, God – this again?” I say it quietly because I know that at this point, it’s all serious, and not the least fun and games.

I think of home. NYC before family drama… even with my daily struggle to return the favors and payments to Sara and living with the knowledge that I wrecked about fourteen weddings and fourteen couples’ lives, and God bless them, with no particular success – now that mess is starting to sound appealing.

All of a sudden, I feel self-centered. Sara went through my problems with me and now I find this too complicated to deal with – I find her problems too much… when I’m the wedding-crashing psycho. Well, after all, it’s true that we all have family problems. Only Mary Beth from fifth grade lived till the twenty-seven year old now and can maintain the illusion that her family is flawlessly happy. Of course, she couldn’t see her divorced brother and autistic child… and her husband died two years ago.

Sometimes, it gets really hard to tell whether Sara needs me or not. Because she’s quirky, insane, kooky and totally independent, though at the same time, she spends many hours moaning about her insecurities and the disturbance she felt about her past, then snapping back to her high-confidence self. She’s always happy to get a few rounds out of me – the arguments, the heated debates and the constant lectures. It keeps her happy, she said. It feels more like communication.

So you’d assume she has establishes terrible first impressions with people at work, who cross paths with her for say, two, three hours time at interviews, cocktail parties. But she brings out an image of headstrong, straightforward, “heck, I’m not afraid of you” – in a favorable way. Her snappiness makes people stop, stare and then laugh, and say “I like you.”

A woman like that – can she need me?

I look at her, with her face smashed flat into the pillow again, and tell myself, yes.

“We’re going to that dinner.”

And before she could lift her head to argue, I bury her hair under a second pillow, letting the screams of hell begin just seconds later. All worth it though. Because the subject of argument will not reach the dinner until it’s too late.

“How do you suppose they’re going to act?” I ask nervously.

“KAAGGHHHHGRRR!” A full head of gold curls reappear from behind the bathroom door. Her cream-skinned made up to be smooth and flawless, her eyelids bronze, lips blood red – she looked like Scarlet Johansson. Well, except for that expression with her bared, glistening white teeth and weirdly-angled eyebrows – vampire! Hey, that isn’t too bad of a guess for me.

“Helpful, Sara,” I roll my eyes as I pull her out of the bathroom so that I could have my turn.

She stumbles out on 5-inch silver heels, dressed in a pale blue strapless, stunning as usual. I purse my lips and lift the dress I chose.

“No, it’s not too cheap,” she chants, reading my mind.

I shoot her a dirty look. “Thanks, the way you say it makes it sound expensive.”

“Hey, that dress looks perfect on you, no matter how old it is.”

“Old,” I scoff, closing the door. “I like the sound of that.”

I look at the dress. Okay, so I’ve had it for more than two years, and I wear it to every event that I feel nervous about because I just feel so comfortable and right in it. I take extra, extra care of it and even send it to the dry cleaners unlike the rest of my laundry because I want it to last forever. The thing is, it’s not exactly a timeless piece like an LBD or a wrap dress. So chances are it’ll run out of style in about… okay, maybe it’s already out of style. But I don’t really care about staying in the latest fashion currents and following what OK! Magazine has to say on a regular basis like some sort of zombie all-hail to Madonna or Vera Wang. I don’t do sparkles, don’t do one pieces. I can’t even begin to understand the mortifying idea of feathers. I’m not the type to diss, like, it’s not that it doesn’t look amazing or artsy on people – but heck, I’ll die before you place them on me.

I like soft fabrics, wide-range of colors, floral prints, casual fits, flattering cuttings, bold statements. Actually, when I shop, I just take the ones that catch my eye off the rack, pick the ones that fit well and pay for those I think I’ll wear more than just twice.

I tug it on. Smoothing out the white cotton fabric underneath my fingers, I slowly open my squinted eyes, begging in the depths of my heart that it still feels the same, if not look as good as I always felt it did. The reflection makes me give a little jump, out of happiness and relief. It’s sleeveless with a tight band around the waist, long to my knees.

