Heteroflexibility (2 page)

“That works. What was your name?”

She hesitated, and I felt a trickle of apprehension.

“I’m Mary.”

I stifled any feelings of alarm. “Okay, great, Mary. I’ll be wearing—” I looked down at my rumpled khakis. “Jeans. And a red shirt.”

“There’s one more thing.”

Here it was. They could only afford $200. Or they were polygamists. Or—

“It’s a gay wedding. All girls.”

Oh. That’s all. “Not a problem.”

She exhaled in a rush. “Okay, good. I had assumed not, since you knew Fern, but I wanted to check.”

What did she mean about Fern? I didn’t care. I just wanted this gig. “Not a big deal whatsoever. See you in an hour.”

I raced up the stairs, tugging off my vest. I had never met a lesbian in my life, but this was Austin, a progressive town, and I could be progressive. Besides, Ellen Degeneres was a lesbian, and I’d watched her show for years. I knew the issues, the prominent players, and the lingo. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 3: Presidential Debate

The windows reflected my bobbing head of frizz as I ran along the sidewalk to Starbucks. My dead mom’s comments flowed in an unrelenting stream. “It’s a good thing Zest has a snouser the size of a potato, otherwise with that hair you wouldn’t know if she was a’comin or a’goin’.”

Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. Texas in October could still top ninety degrees. The shop displays exploded with sweaters and cute little ski hats as if the customers weren’t strolling in wearing tank tops.

The door whooshed open to a blast of air conditioning, and I scanned the room for lesbians. Two men. Nope. An elderly lady. Nope. A Barbie mom-and-daughter set with matching processed hairdos. Blech. The girl was too young, maybe sixteen.

Then, back in the corner, two women. One was large, a little angry looking, with short hair. A butch. The other was smaller, an intense expression on her pixie-like face, frantically scrawling across a notepad. Her fem. I had this stuff down.

I approached them. “Are you Mary?”

The big one glared at me, silent. The tiny one didn’t look up, writing madly.

A man sat down beside them, setting three coffee cups on the table. “What does she want?” he asked. I spotted his wedding ring and realized the smaller girl was actually young. Their kid. God. I had the gaydar of a Magic 8 Ball.

From behind me, a woman called, “Zest? I think you’re looking for me.”

My face flamed as I turned around. A brunette woman waved lightly. She sat next to a blonde, nicely dressed, hands around her coffee cup.

 “Sorry,” I mumbled, awkwardly squeezing between tables and heading toward the real Mary.

“I should have told you what we would be wearing,” Mary said. “My fault.” She gestured to the girl next to her. “This is Jenna.”

Jenna’s gaze flitted back to the other group, and I knew she was sizing up my mistake.

I set down my portfolio, distracting myself by pulling out albums and price sheets. I could do this. Just don’t say anything stupid and start over, like the other thing never happened.

“Mary, Jenna, so glad to meet you.” I opened a book to the first page. “I have sample albums to show you so we can see what styles you like.”

The women murmured over an image of a bride riding on the handlebars of a bicycle, the groom looking over her shoulder and laughing. Mary flipped through the shots. “These are beautiful. Fern was right about your work.”

A knot began to unwind in my belly. This would be fine. I’d collect a deposit, go on the trip, and get an apartment when I got back. Or a small duplex with a yard for outdoor shots. “How do you know Fern?”

“Oh we’ve never met, but she was…” Mary hesitated. “…friends with someone we know. She forwarded a message about you that Fern sent out.”

I so owed Fern. “I’m glad she did. Do you have the location settled?”

“Yes!” Mary unfolded a fax. “Just got it confirmed.”

I tugged the wedding contract from my bag. “Good. And a minister? Or JP?”

Mary glanced at Jenna and my apprehension notched up.

“Well, we had a little trouble,” Mary said. “So many weddings are happening this weekend due to the election that most everyone’s tied up. But we found someone.”

I pressed a price list flat and tugged out a pen. “Why would the election make people get married? They carrying this Obama ‘hope’ thing a little too far?”

Mary forced a brief laugh, but Jenna elbowed her and said, “No, not the presidential election. This one is to ban gay marriage. It’s called Proposition 8.” Her voice could have iced over a frat boy at a Tri-Delt pool party.

