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I sigh and take another swig of beer. “I know.”
I go quiet, remembering back when Caylee and I were close, before everything went to shit, especially with Dad. We used to be friends, playing together in the backyard. Our most common game was called ‘river rapids’. Caylee would line up rocks and pebbles into a winding lane while I would dig a hole at the end. Then we’d fill it up with water from the hose, creating a miniature river and pond for Caylee’s little pet shop animals to ‘swim’ in.
We always had our favorite animals, Caylee liking this pink poodle one and me preferring the shark because I liked the logic of a water animal swimming, even if there was the whole fresh water versus saltwater issue.
Even when we got older, both dealing with our shit in our own ways, I always looked out for Caylee. In middle school, long after things had become difficult in our house, she’d had a first boyfriend who was a miniature twelve-year-old version of an asshole. That’s probably common, but this one was especially terrible.
When I heard Caylee crying over the stupid prick, over how he’d made her feel inadequate by flirting with another girl, I’d handled that. A visit to his soccer team practice, a short ‘conversation’, and that was that. They broke up, but he never said shit to her afterward. Caylee didn’t know about it then and doesn’t know about it now.
Guilt for not truly checking out this Evan guy assails me, but even sharper is knowing the disconnect between Caylee and me is my fault. I’m the one who cut her out of my life. She didn’t need to get caught up in my rebellion, especially when it went from mere rebelling to outright criminality.
“So, we’re going?” Poppy asks gently, having let me disappear into my memories for a long moment.
“You don’t have to.” I’m still worried about Poppy, about this connection developing deeper and wider. And about her safety. “I will go.”
“I want to,” Poppy says in that same soft, gentle voice. “You need some support too. Unless . . . you don’t want me to.”
I can hear the unasked question, the pain at the thought of not going, of my pushing her away again. She’s kept coming back, forcing herself in again and again . . . but even someone as stubborn as Poppy has limits.
Now that we’re at those limits, I know something else, too.
I’ve been dead wrong to keep pushing her away.
“I want you.” The words don’t come out the way I want, so I clear my throat and say them again, bolder and with more feeling. “I want you, Poppy.”
Poppy’s smile is worth what’s going to come from those four words, and she claps happily. “Good. Then we’re going. But first, I write. Now . . . muse!”
I muse my ass off.
There’s nothing particularly special about the wedding venue. Riverside Methodist is about as beige a church as I can think of, politely unoffensive and one of those places where the football loving members can always count on getting home in time for the early kickoffs.
I’m in my best black suit, the one I normally reserve for the best jobs, but Caylee deserves my best.
“Have I mentioned that you look hot?” Poppy says with a twinkle in her eye as I come out of the men’s room.
She looks pretty hot herself in a pale blue halter-style dress that leaves her shoulders and upper back bare. I wonder if she’s wearing one of those weird sticky bras or if her nipples are a scant few layers of chiffon away from my touch. I could find out with a bare brush of the fabric, but even the thought is enough to make my suit pants feel a bit tight. “Twirl for me.”
That gets my attention away from her tits. “No.”
“Twirl, Muse!”
I cross my arms, trying to glower. “I do not twirl.”
She lifts a brow expectantly, and with a heavy sigh, I spin. Not a twirl, nothing so dainty, but more of a four-quarter perimeter check even though it’s totally unnecessary. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Yay!” Poppy says, twirling herself easily. The skirt of her dress spins out, flashing her upper thighs to anyone who might happen by. I rush at her, helping the skirt down to possessively hide her legs from any eyes but mine. “Don’t smush my flower!”
Poppy is looking at the satin belt around her waist where a silk flower with a button center sits off-center just above her left hip. “I made this myself with hot glue, tears, and a button from Nut and Juice’s dog bed. Don’t worry, I washed it first. The button, I mean. And the tears were because I burned the hell out of my fingers, but it was worth it in the end.” She fluffs the flower needlessly. “Or at least it was until that marriage ended in divorce, but hey . . . at least I get to wear the bridesmaid dress again. So, happy ending.” Poppy told me about her dress last night when she asked if it was acceptable for the wedding. Apparently, she was a bridesmaid at a cousin’s wedding a few years ago and loved the dress, just not the cousin who’d complained about Poppy’s red hair standing out in the photos like a sore thumb.
