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“Better?”
“No,” she snaps as she bends over to undo her heels. She kicks them off carelessly, standing barefoot, but when she looks at me again a moment later, her eyes are the tiniest bit softer thanks to the alcohol. “What the hell was that? We talked it through—go in, be charming and cute, a couple they’d all believe. You were supposed to bolster me up and help keep my family at arm’s length, like my own personal bodyguard or something. Lay low, draw no attention, be completely forgettable to them like I usually am.” She takes another drink.
“I mean, yeah, later, I’d have to face facts and tell ’em we broke up or something, but that’s a problem for Future-Janey. This Week-Janey” —she points at her chest— “wanted to make it through the rehearsal dinner and the Wedding from Hell with zero drama. That’s it. But pfft!, there went that plan.” She’s pacing, randomly turning this way and that in the tiny space.
“That was never going to happen and you know it,” I argue, keeping my voice steady even though I want to shake some sense into her. Her family is a nightmare and she damn well knows it. I’d even venture to say that as bad as she made them sound, in person, they’re worse. “Paisley wasn’t going to let you waltz in, with or without a boyfriend, and leave you alone. You’re her favorite punching bag and she’s not done playing with you. The question is, are you done letting her?”
“Ugh!” The noise is a combination of shock, hurt, and betrayal. She wants to be insulted by my blunt words, but I’m right and she knows it. She just doesn’t want it to be that way. She paints over her family’s shortcomings with excuses that her childhood wasn’t that bad, but it was fucking bad enough, and it’s continuing now.
She deserves so much better.
She deserves the best. Her heart is too tender, her soul too good for the shit those people shovel onto her. And this is my weakness—I want to save her, help her, make her see that she could never be forgettable because she wiggles into your psyche with sunshine and smiles, happy dances, and excitement over the simplest things, somehow making everything more interesting.
I rip the Band-Aid off slowly, knowing that I’m going to cause more damage as I tell her, “Janey, I was in the hallway. They fucking passed me to get to you, thinking they were safe because I wouldn’t follow them into the ladies’ room. You know that, right? They walked in there, talking shit and wanting you to hear. They meant to hurt you.” I implore her to hear me, to understand that what I’m telling her is the God’s honest, ugly truth about her cousins.
“They said they didn’t know I was in there,” she says quietly, wanting to sweep it away like she’s done so many times before, but she knows. Something she saw in their faces tonight . . . she knows they did it on purpose. So though she’s making excuses for them, they’re only lip service.
“I waited . . . waited for you to tell them to fuck off, but you didn’t. So I did what you asked me to do—protect you from them. Maybe it wasn’t the way you wanted, but I can guarantee you that none of them see you as weak tonight. They probably think your boyfriend is a psycho,” I admit, “but not that you’re weak. Not that you froze. Not that you are anything other than a loved, cherished, beautiful woman with a man who cares deeply for you and will defend you, no matter what it takes.” My voice is steel as I say, “That’s what they’ll remember.”
“Oh,” she says, almost inaudibly with her eyes staring holes in the floor.
I threw a lot at her, and not a single thing was a soft ball. I basically told her that her family is full of manipulative shrews—hey, nice to meet ya!—and I’m sure she’s reeling, probably trying to figure out a way to spin it the way she always does. I’m a grumpy, loner asshole, so I’m starting at a deficit, but I can’t think of a single way she can silver-lining her way out of this one and that’s got to hurt.
So I give her a moment to process.
I fill two mugs with hot water and pull a box of cheap hot cocoa mix from a cabinet. Silently, I stir the powder into the water, letting the marshmallows rise to the top. “Sit on the porch with me?” I ask stoically, but there’s something akin to hope in my gut.
Janey lifts her chin, looking at me with clear eyes. She’s still working it through, but she’s getting there, little by little.
“Okay,” she answers, sounding defeated.