I switched on the curler then, strand by strand, I twirled my hair around the red-hot curler. Big strand, small strand, frizzier, curlier, messier… I do everything with variation to make it seem different. When I’m done, I switch it off and throw my hair back, gathering it in my hand and twisting it into a knot. I tie it in place with a black rubber band, leaving strands to frame my face.

I slap foundation onto my face, sweep black eyeliner on and place a dash of lip gloss on my lips. I’ve never been too bothered with makeup but Sara thinks otherwise. So since then, if time permitted – and if I was going to be around Sara, I’d give it more thought. But we are 10 minutes away from our promised dinnertime.

I pull open the door, “Hey! Sara! Help me with the buttons!”

She does the tiny white buttons at the back of the dress for me. “Can’t you put on more makeup?” she scowls.

“Sorry, but we’re kinda behind schedule here,” I mutter. “You did spend about an hour in there.”

“Well, I have to look my best,” she says indignantly, straightening up. Then I notice the blush that tinged her face. I look at her suspiciously with an eyebrow raised. She notices and dismisses it, shuffling off to get her heels.

I stare at her from that short distance as she puts on her five-inch silver stilettos. My mind wanders between the lines of Aidan and any other guy he’s ever dated before this. Nothing serious, nothing long-term until this bastard Aidan, which, if you ask me was down to more than a super inane choice? There were plenty of nice, reliable guys – if not the one night stands and single date things – before him so I can’t really understand why him. There was one – Roberto, was it? – who was a smart-looking accountant with a pretty face and polite accent… but I suppose that it is exactly why not him then.

Sara always gets really excited when the topic of “Future Love” comes in view. She gets so hyper and she jabbers on – someone exciting, someone thrilling, someone that’d sweep her off her feet… someone out of a romantic comedy. And that’s precisely what Aidan did. Our Future Love Discussion sessions were often the two of us with the occasional Payton, Sara’s ditzy colleague on ChicFlick. However ditzy Payton is, she is just as realistic in reality. She warns Sara constantly of the heartbreak that follows a sweep-off-your-feet session. Guys are unreliable, she said. And Sara agreed quite solemnly each time, with this deep, unexplained look in her eyes.

I never expected Sara to be the type to tell me lies. I’m not sure about the things that she never brings up and just don’t come into conversation though. Like ex-boyfriends. Before New York City Ex-Boyfriends.

I don’t mean to pry so I don’t, ever. I tell her absolutely everything about myself because I want to. And naturally, as an adult, after many years as a teenager of beating myself up about expectations of friends, I do not expect her to return the favor. She has always been incredibly, insensitively, unstoppably straightforward. So she’ll tell me what she wants to, and the rest are hers to keep. Because despite the things she doesn’t say, she says a lot. And I mean, a lot. Everything she thinks is relevant – or sometimes entirely irrelevant, just to speak her mind – she tells me. From shoes, to hair, to one morning’s burned toast and career mission trips, she’d always told me whatever. So my conclusion was that she was subconsciously ignoring the subject in her mind as well.

When I looked at Sara looking at this Carter guy, I saw the rush of emotions, embarrassment, awkwardness and suppressed feelings that only… well, exes could have. But as the feelings are suppressed ones, I’m not about to tell Sara that.

I might be wrong anyway. Hello, paranoia.

I fix on a pair of huge silver earrings and dust my hair back. Sara checks the full view mirror for the fifteenth time as I hook on the black heels Sara bought me my last birthday. I open the door, gesturing Sara to it.

She hooks her arm around mine and we went, to face Sara’s fears.

The path is lit by fairy lights, all the color of gold, twirling round and round the roof of the gazebo. From afar, I could hear strings and chattering, coming straight from the lobby. The lobby takes on an entirely different atmosphere at nightfall. Lit gold and with a live jazz quartet on the stage surrounded by flowing waters, it’s air transformed from Hawaiian relaxation to the type of setting you usually see in 5 star city hotels. We take the lift straight to the 15^th floor.

