The Wrong Bridesmaid
: Chapter 18

Home. It’s a strange thought, because my parents’ house hasn’t been home in what feels like forever. For a long time, I vowed that I’d never consider this place home again, and that if it burned down, I’d come back only to piss on the ashes.

But walking in after being at Hazel’s makes it feel even less so. There’s no warmth, no desire to curl up and relax. It’s just walls surrounding people who happen to be related to one another.

Okay, that might be a bit harsh. I do care about Wren, Winston, Mom, and fine . . . even Dad. But it’s a different kind of care. More than anything, I worry about my sister, hope for my brother . . . and my parents are more complicated.

It’s a contrast between us and the lengths Hazel’s family go to take care of each other. I’m quite sure that if I were to hurt Hazel’s feelings, her mother and aunt know quite a few places my body would never be discovered.

“Bill, is that you?” Mom’s voice comes from the back living room, and I freeze in my tracks.

For a telling moment, I consider dodging her, and glance up the stairs at the escape they offer, but ultimately call back, “No, Mom. It’s me.”

I regret my response approximately two seconds later, when I walk in to see Mom holding court. There’s a group of women politely perched on the edges of chairs and couches, matching books with mugs of coffee in front of them. Going by the matching covers, it seems I’ve walked in on book club time. Mr. Puddles is lying on the rug in a beam of sunlight, watching the tray of veggies that looks to be untouched.

“Didn’t realize you had company, Mom.”

I can see the eager, curious looks of the women, and Mom beams. “Oh, it’s fine! Come in and let me show you off a bit.” She closes her book, using a notepad as a bookmark, and waves me in.

Begrudgingly, I take a few steps into the shitshow circus. “Reading anything interesting?” I say, trying to keep the focus off me.

A woman holds up her copy of a self-help bestseller and explains, “It’s for our book club.”

Another teases, “Don’t you dare think us boring, though. We’ve read some spicier things too.”

“I’m sure,” I agree, praying she doesn’t spell out their group thoughts on any bodice-ripper or ass-smacking romances. Some of these women are eligible for AARP. I don’t need to know if they want handprints on their asses.

“This one is good,” Mom says, and I pay attention to hopefully get these images out of my head. “My favorite quote so far is”—she closes her eyes—“‘Restore your spirit by authentically representing yourself. You are reinvented each day by the priorities you focus on.’” She opens her eyes and smiles. The group hums along in agreement, virtually saying amen to the quote.

I blink, letting that sink in. It sounds like a bunch of word-salad bullshit if I’m being honest, but if it helps Mom, I’m not going to point out how much it smells. “What’s the priority for today then?” I ask, playing along. “You know, priorities and such?”

Mom levels her eyes at me. “You are.”

Her blunt answer surprises me. “Me? Mom . . .”

She shakes her head, and I swear this group of women just morphed into the Spanish Inquisition. “Don’t Mom me. This is the first time you’ve been home in years, and I want it to happen more often. Anything I can do to make it happen, I’ll darn well do.”

She glares at me, and every woman nods along with her. Me against the tide, or maybe a firing squad, judging by the looks I’m getting? I could turn and walk away, dismissing her interference, especially when this group of society-sucking biddies just doesn’t understand. But the pain lurking in Mom’s eyes gives me pause.

I sigh and sit down in the chair next to her. “I’m sorry for not coming home sooner. I’ve missed you.”

“Awww,” the women coo.

The admission softens Mom’s ire. “I’ve missed you too.” Tears threaten to spill, and more like her usual self, she daintily pats at them as she says, “And now, Winston is married and moving out. Wren will be next.”

“My Alex too.”

“Brayden and Brylie too.”

I roll my eyes at the women’s whines and tell them all, “You make it sound like we’re abandoning you.”

“No, you’re all doing what you should,” Mom says, wringing her hands. “I know it might not seem like it, but I’m proud of you, Wyatt.”

Those are words I never expected to hear, or at least, not from my family.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Mom continues, giving me a reproachful look. “You left with no plan, no safety net, and I worried. Oh, how I worried.”

One of the women murmurs, “It’s what moms do.”

