The Wrong Bridesmaid
: Chapter 7

“Where is everyone?” I ask Maria as I finish the breakfast taco she made for me this morning. It’s not my usual start to a day—I’m normally a simple eggs-and-coffee type of man. But I would never turn down anything Maria makes, both because it’s always delicious and because I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“Waiting for you,” she says quietly. She jerks her chin toward the hallway that leads to Dad’s office, and her eyes deliberately cut to the left and then back, so quick I almost think I imagined it. “Be careful, mijo. You’ve been gone a long time. Things are different now.”

“What do you mean?” I whisper, following her lead. Maria is an incredibly wise woman, and more than once growing up, I trusted her advice more than that of my own parents.

She shrugs as she scrubs a nonexistent spot on the island. “Mr. Bill . . . he is worried all the time.”

I remember Dad’s midafternoon drunken stupor earlier this week. I don’t know if worried is the word I’d use to describe it. Out of control, maybe? But I don’t want to argue semantics, so instead I say, “About what?”

“Mmm,” she hums. “Mostly about Mr. Jed. He is . . .” She pauses as though searching for a word to describe my uncle.

“A pendejo?” I suggest.

“No, you awful boy,” she scolds playfully, swinging the towel at me. I laugh and duck away, and she smiles softly. I’ve missed her. Always taking care of us and kind, but also firm when a situation calls for it, especially with us “kids.” “He is not well liked in this town. That’s what worries Mr. Bill.”

“I think ‘not well liked’ is your sweet soul speaking. He’s downright hated from what I can tell, and that’s going by the signs around town.”

Her dark eyes pierce deeply into mine, saying so much that she won’t let pass her lips. After a moment, she resumes wiping the counter. “You want another taco? I’ve got enough for one more.”

She’s told me all she’s going to, and though I’d like to push for more, I won’t do it with Maria. When she shuts her mouth, it’s sealed tighter than a bank vault. It’s time to replace out what’s going on from the source. “No, thanks. This was delicious, but I’m stuffed.”

I get up and automatically rinse my plate before putting it in the dishwasher. It’s a new habit, one that’s developed since I left Cold Springs, and doesn’t go unnoticed. Maria leans back on the counter, her arms crossed over her middle. “Ah, mijo. You are different too. Living on your own has been good for you.”

I chuckle, and though my cheeks flush, I wink at her teasingly. “Growing up has been good for me. If I stayed here, I think I would’ve only grown out.” I pat my belly, full of her good food. “And then what?”

She laughs happily, enjoying the compliment. “You’d best get in there,” she says, glancing toward Dad’s office once more. “Just remember . . . tranquilo.”

I nod, but I’m still gritting my teeth as I steel my spine. Squaring my shoulders, I purposefully blank out my face before I go down the hall and knock on Dad’s office door.

I fucking hate this. Shit like this is why I left in the first place.

I don’t wait for permission to enter. I’m not a kid anymore, and this family meeting has been a long time coming. We all know it. I open the door to see Dad sitting behind his desk in his leather chair and Winston in one of the club chairs in front of it.

Dad looks like he’s ready for the office, wearing a white collared shirt and patterned gold tie, likely part of his usual suit, but he’s removed his jacket and his sleeves are rolled up his forearms as he steeples his hands and stares at Winston.

Thankfully, Dad’s eyes seem clear and bright this morning, so at least he’s sober. I shiver inside, thinking, When did that become a thing to be thankful for?

Winston is dressed more casually, though still professionally, in khakis and a polo embroidered with Uncle Jed’s business logo on the chest.

“Morning,” I say, not as a greeting but more as a way to get this ball rolling. “You ready to ream me out for leaving, Dad?”

My distaste and, to be honest, lack of a single fuck is obvious in my dry delivery. I hear Winston’s sharp breath, but my attention is focused on Dad’s reaction as I casually take a seat in the other club chair and get comfortable. His eyes narrow and his cheeks go a bit ruddy, which I take a bit of twisted delight in.

So many times before, I shrank beneath this same glare, but that was when I was a boy. Now, living on my own, proving myself to myself and the world, has made me strong enough to stare back, prepared for whatever he throws at me. Years of imagining this moment have let me anticipate every possible move he’ll make.

He sighs, resigned. “I deserve that, but no, I’m just glad you’re here.” There’s a small pause before he adds, “For the wedding.”

The fire I’m holding at the ready to unleash in a verbal smackdown cools at his quiet concession. This is not the powerhouse giant of a man in my memories. Has he become weaker, or have I grown that much stronger? Or maybe the distance and time have done both of us some good?

“I wouldn’t miss Winston’s vows.” I leave off that it was that damn please in his letter that got me back.

Winston butts in: “You say that, but we weren’t sure. I’m glad our doubts were misplaced.” He holds out a fist, and I bump it with one of my own.

“How are you feeling about the wedding?” I ask my brother. I already know the answer, but this is a conversational directive to get us where I’d like to go. Winston’s equally aware and plays along as though we haven’t had this conversation already over beers and burgers.