Sara double-checks and triple-checks her reflection in the surrounding mirrors of the lift, pursing and opening her lips, tugging the ends of her extensions. I, on the other hand, double-throw and triple-throw her exasperated looks at her fidgetiness’ incomprehensibility.

When the lift doors slide open, the unmistakable sound of soft chatter and laughter that only classy people can have, clanking of forks and knives and scraping chairs, cooking fires raging, and cheerful display of a jazzy saxophone, a dancing bass and an alignment of brass instruments, along with an array of mouthwatering scents flooded into the lift. I sigh with a hint of knee-weakness and contentment.

“Don’t say you’re glad you came,” Sara hisses through clenched teeth, her fist dangerously close to my gut.

I grin at her. “Let’s go!”

I pull her forward, skipping, like the proper teenagers on a shopping spree. Well, me, at least. So it’s more like the teenager dragging her disgruntled, shuffle-y feet-ed boyfriend… or grandmamma.

We walk towards the maître d’ who’s a man in his late forties, charming with a full head of salt and pepper swept back. “English, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, Americans,” Sara answers firmly… though I’m not sure if that’s what he asked.

“Alright then, right this way, ladies!”

Well, it’s like he instantaneously transformed. We follow suit behind the man in what seemed like a million-dollar suit. My eyes rake through the setting of this place hungrily. The intricate designs and arrangement of everything pulls me in, tinted in orange and gold from the high-hanging chandelier, lined in rich cream and ivory colors. From the tables to booths, silverware and wine glasses, the way the waiters and waitresses moved, and the music that sounds flawlessly between setting in the background and being a clear listen for those alone, everything is undeniably five-star.

Sara looks steadily unimpressed. Her eyes flicked back and forth with her lips twisted in a slight pucker.

I spot a man by the wall, staring blankly into the red wine he swirled round and round. I nudge Sara in the ribs and give a wink in that direction, which is our signal for “ooh, cute guy”. She returns a tsk-tsk, saying “all yours”. I raise my eyebrow, “why?” She pouts with a twinkle in her eyes, signaling “I’ve got my eye on somebody”. I return the raise of eyebrows.

She winks, leaving my question untouched, dusty and writhing to be answered.

I look back at the man. His hair swirls in golden brown on the top of his head, his barely-scruffy jaws with a hard edge in them, he looks right. Maybe I should try my luck…

My imaginary storylines disappeared along with the words “your table, ladies” behind a squeakily breathless “SARA!”

She’s wrapped in icy blue, highlighting those gray eyes and her hair honey blonde. Her expression nervous even through her breathless smile… not that I would ever say, admit to Sara that Caprice is breathtakingly beautiful at the moment, not that I’m saying she is! Sara would kill me. Yes, I never even thought that, not for a second.

“You look amazing, Caprice,” Sara sniffs, if not a little reluctant.

But having said that, what she just gave away is pretty much shocking enough to get my jaw to fall open. It takes me a moment to gather composure and smile politely at Caprice who looks remarkably, pleasantly flustered.

“Oh, Sara, as do you!” Ah, the appearance of an English accent, none the less of the Klein’s.

A very soft noise of the chair barely scrapping the carpet, yet it catches my attention. Oh my. Mystery man, Carter, surprise appearance. My eyes shoot like rockets, back to Sara. She feels them, I know, but shows no response. I look at her, surprised to find that this is no surprise to her.

However, then it hits me how stupid I am. He’s family.

As though she reads my mind, the corner of Sara’s mouth twitches right at the moment. But I can’t read hers so I can’t tell you why.

“Sara,” his greeting breathless. Misty eyes, check. Awkward stance between fighting from reaching out and half reaching out, check. Half-smile of some mixed bitterness and straight undeniable delight, check. Lump in the throat, check. Hand retreated and sweeping through flawless hair, check – Oh. My. God –

“Una,” Sara interrupts sharply – but too late.

