Page 48 of Best Woman

Dad left while I was still getting ready, so Daytona drops me off in her SUV at the beachside restaurant where the farewell brunch is being held, windows down with Britney blaring from the speakers. I manage to exit the car without falling face-first onto the pavement, so things are looking up.

I shut the door behind me and face my sister through the open window. “Have fun in Fort Lauderdale,” I say. “Use a silicone-based lube in the pool.”

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” she asks. “Knock ’em dead, kid.” She pulls away, singing loudly for all to hear that oops, she’d done it again.

The restaurant looms ahead of me, an upscale seafood place where we always used to go on Mother’s Day when I was growing up.

The lobby is empty when I enter, I’m early, and the hostesses are still setting up an easel with a giant photo of Aiden and Rachel on it.

Beyond them, Aiden sits alone at a table while waiters deposit napkins onto place settings and busboys light the wicks of burners under tureens of eggs Benedict.

I sit down at the table beside him and he locks his phone, his air of tired happiness shifting to something more cool and neutral.

The tension is thick in the air between us.

I wonder if he’s going to yell and tell me to leave.

Or worse, tell me he’s disappointed . But what he does is grab my right arm, lift it to his mouth, and bite.

“Fucking OW!” I shake him off and cradle my arm in my other hand. “You broke the skin!”

“You deserved it!”

He’s got me there.

This is how we’ve settled every major fight since childhood.

When we moved in with Randy and I got the bigger room.

When he pulled my pants down in front of the girl I liked at sleepaway camp.

When I started sleeping with Ben. Every disagreement has been settled this way, and I understand that this one is a little too big to be solved with a chomp, but it’ll have to do to get us through today.

“There’s just one thing I need to ask,” Aiden says, resolve hard on his face. “Is that…what you told Kim, is that what you really think of me? Is there some part of you that believes it?”

“No,” I gasp, horror blocking out the throbbing pain in my arm. “Never. I mean,” I concede, “I always expected the other shoe would drop someday. And it did, with Mom. But never with you.”

And because he’s my brother, he takes me at my word and the doubt clears off his face. That settled, Aiden throws his arms around me. “I’m so sorry, Jules.”

“I know,” I say to his shoulder. “It sucks. Thanks. I’m sorry too. I was…not very nice.”

He lets out a huff. “Yeah, I think that’s an understatement.”

“I apologized,” I tell him. “I don’t think there’s much more I can do. I don’t think she wants to talk to me.”

“But you don’t know, ” he says. “You know what happens when you assume.”

“OK, Grandpa.”

“Shut up,” he says, flicking me on the arm the way he knows spins me into a rage. “I hope to be as cool as Grandpa someday.”

“Yeah, it was so funny when he suggested you might get a divorce while blessing the challah at your wedding reception .”

He shrugs. “He’s practical. Besides”—he fixes his gaze behind me, to where Rachel is entering with the wedding planner trailing behind her—“I’m not worried about that.”

“Me neither,” I tell him, knowing that no matter what else happens, he and I will be OK.

An hour later I’m standing in a corner with Brody and Brian, who look young and innocent in their matching polo shirts, but I know better.

“Can you guys cover me for like, ten minutes?” I ask through a mouthful of bagel, cream cheese, and lox. I wash it down with a swig of mimosa. “I need to not talk to anyone until I have a good buzz going.”

“Sure,” says Brody.

“ If you get us some booze,” says Brian.

I think about it for a second. “Sure,” I reply. If nothing else, I’m committed to my role as the cool older sister. And I don’t particularly care if Mom gets mad.

“Wicked,” they say in unison, turning to shield me as I flag down a passing server. I grab four glasses of champagne, keeping two for myself and passing off my two empties. I mean, it’s brunch . I’m only going to be able to endure this if a lot of alcohol is involved.

“Mom was a dick last night,” Brian says, turning to take a surreptitious sip of his drink.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Don’t let her see you drinking that, though. And if she does, do not tell her I gave it to you.”

So much for not being worried if she gets mad. Lingering hurt and disappointment aside, I’m still conditioned to fear her ire.

He smiles, showing off the blue bands on his braces. “We can negotiate.”

An aunt wanders by, and Brian turns back to distract her. Brody takes his own gulp of champagne.

“I was thinking,” he says, “we have spring break in a couple of months. Could we maybe…come to New York and stay with you?”