“The wedding? Fine. The marriage to Avery? Fucking ecstatic. She’s everything, more than I deserve for sure.” Winston’s smile is brighter than I’ve ever seen, and that alone is worth facing my dad and uncle for.

Dad snorts. “You deserve anything and everything, son.”

Aaand there it is.

It’s the same entitled attitude I grew up with as a guiding force, the one I came to realize was nothing more than bullshit and illusion. Shedding it was both freeing and terrifying, and without it, the world feels grossly unbalanced but also as though anything is possible.

“You don’t deserve anything, Winston. You’ve earned Avery’s love, the same way she’s earned yours,” I state flatly, only partially talking about Winston and Avery’s relationship.

“Is that what life out there has taught you?” Dad demands, laughing bitterly.

“Yeah, it’s too bad you haven’t learned that lesson.” I look around Dad’s fancy office, the same one I used to sneak into and sit in front of the fireplace, imagining the room was mine and I was a businessman.

Dad sneers, driving a fingertip into the surface of his desk. “You think I haven’t earned every bit of this? That I haven’t worked myself to the bone for this city? For you?” He points at me with a slightly trembling finger. “You come back all self-righteous, like you haven’t benefited from being a Ford since the day you were born. Easy to piss on that from your place on high, son. But at least I recognize it and take on the responsibility it comes with. I don’t run away from it. So excuse me if I take a bit of appreciation in the luxuries I’ve worked for.”

He holds his hands out, encompassing his office in appreciation, not in judgment like I did. Keeping my cool, I throw back, “I hear you’ve been ‘appreciating the luxuries’ quite a bit recently.”

I glance down at the mug on his desk, questioning whether there’s a bit extra in his coffee. Dad flinches before picking it up and taking a long, deep drink. “Pure Colombian dark roast, if you must know. I wasn’t expecting you the other day and had a liquid lunch because I was working, something you know very little about.”

“You don’t know anything about how hard I work,” I scoff, quickly remembering the hours of sweat and aching muscles I get from my woodworking. “You don’t know anything about me, Dad.”

“Whose fault is that?” he accuses, then shakes his head sadly. “It breaks your mother’s heart.”

“Guilt trip? That’s what you’re going with?” I toss back. “If Mom wants to say something to me, she’s certainly strong enough and capable enough to do it for herself.”

Whatever his next strike was going to be is cut off by the door opening.

“Hey there, boys! How’s it going?” Uncle Jed bursts in with his trademark Colgate-approved smile as he pulls his cowboy hat from atop his head. The very air changes, feeling thick and heavy with his sliminess. He’s a good-looking man, I can allow that, with his full head of blond hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin. Age has given him some wrinkles, but they serve only to lend him a sense of weathered ruggedness. If you saw him in passing at a party, you’d be impressed by his gregariousness and romanced by his charm. It’s only deeper that his true ugliness lies.

I see the moment he realizes I’m here. His eyes widen slightly, but he’s quick to play it off. “Wyatt! Well, I’ll be damned, boy. It’s been a while.”

He comes in closer, holding his hand out for a shake. I hesitantly glance at his hand for an instant, but shake it, not wanting to start off at worse odds than I’m already facing. That won’t serve me in replaceing out what’s happening around here. “Jed.”

“What the hell you been up to?” Jed asks as he perches on the side of Dad’s desk. It looks casual, a logical solution to there being no available chairs, but distance and time have allowed me to see that it’s so much more than that. It’s a calculated move that permits him to loom over all three of us, making him seem like the man in charge, though he’s in someone else’s space.

I purposefully smile as though we’re friends. “Little of this, little of that. But I’m sure you already know that, don’t ya?”

Jed chuckles, nodding. “Gotta take care of family, you know. Glad to hear your little woodworking business is doing well in Newport.”

Dad’s eyes cut to me in surprise, but he doesn’t speak. So Uncle Jed didn’t tell Dad about coming to see me. Interesting. Winston didn’t know where I was until he did some investigating, but Jed not telling his own brother about his kid is another level of shitty. I wonder if he was holding that card for play against Dad at just the right time too.

“How about you? I hear you’re up to big things in Cold Springs.”

“Oh, little of this, little of that,” Jed replies, throwing my own words back at me.

I do the same: “Yeah, gotta take care of . . . Cold Springs, you know.” His eyes narrow, so I dig a little deeper, at the same time lightening the mood strategically with a laugh as I ask, “What the hell is a private tech hub, anyway?”

“Damned if I know!” He slaps his leg, laughing at his own unfunny joke. “But I hear it’s all the rage, something about work-from-home folks wanting flex offices, fiber optic cables, and some other techy shit too convoluted for me to understand.”

He’s lying through his whitened, straightened smile, making himself seem like a good ol’ boy who doesn’t know a thing. Truth is, he knows each and every line item on his balance sheets at his company. But it’s a time-old trick so people will underestimate him. I won’t make that mistake. Not again.

