The Wrong Bridesmaid
: Chapter 20

Hazel and I march along with the other protesters, making our way to Puss N Boots. As we march, Sue-Ellen yells into the microphone a bit nonsensically, “Hell no, we won’t go!”

I think someone’s had a few too many memories of the Vietnam days, or maybe too many movies. Finally, someone pulls the microphone away from her to tell her, “We’re literally leaving, Sue-Ellen.”

She blinks, blank-faced, and then tries again, going back to her earlier chant: “Stop Jed, the cockhead!”

That works, and everyone joins in.

I agree, but right now, I’m more flummoxed by Dad. What the hell is he doing?

Threatening people with the police for making their wishes heard?

Is that what being a mayor is about to him these days? Because that sure as hell isn’t what fills my memories.

We barge into Puss N Boots with all the grace and manners of feral hogs. Etta comes out from behind the bar to meet us, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “What in the h-e-double hockey sticks is going on here?”

Hazel lets go of my hand and pushes her way to the front of the crowd, one hand waving in the air as she goes. “It’s me, Aunt Etta. I brought everyone over here because Mayor Ford threatened to call the cops on us.”

That changes Etta’s tune, her eyes lighting with delighted fire. “For what? Did y’all burn the courthouse down or something?”

“Of course not. Protesting the rezoning. Loudly,” Hazel explains.

She points back at the assembled group as Sue-Ellen starts up the party again. “Stop Jed, the cockhead!”

Etta bursts out in laughter, nearly doubling over as she slaps her thighs. “Holy shiiit, that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. Might need to change my window sign to that.” She looks around with a smile and tells us, “Well, come on in then. Tayvious!”

He’s already peering through the window, watching the show. “Yep, Boss Lady?”

“You’d best get that fryer a-poppin’. Fries all night, don’t stop till I tell ya to.”

Tayvious flashes a thumbs-up, rolling his shoulders. “Heard.”

Etta, just as loudly as Sue-Ellen even without the microphone, says, “If you ain’t against the rezoning, you’d best get out now. We’re having a meeting!”

No one moves, only eyes looking around at each other to see if anyone’s going to leave. When no one does, Etta spins and walks back behind the bar.

I think that’s the end of it until Charlene steps forward, popping her gum. “Alright, listen and listen good, Hazel Sullivan. You’d best get your apron on and get to helping me or I will tell everyone in town about the time you . . .”

Hazel cuts her off, to my pique. “I’m getting it. Keep your trap shut. You’re not the only one who knows the tea.” She’s threatening her friend, but when she turns around and comes back to me, she’s smiling. “I gotta go. But thank you . . .”

“For what?” I ask, and Hazel takes my hand.

“For this.” She looks left and right at the townspeople around us. “For staying, and . . . for this.” She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me fiercely. I grab her ass and kiss her back, my lips hard against hers.

There’s a lot that might need to be said, but now is not the time.

“We’ll figure it out.”

I’m about to kiss her again when Charlene yells, “Hazel! I don’t wait on my little hellions, who I love more than life itself, so I’m damn sure not waiting on you, honey-baby.”

“That’s my cue!” Hazel says, and with that, she’s gone.

Sue-Ellen replaces a chair, but instead of sitting, she stands on it, looming over everyone. “It’s been a while since I’ve organized a revolution, but I remember the good stuff.”

Um, what? Is she serious about being a revolutionary before? Honestly, I can see it. Sue-Ellen probably led some flower-crown-wearing hippies back in her day, calling out “make love, not war” as loudly as she’s been chanting today.

Etta comes over to join us, asking, “What’s the game plan?”

Sue-Ellen tells her, “That’s what we need to figure out.”

She climbs down and they continue talking, the various townspeople adding ideas here and there. Apparently, Sue-Ellen is the original proposer of the petition, but a presentation of signed disagreement with the rezoning at the hearing isn’t nearly enough for this mob now. They begin brainstorming, Etta writing everyone’s various ideas on a chalkboard.

I stay off to the back, my attention centered on Hazel. She’s in her element, delivering baskets of fries and pitchers of beer and water around the room with smiles as she chats with people, reassuring them that everything’s going to be okay. I watch her, mesmerized by her every movement, every word I can hear.

Etta and Sue-Ellen are midargument with Fred, one of the other protesters I met today, when the door opens. A pair of uniformed officers strut in, looking around shrewdly.

Charlene must’ve been an amazing actress in a former life, because she clicks on instantly, sashaying her way toward the officer in front and placing her arm through his elbow, though he didn’t offer it.

“Well, hello there, Officer Milson. It’s been way too long since you’ve come in to see me. Should I take offense to that?” She gives him puppy-dog eyes, her lower lip puffed out in a pout.

Officer Milson smiles, charmed by her flirting. “Nah, Charlene. No offense intended, just been busy is all.”

Charlene walks her fingers up his bicep. “Well, okay then. As long as you promise that we can get busy sometime too. A girl needs a chicken-fried steak and a two-dollar margarita every now and again, just as much as a guy like you needs a night out. Or a night in.”