Never heard of it. “Oh yes, of course. I forgot it was the same day.”

Mary gripped her coffee cup. “If we don’t go now, we might not get to do it at all.”

Jenna laid her hand on Mary’s. “We don’t think it will pass, but it might. We don’t want to risk it.”

I didn’t get the big deal. “Isn’t there another state where it’s legal?”

Jenna raised an eyebrow at me. She could tell I didn’t know anything. I had to stop talking. “Sure,” she said. “Massachusetts. But we don’t know any softball teams there.”

“Softball teams?”

Mary smiled at me sympathetically and reached in her purse. “Some stereotypes apply. We do play softball. In fact, we have a honeymoon game planned for the Sunday following the ceremony.” She produced a picture of a team in red uniforms. “Satan’s Hoebags.”

I was so lost. “Satan’s…what?”

Jenna pointed to the title on the bottom of the image. “Our team name. Satan’s Hoebags.”

Mary poked at the picture. “There’s eight of us are getting married on the trip.”

“Eight?”

Jenna stared at me, frowning. “You seem a little in shock.”

“She’ll be fine,” Mary said. “Show her the girls.”

Jenna turned back to the image. “There’s me and Mary. And Audrey and Audrey.”

I frantically wrote notes on the back of a brochure. “Both named Audrey?”

Jenna nodded. “Here is Bella and Nikki. Nikki’s the comedian.”

“And the flirt,” Mary added.

Jenna tapped the picture on the girl’s face. “True. Nikki will keep us entertained. And these are the troublemakers, Blitz and Krieg.”

I put the pen down. “Blitz? And Krieg?”

“Softball nicknames,” Jenna said.

I massaged my forehead. “Okay, so eight brides. And a game afterward. We’d be leaving Friday?”

“That would be Halloween,” Mary said. She turned to Jenna. “I’d miss the McCain rally.”

“Oh, darn.” Jenna tore her napkin into strips. “Mary is a Republican, despite the irony.”

Mary scowled. “I don’t feel any irony. I am not a one-issue voter.”

“Sure you are.”

“Abortion is just one of the reasons to support Republicans.”

“But them being against us getting married isn’t a deal breaker.”

Mary’s face bloomed pink. “Do we have to go into this now?”

Jenna crumpled the napkin strips in her hand. “We wouldn’t have to be throwing this together if you were part of the fight and not part of the problem.”

Oh boy. I plastered on a smile.

Mary looked ready to cry. “We are not throwing this together. We’ve been planning a long time. Massachusetts wasn’t worth taking a trip. Canada was too expensive. And we agreed a commitment ceremony wasn’t enough. We wanted a real marriage certificate. I can’t help that California suddenly went the way of the Mormons.”

Jenna shook her head. “I don’t know if I even want to get married there at this point.”

Mary started crying for real then. “Do you still want to marry me at all?”

I tugged a tissue out of my bag but just held it.

Jenna put her arm around her. “Of course I do. I don’t get the rush. The protests are going to be awful.”

“But if it fails. What will we do?”

“It won’t fail.”

Mary turned to me. “I’m sorry Zest. I was premature.”

They stood up.

I pushed my chair back, panicked. “Wait, think about it. This could be it! You don’t want to miss your moment! And the other girls probably have a say—”

Mary paused. “That’s true. The rest of the team was making plans.”

Jenna pulled her away from the chair. “They will do whatever we do. Besides, if worst comes to worst and we go last-minute, we can get a photographer there.”

“But…But you said it was crazy,” I said, stuffing albums in my bag so I could follow them out, keep pleading if I had to. “You might not be able to find one.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Jenna said, pressing Mary toward the door.

I tried to hurry alongside, but the heavy bag kept snagging on the backs of chairs, crumpled brochures falling out. They crossed the coffee shop ahead of me and pushed open the door.

“I’ll be waiting!” I waved gaily, but they didn’t look back.

I sank back onto a chair. I needed an apartment and my only means had just walked out.

Chapter 4: Cheating Cheaters and the Two-Bit Hussies They Cheat With

He’d been circling the house for half an hour.

I watched from the upstairs window as Cade’s green Tahoe made another pass. He obviously needed something but didn’t want to come in while I was around.

I could wait him out.