I swallow abruptly, sending my champagne down the wrong pipe, and spend thirty seconds coughing as the twins pat me on the back, assuring concerned family members that I’m fine. When I get my breath under control, I look at them suspiciously.

“What’s the angle? Are you going to break into the UN and cause an international incident? Deface the Statue of Liberty? Oh god,” I say, “do you have some creepy Snapchat girlfriends you’re meeting up with who are probably fifty-year-old men?”

Brian finishes his champagne and eyes my extra glass hopefully, but I finish the one I’d been drinking and take a sip. He sighs.

“No, we just thought it would be cool to come see where you live and like, hang out,” Brody says, oddly shy. “We could go to museums and eat pizza and stuff.”

“And go to a rave, ” says Brian.

I’m hit with a rush of affection for them, remembering their squalling red faces in the delivery room moments after they’d been born, and the forts we’d built when they were toddlers.

“I don’t know about the rave, but yeah, we could do that.

I can show you some cool spots, we can get good food, and maybe see a Broadway show. ”

“Can we see Phantom of the Opera ?” Brody asks breathlessly. I recall them at four years old, strapped into car seats in the back of my Volvo station wagon, the three of us singing along to “Masquerade.”

I give an exaggerated frown. “I’m sorry, buddy, it closed.”

His face falls. “Damn,” he says, taking another sip of champagne. “Fuck Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

Another glass of champagne later, Brody, Brian, and I join the rest of the nuclear families out on the back patio for photographs. I watch Mom and Aiden pose, her eyes leaking tears until she calls for Randy to grab her bag for touch-ups.

Rachel sidles up next to me.

“Congratulations,” I tell her, squeezing her into a hug. I pull away and look her up and down. “You looked incredible yesterday.”

“Thank you,” she says, a perfect smile on her face. Then, without changing her tone or missing a beat, “I think what you did to Kim is really shitty. What you did to Aiden too. But I know you, Julia, and I think I understand why you did it. That doesn’t make it right.”

I wince. “No, it doesn’t. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it and I shouldn’t have brought that into your wedding.”

“You’re my sister now,” she says. “And sisters tell each other this kind of shit. Clean up your mess. Do better.” She gives me another hug. “Now fix your eyelash and go take pictures with your brother.”

“What’s wrong with my eyelash?”

Mom is a looming presence just outside my periphery all through the photo shoot, and while I would love nothing more than to pound champagne and ignore her, I can feel her eyes on me and know a confrontation is imminent, so I switch to coffee in preparation.

Sure enough, she approaches me on the patio when everyone inside is engaged in a slideshow of baby pictures organized by Rachel’s parents.

“See,” Rachel crows from inside, “Aiden was hung even as a toddler!”

“That’s not appropriate,” I mutter.

“Julia.” Mom is standing behind me, shielding her eyes from the light. “They only serve Pepsi here. Ride with me to McDonald’s?”

“Sure.” Inhale, exhale. Best get it over with now. “Where’s the car?”

Why does every serious discussion or major emotional moment with my mother have to happen in a car? Is it because in every situation, no matter how dire, she has a clear exit strategy? She can simply get out.

We pick her car up from valet and I assure Mom I’m fine to drive. Between the coffee and an adrenaline surge at looking into her eyes for the first time since she destroyed my world last night, I feel stone-cold sober.

“Should I take Powerline?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt.

“Military,” she says, checking her lipstick in the sun visor mirror. She turns to face me as I pull out of the parking spot, checking the rearview mirror for cars. “I’m very sorry that I hurt you, Julia. You know I didn’t mean to.”

I make a right turn out of the parking lot onto a winding drive and stop at a red light.

Cars rush by, although one little white sedan seems to crawl .

I can see almost nothing but hands on the steering wheel, a Florida phenomenon that makes sense when you understand that people shrink as they get older.

The light turns green. I make a left.

“I know you didn’t mean to. That doesn’t make it better or hurt any less. And you did it in front of everyone .” My voice cracks, and I cough as I make a right turn a little sharper than I mean to.

“Careful, please,” my mother says, grabbing the handle on her door. “God, do you remember that horrible sharp right you made in the mall parking lot when I was teaching you to drive?”

Remarkably, I laugh. “Yeah, I went over the curb. You screamed so loudly.”

She laughs too. “I was scared!” Out of the corner of my eye I can see her shake her head. “It was my fault, though. I don’t think I taught you to drive very well.”

My hands tighten on the wheel. “You’re not a very good driver.”