Her wink has more innuendo than a Jason Derulo song, and Officer Milson is eating it up, right out of the palm of Charlene’s hand. In fact, he takes her hand and places a polite kiss to the back of it. Still, I take a moment to check, and yeah, he’s not wearing a wedding ring.

Good . . . although I really should have never doubted Charlene.

“Sorry to cut this short, babe, but I’m here on official city business tonight,” Milson says, letting go of her hand.

“Sure thing, honey-baby. What business you got?” Charlene asks, clearly still trying to stall things. “Need a rush-order Fat Pussy to get you through your shift?”

Officer Milson looks like he wants to taste those words on Charlene’s freshly glossed lips, but instead he asks, “Etta around?”

“Um, depends on why you’re asking.”

She’s a good employee, but an even better friend, and I think she’d sneak Etta out the back door while holding off Officer Milson, despite their obvious history, if the situation warranted it.

Milson gets it, too, and pats her gently on the shoulder. “I understand. We all got jobs to do.” Louder, he says, “Hey, Etta?”

His voice grabs the attention of everyone in Puss N Boots, especially Etta. “Hey, Robbie! What are you boys doing here?”

“That’s Officer Milson tonight,” he corrects Etta gently, who’s making her way through the crowd toward the officers.

She smiles, warm and sharp as a hot knife through butter. “Well, considering I knew your mama before she even got married, much less had you, and I remember you with that cute little snaggletooth smile you used to have, I reckon I’ll stick with Robbie. Unless you’d like to skip out on the friends and family discount next time you come in for dinner?”

Ooh, that’s a threat if ever I heard one, even if a 50 percent discount on a ten-dollar dinner doesn’t seem all that serious.

“Now, Etta, no need to get mad like that,” Milson says with as much chagrin as a cop on duty can muster. “I’m just here on police business, so it only seems right.”

Etta dips her chin in deference, though I feel certain she’s never deferred to a single thing in her entire life.

“Thank you. Now, Etta—”

She holds up her palm. “I believe you meant to say Ms. Livingston, Officer Milson.”

Oooh. You say potato, I say poh-tah-toe, and you better believe it isn’t nearly the same thing for them to request using formal names. Milson sighs heavily, the muscle in his jaw working furiously as he becomes more businesslike. “Fine. Ms. Livingston, we got a report of some criminal mischief here tonight and wanted to see if everything is okay . . .”

He looks around pointedly, taking special note of the bulleted list on the chalkboard scoreboard that says “Suck it, Jed” at the top.

The list has exciting ideas that’ve been discussed tonight:

1. Expose family secrets?

(I assured everyone there were none.)

2. Does he have a sex tape?

(Etta handled that one, saying yes, but that she deleted it long ago because she didn’t want her sex tape to get out. Understandable, but also . . . ew.)

3. Possible archeological burial ground?

(Sue-Ellen suggested that one as a way to stop Jed on the zoning front instead of a personal attack, but as far as anyone knows, there are no mass grave sites in the area. And while that’s a good thing if we ever undergo a zombie apocalypse, right now, it’s one less useful idea.)

Etta follows his gaze, then declares, “Nope, no mischief here. Or at least, no more than usual. We’re getting ready to start our pool tournament is all.”

Milson’s brows rise disbelievingly. “Pool tournament?”

I didn’t even see him here, but from out of nowhere, Roddy interrupts to corroborate Etta’s story. “Yep, we’re settling on brackets. Winner gets to play Hazel for twenty bucks. And bragging rights, of course.”

Well, hell, I certainly wouldn’t have expected Roddy to come to Etta’s aid, nor to use Hazel as the details of his lie, but here he is, doing just that. Milson laughs, grinning at Roddy. “You think you got a shot against Hazel? I heard she wiped the floor with you last time and you got your panties all in a twist.”

He’s playing along with the story, giving me hope that maybe he’s not all bad either. But he did come here with some ridiculous story of criminal mischief. So it’s with a mix of curiosity and frustration that I ask, “Who made that report tonight, Officer?”

Officer Milson looks to me and, for the first time, realizes that there’s a Ford here, at what is obviously a Jed Ford protest meeting despite the tournament cover story. “Well, that’s usually confidential. Anonymous tip, you know.” He winks, quick and small, letting me know that he’s just trying to keep things civil while not getting his ass in a sling at the station. “But sometimes it’s helpful to get quarreling parties together, see if an understanding can be worked out for the good of keeping the peace.”

Etta’s down with that, I can tell. And she wants things to be peaceful, too, so she says, “For sure, that’s completely understandable. I’d totally be open to some mediation with whoever’s sticking their nose in my legal and privately owned small business events.”

Then again, that was pure acid. Sarcasm, thy name is a country woman whose livelihood is being threatened. Milson notes it too. “Well, I’ll be sure to let Mr. Hancock know that. If he’s agreeable as well, we’ll get the two of you set down around a table to talk things out.”

Etta grins. “Thank you, Robbie.”

“No problem.” Quieter, he says, “You think me and Marcus could get burgers to go?”