I ate Doritos straight from the bag in total disregard for my pot belly. If only I could have gotten the fat to move to my boobs.

In less than an hour, I had the old-lady photo shoot, one of the last two I had booked. I didn’t want to do it, but after walking out of one wedding and losing the next, I desperately needed the money.

He passed again.

This was ridiculous. We’d been married five freaking years, and he couldn’t talk to me?

As the SUV disappeared around the corner, I decided to fake him out. The stairs cushioned my stocking feet as I ran downstairs to snatch my keys and stick some shoes on. I snagged the entire pile of fabric grocery bags as though I were headed for a mega shopping trip and walked outside, slowly crossing the lawn so he’d get a chance to see me.

He took the bait, idling around the corner, parked behind a neighbor’s Hummer. As if I wouldn’t have noticed. God.

I only circled the block once, then watched him get out of the Tahoe, look around, and hurry into the house.

When the front door closed, I gunned the motor and pulled up behind him, blocking him in. I hopped out of the car and slammed the door so he could hear it. And panic.

As I passed the table in the foyer, I snatched up the manila envelope I’d been served, still unopened, and headed up the stairs.

In the master bedroom, Cade was manically stuffing underwear into a duffle bag.

“Forget the unmentionables?” If I had noticed, I would have filled them with itching powder.

He straightened and smoothed his t-shirt across his chest, a nervous gesture I hated, like a preening peacock, only he didn’t have the looks or the build to attract a half-dead hatchling.

“I thought you left.”

I let the envelope fly, for once aiming true as Robin Hood. The corner nicked him square on the nose. He backed away, holding his hand to his face.

“Jesus, Zest.”

“What are these?”

He sat on the bed, rubbing the red mark blooming on his stupid skinny beak. “We have to get divorced.”

“Without telling me? Like it’s some big secret? At a wedding?”

“You’re always home and I—I just couldn’t be there when you got them. It was Winston’s idea.”

“Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

“I was trying to avoid a hurtful scene.”

“You mean for you.”

He zipped the bag. “You make everything difficult.”

“And that justifies what you did?”

“If we’d talked about it—you’d have just been—like you’re being now. This was easier.”

“Easier for you.”

He shrugged, hefting the duffle on his shoulder with a self-assurance I’d never seen in him, bordering on a swagger. “It had to be done.”

He caught his own reflection in the mirror and smoothed his hair, a gesture I’d never witnessed in five years of married life. Normally, like me, he wasn’t too fond of looking at himself.

Oh my God. He was porking someone. “Who is she?”

He hesitated, as though weighing his answer. Oh, that snake.

“Don’t assume—”

“How long has it been going on? A week? A month? A year?”

He took a step forward, but so did I, blocking the door. “How long?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I almost fainted from anger. “It matters to me. I want to know how long I’ve been stupid.”

His shoulders drooped. He did care, a little. “You haven’t been stupid.”

“So what is it? Is she better in bed? More successful?” Oh, God, I had to say it. “Is she pretty?”

He grimaced, a begrudging acknowledgment of what it took to ask that. He knew me well enough.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t torture yourself.”

I rounded the bed and lunged for the phone. “Call it off.”

“What?”

“Call it off. Let’s figure this out first.”

He half-smiled. “You asking me to stay?”

Oh, the smugness of that little shit. “No, I want to make this long and painful for you. So call it off. I want to hear you tell her.”

The grin became a smirk. “I can’t.”

I held out the receiver. “Sure you can. Call her up, tell her it’s over, you’re little affair is out, you’re busted, and you’ve got dirty laundry to manage before you can hang a new clothesline.”

He backed away. “This is exactly what I was talking about. You, taking over.”

I shoved the phone into his narrow chest. “Do it now.”

He refused to take it. “She’s pregnant.”

The blow was so much like a physical punch that I had to suck in air. And yet he stood there, calm and composed, like a strutting cock. Son of a bitch. “How seventeen of you.”

“Zest…”

“You said you didn’t want a baby.”

“It just happened.”

“You just didn’t want a baby with me. Would it be too ugly for you? Couldn’t stomach some frizz-headed, pinched-faced devil child?”

“Zest.”

“I’d hate to see how small a pecker your son will end up with.”

“Good God, Zest. How is anyone supposed to love you with a mouth like that?”