“Gotta give the people what they want, I guess,” I hedge carefully. I want to get him talking about one of his favorite subjects—the first one being himself, the second being his work—but I can’t be too direct or he’ll be suspicious. “That the big seller for the new subdivision?”

Jed stands, helping himself to a cup of coffee from the pot on the side table. As he stirs a bit of creamer into the mug, he brags, “Yep. Tech hub, new schools, and some of the most beautiful homes I’ve ever built.”

Well, he’s talking, but that’s not new information. I gathered that much from the damn billboard on the edge of town. “That an actual compliment to the architects?” I ask, looking at Winston with a practiced smile.

Winston shakes his head, while Jed’s smile dims at my backhanded compliment. “Not me. I’m working on the overall development. We tasked a private firm with the floor-plan designs, and will offer a few different options for customization. But the feel of the entire development is my responsibility.”

“Yeah, this one does a good job making things happen. He turns my crazy ideas into reality,” Jed says. I’m sure he means it to be a compliment to Winston and a dig at me, but I think Winston is learning quickly that if Jed thinks you’re doing well, you’re probably on the wrong path and heading toward nothing good. Jed likes you as long as he can use you, or until you become a potential threat.

I nod agreeably, letting him have that one. Jed takes the win as he settles back onto Dad’s desk and sips at his coffee. “That’s actually what I was stopping by for.” He looks to Dad. “How’s the zoning progress going? We should be a sure thing by now.”

This is more like it—the real dirt I want to hear.

Dad lifts one shoulder, not quite agreeing or disagreeing. “Still have a few holdouts. The city protests aren’t helping either.”

“Psshaw”—Jed makes a noise of dismissal—“they ain’t doing nothing but arguing with the wind. When they see the money start flowing in, they’ll be singing a different tune. Won’t they?” Jed looks to Winston for backup and he nods dutifully, but I see the look of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Protests?” I question, giving Jed the floor to bitch and moan in the hopes of learning something useful. Sometimes, the best way is to just open the door and set out the mat . . . and Jed walks his way right in.

“Damn people so stuck in the past, they can’t see the future or how it’s leaving them behind. Did you know that Cold Springs’ population has been steadily decreasing for the last forty years?” he says, and I wonder who’s playing the politician game now. “If we maintain this rate, we’ll be completely obsolete in the next thirty years. But does anyone want to listen to reason? Of fucking course not. They want to stay in their same house, with the same neighbor, shop at the same store, and don’t give a damn if they die with the city. We’re not going to let that happen. Ain’t that right, Bill?”

Dad’s obviously heard Jed’s elevator pitch on all the things wrong with Cold Springs, because he jumps right in with part two. “Yeah, it’s hard to be the voice of progress because it’s uncomfortable and scary sometimes. But it’s a necessary growing pain if we want to be successful as a town.” Just for me, he adds, “Leading means doing the hard stuff no one else wants to do because you know it’s for the best. It’s a big responsibility and not always kissing babies and shaking hands.”

Zing! He aimed that right at me because of my earlier accusations.

“It doesn’t hurt if doing those things makes you a little richer in the process, though, does it?” Cynicism isn’t a character trait I’m proud of, but it’s hard to ignore it when Dad and Uncle Jed are talking as though they’re the self-sacrificing saviors of a town too stupid to know what’s good for them. I don’t even know all the ins and outs of the subdivision project, but I know that if people don’t want it, there’s got to be a good reason.

Dad growls, but Jed holds out a staying hand. To my disgust, Dad honors it and lets Jed handle things . . . handle me. “Of course we profit from it. You think we’re doing things out of the goodness of our hearts? Naive boy, money is what makes the world go round. Always has and always will. But that doesn’t make what we’re trying to do here any less right.”

Having said his piece, Jed stands. He takes one long drink of his cooled coffee and then sets the mug on Dad’s desk. “Let me know when you handle the holdouts, Bill. And, Winston, hope everything’s going well with the wedding plans. You let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. As for you, Wyatt . . . always good to see you, boy.”

He moves toward the door and Dad stands too. “I’ll walk you out.”

When both Dad and Uncle Jed are gone, I look to Winston and deadpan, “That went well.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “You are something else, man. I don’t know how you’re sitting in that fucking chair with balls that big.”

I huff a laugh, surprised at his good-natured ribbing. I expected him to give me a hard time too. “Just gotta swing ’em forward as you sit down so they have room. It’s easier than hauling them around everywhere.” I mime carrying two bowling ball–size testicles in the circle of my arms, swinging them left and right and grunting at their weight.

“You’re an asshole,” Winston says, laughing. “Come on, let’s get out of here before Dad comes back and starts in again on how hard he works.”

We get up and peek out the door—me looking left and Winston looking right—and seeing that the coast is clear, we escape together like when we were kids. Walking right out the back door like ice couldn’t melt in our mouths, we’re so chill.