“But I shouldn’t have. You did well, thriving and creating a new you.” Mom smiles. “I see you, the new you. And I like him very much.”

I don’t really know what to say. This just went from awkward to humiliating. “Uh, thanks?”

“So,” Mom says primly, “tell me about you.”

“Mom . . .” She gives me a sharp look, and resigned, I figure out what to say. “I have my own business, my own place, both of which I enjoy.”

One of the women leans forward, greedy for more. “Friends? Girlfriends? A grand-dog for your mother, for goodness’ sakes?”

“No, no, and no,” I answer in rapid-fire fashion. “But I’m happy.”

Mom wants to argue, I can see that, but she doesn’t. I’m not sure if it’s in deference to me or to save face in front of the women. Instead, her eyes lower, and I think she’s looking at her self-help book. Fidgeting with the edge of her notepad, she says quietly, “That’s what I want—you to be happy. I just wish it was here . . . with us.”

What to say? Finally, I decide to offer up some truth. “It’s not all bad here. I’ll give you that.” Her eyes lift to mine, hopefully. “I’ll come back to visit, I promise. Maybe you and Wren could even come to Newport?”

She claps her hands happily, clearly wanting to be part of my life still. “I would love that, honey. Maybe when things are less busy here?”

Busy? I don’t think that’s what’s keeping Mom here, worried each day. That would be Dad. But she’s not going to say that in front of everyone. That would ruin the appearance of everything being fine. Just fine.

But I won’t hurt her now by pointing that out. “Sure. That’d be great.”

Back to polite niceties, the same as always.

A few of the women sniffle. “It works. Just like the book said. Priorities really do restore your spirit,” a blonde says, her hands over her chest and eyes looking teary.

Biting my tongue at their dramatics, I nod blankly. “With that, I’ll leave you to your book club. I need to . . .” I trail off, almost having said I need to take a shower, but that would open the door to even more questions. “Prepare for my day.”

It’s enough, and I escape unscathed, hurrying upstairs to my room. After getting cleaned up, and using the warm spray of the shower to relieve the churning in my balls that I’ve felt since last night . . . I actually feel more or less human. Still, I haven’t blown my load that fast since about three weeks after I discovered what jacking off meant.

I go back downstairs quietly, praying I’m not called to court again with the Mom Squad. Taking the long way around, I head out the front door and jump back in my truck, going slowly down the driveway when a yellow blur beside me catches my eye. I take my foot off the gas as the blur starts barking . . . loudly.

I brake and open the door. “Mr. Puddles . . . ssshhh!” He freezes, his tail wagging in the air and his chin near the ground, ready to play. “Fine, come on, boy.” He yips once more and bolts for the truck. I sit back to give him space and he hops inside, climbing over my lap to the passenger seat like he always rides shotgun.

Then again, maybe he does.

I tell Mr. Puddles, “I don’t know where we’re going. I just needed to get out of there so I can think. That good with you?”

Mr. Puddles barks in answer, and I assume agreement. It’s not quite “What’s that, Lassie? Timmy fell down the well?” but I get the message.

“Good, let’s go.”

I drive into town, no real destination in mind. But I need to get my mind clear. As the blacktop rolls under my tires, everything that’s happened since I got home runs through my mind . . . Winston and Avery, Mom and Dad, Hazel . . . Hazel . . . Hazel.

I get all the way downtown, and as I pass by City Hall, I see protesters with signs again: NO REZONE. SAVE OUR TOWN. FUCK FORD. And a few others.

I read them all, and it feels more real than it did when I first arrived. These people are yelling and marching around to protect not only land, but like Etta said, their way of life in Cold Springs.

Just beyond the protesters I see a billboard, Uncle Jed’s cowboy-hat-topped, too-white smiling face . . . and a freshly spray-painted dick going into his mouth. Enough is enough. I need to see this potential subdivision for myself.

Hanging a left, I drive out of town, toward the land where Jed wants to build. As I do, I watch as the houses change, from the authentic historical brick builds of old-old Cold Springs, to the wood-frame and vinyl-sided homes that were built in the generation before I was born, to the prebuilt cookie cutters . . . and then manufactured homes with the occasional sprinkle of a beat-up wooden structure.