Wide to be doe eyes that they never will be, I stared penetratingly at her with my mouth dangling. Because it had just registered to me – hit me like a train – yes, yes, YES. Ex-boyfriend.

She glares back at me and I glare back at her, speaking conversations in them again.

Sara: WHAT?
Una: WHAT, you didn’t tell me?
Sara: You never asked!
Una: Well, I expect you wouldn’t have said!
Sara: Well, stop looking like that! You’re embarrassing me –
Una: Oh, yes, that would be your worse concern at the moment –

Or something along those lines. Maybe my Sara-detector’s a bit rusty lately. ’Cause she snaps her attention back to the lovely people sitting in front of our electrical, literal face-off, with this insane smile that spelled – and yes, only I could tell: Una, leave me the hell alone.

My eyes narrow and I whip my head forcefully away from her. I put on my fiercest little grin, dimples and all. Caprice looks a little intimidated. Okay, widen your eyes a little. She’s still frowning – you’re still scary.

I continue to readjust my features until I looked acceptably unintimidating… or less like a cheetah ready to pounce on prey but being held off unreasonably. Mr. and Mrs. Klein continue to stare at Sara, occasionally shifting their focus back at me. Disappointment, disgruntlement, back to disappointment aannddd disgruntlement again. Oh, I bet I can guess which is for me. Well, it’s kind of hard to miss the sharp X-raying looks whenever they land on you and threaten to slice you open anyway.

Caprice’s expression tightens, I notice from the corner of my eye. Poor woman, getting married with your sister’s ex-boyfriend and having to have a sit-down with her about it with your parents who are disgruntled with her behavior over the years, also when she just found out a couple of days ago after not being in contact for maybe years. Wow, when you spell that out, you can really hear the ‘ouch’ in it. Oh, wait, insert me into the picture. Pain-in-the-ass, I am.

So I decide to speak up, mocking bravery. “May we sit down?” I smile tightly.

Mrs. Klein’s eyes flicker back at me. AAGGGGGHHH, I’m DYIINNGGGGG. “Yes, you may.”

Well… maybe the scene was exaggerated in my head with laser shooting out of her eyes and her arms turning into machine guns and opening fire, as her husband joined her and Caprice grew 5 feet taller and Sara punching Carter in the nose. You might think all that couldn’t happen in the 1 second she deliberated her answer, but it did in my head… and I stand by my opinion that it could have. No, I am not crazy – I stand by that one too.

Sara’s hand barely lands on her chair when Carter had moved to her side and pulled her chair out. Very quick. So quick I gasped a little, I’ll admit. But Sara doesn’t look shocked or baffled or anything of the sort. Not even flattered. Not even grateful… or kind. She nods without look at him and takes her seat next to Caprice.

There’s a pause. Awkward.

What? No one’s going to get my chair? Oh, fine.

Carter’d taken his seat next to Caprice again. I move to the only other remaining gap next to him and Mr. Klein. Don’t in-laws like to sit next to each other and have some sort of fun chit-chat or at least the elderly try to intimidate and belittle the crap out of the poor guy? Apparently not. Oh, yes, ruin my perception of normal human beings and their messed up marital relations. Only Sara’s family could be capable of this.

A charming waiter appears, setting the menus in front of every person around the table. I spot wine already on the table.

I’m not good with wine, know nothing about it. I drank beer in my earlier days – gosh, I just made myself sound old. Yipee! The occasional random other alcohol, like martinis and whisky and whatever the hell it was Sara landed in front of me at the bar. But I honestly couldn’t tell some cheap wine and whatever… 1986… fancy French wine apart. Sara had tried to give me lessons. After one too many tastes, I told her I just couldn’t (well, the alcohol had gotten to me and I was oddly emotional about how I never wanted to taste another one). So she told me to just go with the crowd and never to gulp the wine. I snorted at her, like I was ever going to have expensive company.