Etta reaches up, pinching the adult officer on the cheek as though he’s an adorable two-year-old who shit on the toilet for the first time. “Sure thing. On the house this one time.”

Releasing her squeeze, she pats his cheek twice, each of them more of a slap than a love tap, and calls out to Tayvious. “Two Fat Pussies to go. And, Charlene, can you grab these fine boys a couple of brownies too? Marcus is looking a might thin.”

Quicker than ever, Tayvious has the two burgers ready and sets the Styrofoam boxes in the window. “Bye, Marcus. You be safe out there on these dangerous streets, Daddy.”

Marcus blushes despite his brown skin and walks toward the bar to grab the to-go order. “Hey, Tay. Thanks for dinner.”

Tayvious’s eyes gleam. “You know it’s gonna be goood. I put my foot in it every time, but I put a little extra love in yours.” He kisses two fingers and rubs them on the lid of the Styrofoam box suggestively.

I really need to pay attention to things more, it seems. Cold Springs is a regular soap opera.

Charlene grabs the box from under Tayvious’s affection with a scowl. “No way. If I ain’t getting any dick, neither are you.” Turning to Marcus, she shoves the to-go boxes and two plastic-wrapped brownies his way. “Bye now.”

The two officers leave but take the urgency of the protest meeting with them. Seeing that nobody’s going to get their head busted, but also that there’s not going to be any kicking ass and taking names tonight, they simmer down to a lot of talk and not much else. Sue-Ellen yawns, and says, “It’s past my bedtime, so I think I’ll head on home.”

A few others agree and start to gather their things, packing up to leave.

Roddy catches Hazel as she walks by and says, “I know the tournament was a stupid story, but we could play? No bets. Just for fun. I swear I’ll be good.”

Hazel’s eyes replace mine, and she holds up a finger to Roddy before coming my way. She steps between my knees, putting her arms over my shoulders. “You wanna hang out a bit? Or we could go back to my place?”

I lean in, putting my forehead to hers to keep the conversation between us. “I think I’m going to head home tonight. I bet Dad’ll be waiting to rip me a new one. Either way, might as well get it over with.” Hazel’s worry makes tiny lines appear beside her eyes. I see them only because we’re so close. I reach up to smooth them away. “It’ll be okay. I can handle him.”

She swallows and then confesses, “I’m afraid he’s going to run you off. If you’re gonna leave, can you . . . can you at least let me know first?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise.

She searches my eyes, hers flicking left and right as she measures the invisible, unspoken timeline of my words. “It’s okay. I always knew you’d go home eventually. But I want to know you’re okay. Otherwise, I’m going to storm your house and probably beat the tar out of your dad.” She tries to laugh, but it’s so forced, it gets stuck in her throat.

“I’ll let you know,” I amend, giving her the vow she wants, though I truly have no plans of going anywhere. Not when damn near the whole town came out tonight to stand up to my family.

Not when Hazel is here.

She nods and steps back, turning in the space between my legs to throw an arm around my shoulder. With a forced smile, she calls out, “Okay, pool tournament’s on. Who’m I beating first?”

Roddy raises his hand, volunteering. “You want me to get your cue for you?”

Hazel points a sharp finger his way, back to her normal level of sass and boss. “Don’t you touch Joan of Arc.”

“I’ll get her,” Etta offers.

People begin to tease Roddy, and despite the assertion that it’s a friendly game, bets are being placed, all on Hazel—how many shots it’ll take her to win, how many games she’ll win before Roddy quits, how fast she can clear the table, and on and on. But she stays with me, her arm resting on my shoulders. It’s a quiet declaration . . . who she’s with.

I appreciate it. “Your fans await,” I tease, squeezing her hip. “Do yourself proud.”

She runs her fingers through my hair, her smile melting. “I’m not going to kiss you because that would feel too much like goodbye.”

I swallow thickly, knowing what she means. “How about I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She nods, unconvinced, and walks away, toward the pool tables. She looks back once, her eyes saying all the things she wouldn’t. A lot of me wants to ignore what I need to do and cross the crowded room, pull her back into my arms, and kiss her so hard she’ll never doubt me. Instead, I get up and make a quiet exit once I see that she’s doing what she does best . . . owning the pool table.

The drive home is fast, or maybe it just seems that way. I step inside with steel in my spine, ready for anything. Instead, I replace a quiet house. I look into the living room, expecting Dad to be on the couch, waiting in the dark. But then a figure appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Wyatt? Be quiet, please. Your father is asleep, and we really shouldn’t wake him.”

“Leo?” I ask, so surprised I forget to whisper.

In the shadows, I see an arm lift toward a face, and Leo nods. “Yes. Shh.”

The kitchen light flicks on, too bright in the darkness, and I wince. Leo looks like he’s aged a decade in a day, and he waves me down before gesturing me forward. “Come on. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

I go into the kitchen with Leo, thankful that my greeting is from him and not Dad, until Leo begins to tell me what’s been going on here tonight while I was at Puss N Boots . . .