But despite the diminishing fanciness of the buildings, I see the pride and effort that people out here have. I see the effort that’s been put into the farmland, the way every row has been harvested or planted carefully. I see the pastures with horses, donkeys, and cattle. The fences might not be perfectly strung with nice, fresh barbed wire—in fact, quite a few of the sections look worse for wear—but each section is mended with something, even if it’s nothing more than what appears to be slender pines that have been dragged from the woods.

Still, for all the hard work and effort, I see the signs proving life has been harder than it should be for the residents. I see the rusted gates, so old that I doubt anyone knows where the key to the lock is, if it’d even open. I see the trash casually dumped in the drainage ditch that runs alongside the two-lane road, escapees from the backs of pickup trucks or tossed from windows on the way to the county dump.

But just because it’s not pristine McMansions doesn’t make it any less valuable. It doesn’t give others the right to come in and basically steal it out from underneath the rightful landowners. I see how they want to live their lives, and how hard they’re trying to hang on to the little they’ve got.

Jed would destroy them without a second thought. That much I know for certain. I decide to take a play from Wren’s rule book, and with a smirk of evil delight, I drive back into downtown.

“Come on, Mr. Puddles,” I tell the grinning goldendoodle as I pull into a parking spot outside a coffee shop near the protesters. “Let’s get you a pup cup.”

He barks and follows me out of the truck, trotting along at my side. He’s well trained, waiting patiently outside the door as I go into a coffee shop to get supplies, including Mr. Puddles’s small cup of whipped cream. But once he sees the fluffy goodness, he’s impatient, so I stop and let him lick the cup clean, and once he’s happy, I take the trays of coffees from the barista.

“Thanks,” I tell her. Reaching into my pocket, I take out a twenty and stick it in the tip jar, earning a smile. Walking out, Mr. Puddles stays right by my side as I walk up the street to the protests. As I approach, I see wary looks.

“That’s Wyatt Ford, right?”

“Yeah, Bill’s boy.”

“Ain’t he . . . ?”

“I don’t know. His sister—”

“And he’s been hanging around Hazel—”

“Who’d like a coffee?” I ask, interrupting the questions and holding up the tray. “I promise, they’re hot and fresh and from just down the street. My sister, Wren, says she does this from time to time?”

There’re still wary looks, but Mr. Puddles is so friendly looking that I think he helps thaw the protesters, and soon the tray’s empty. “So . . . whatcha here for?” an old man asks. He sips his coffee, nodding. “Nice.”

“My brother’s wedding,” I answer, even though it’s not what he wants to know.

My answer helps, though, and I hang out with the protesters. Some of them talk because I’ve given out coffee, some because Mr. Puddles is pretty much a cuddlebug who draws attention and snuggles constantly, and some because they want to fill me in on their point of view.

“My family’s land ain’t much,” one man says as we walk back and forth along the sidewalk. “Fifty cows ain’t going to make no man rich. But my daddy taught me to hunt on that land. He’s buried under the old oak tree, right next to my mama. And someday, I might be there too. And now Jed Ford wants to raze that all down so some damn fool can what? Park his Mercedes on top of my daddy’s grave? Hell no!”

That’s not the only story that I hear. These people, whether it’s the farmer who raised three sons on his land to the old man who just wants to be able to retire in peace after spending his whole life working in a steel mill up north, they have their reasons.

So I walk with them, learning their tales. Mr. Puddles is the life of the party, too, getting head pats and belly scratches from all before lying down on the sidewalk to watch the activity.

Or he does for a few minutes before he falls asleep right in the middle of the circle, sort of marking the center of the protest line. That’s fine by me . . . because for now I’m walking.

“Hey,” I ask one of the protesters. “You have an extra sign?”

“Just one that says ‘Fuck You, Ford,’” the guy replies uneasily. “Um . . . but I’ll swap if you want to carry one?”

“Nah,” I tell him with a laugh. “Gimme that sign. I’m fine with it.”