Yeah… I look at Mr. Klein with his Calvin Klein suit and Rolex watch, to Mrs. Klein with her diamond necklace and Vogue black dress. Yes, those lessons would come in handy.

I feel suddenly like a boyfriend trying to impress her in-laws. I mean, I am Sara’s best friend who seems to be the villain who stole her away from her family – whoa, rewind. Note the actual boyfriend who ought to be trying to impress her in-laws.

“Do you still like your steaks raw?”

My head shoots up from gawking down at the menu. Carter has his eyes on Sara who just lifted her head like me. She looks surprised. Surprised that he remembers, I think.

I look at Caprice instead. She seems to be occupied with the menu, but a little fidgety… just a little. She feels me staring at her and meets my eyes. She smiles, all other emotion concealed.

Perhaps she knew I’d be embarrassed to be caught staring, ’cause I certainly am. I look back down at my menu. Fishes, I know nothing about ordering – do they even call it that here? – at expensive restaurants. Sara always did it for me.

Sara finally speaks. My eyes remove themselves from the gibberish that is the menu again.

“I eat medium now. Una doesn’t like raw.”

Oh, yes, classic – you don’t know me anymore.

“Oh.” Carter looks over to me, as if for affirmation.

I give him a small smile. He returns it. Yes, he is gorgeous.

He redirects his attention back at Sara but he already lost her, back to the menu. So he tries again. “I thought you said you’d dye your hair? You always said you wanted to be a brunette when you turned 24, at least for a while.”

If she’s shocked, she hides it – by lifting her menu. Sara did actually dye her hair dark brown, on her twenty-fourth birthday itself. It was very sexy and all but I liked Sunshine Sara better. And so did her herself. So after two months, it was back to blonde.

“Una likes my hair blonde.”

Carter looks at me again. Again, the small smile, I give him. He returns it again, but a little less certain this time. I’m not sure if I like that.

“You did study anthropology like you said you would right?” he asks, probably thinking third time’s the charm.

“Yes, but I’m now writing nonsense psychology on a women’s magazine,” she answers indifferently.

Maybe third time’s really the charm. I’m starting to feel hopeful for the guy. It shimmers in the light, that optimism.

“Which magazine?”

“ChicFlick.”

“I’ve heard of that,” he says, gaining confidence.

“Yes, you would’ve.” Still with the indifference. But no attempt to end chances of conversation yet.

“What do you write about in particular?”

“Love, sex, magic – nonsense,” she chants, still not raising her eyes.

There’s a small silence. I imagine no one in the Klein family really speaks like that. But Carter isn’t about to give up, despite putting him on the odd side of the family. Caprice is starting to chew on her lip.

“It is society-related,” he justifies.

“Yes.” She finally looks up. He inhales glimmers of chance and hope into his lungs through his blood to his heart. And it dies with her next words, “Una’s my prime inspiration.”

Oh crud, Sara. I’m beginning to note a pattern there.

To cover the awkwardness, God bless, the waiter appears again. Caprice, Carter and Mr. and Mrs. Klein have no problem placing their order with long confusing French names. I shoot a look of panic at Sara but she doesn’t see it. I freak out even more inside but attempt at composure at least externally.

“Foie gras and tenderloin steak, medium-cooked,” Sara speaks clearly, closing her menu and passing it to the waiter.

He directs his attention to me. Oh, crap.

“And a Chateaubriand, medium-rare, for me, thank you.”

Everyone looks at Sara.

She only looks at the waiter, giving him a nod. And he sets off, to the kitchen.

She takes a sip of wine and breathes. Finally, she takes note of the eyes on her.

“I order for Una all the time.” She waves the glass in her hand dismissively.

“Is that so?” Carter’s happy to start conversation.

“Yeah,” she blinks. “We’re lesbian.”

God, this is going to be a long night.